Chapter 40
40
BEVERLY, 1999
17 years old
It had been five days since my dad cleaned up our mess, four days since Tiffany proudly announced she was retiring from fighting unless someone “really deserved it,” and three hours since Blake had taken over the laundry duty because my mom was too exhausted to do it herself.
And now, all my white tops were pink .
Teeth gritted, I stormed upstairs, clutching one of my newly-ruined shirts like a death sentence in my hand.
Blake’s door was open, but his room was empty.
“Of course,” I muttered. Because when I needed to yell at him, he was never where I wanted him to be.
I paused in the doorway, glaring at his room.
His bed was made with meticulous precision, each corner tucked in perfectly. Books were scattered across his desk, some neatly piled, while others were left open. An open notebook rested there, filled with equations and lines of scribbled notes.
But there was no sign of Blake.
Then, a faint sound broke through my frustration.
Running water.
And just like that, I knew exactly where to find him.
I should’ve thought twice before barging into the bathroom, but I didn’t; the frustration in my chest was boiling too hot.
But the second I stepped inside, every complaint I had been ready to hurl at him died on my tongue.
Blake stood at the sink, wrapped in nothing but a white towel slung low around his waist. The lower half of his face was covered in lather, a razor resting lightly in his hand. His hair was slicked back with water, droplets trailing down the curve of his neck, over his collarbones, and across the golden skin of his bare chest and stomach. His body was still glistening from the shower, muscles subtly shifting as he moved. Beneath his ribs, just above his waist, was a tiny, pale brown birthmark I had never noticed before.
I had walked in here ready for war. Now, I didn’t know what to do with my eyes. No matter where I looked, it felt like a trap.
There was too much skin, too much of him.
I forced my gaze upward, but that only made things worse, because Blake caught my reflection in the mirror and watched me with an amused expression, as if he knew exactly what had just happened inside my head.
“You done staring?” he asked, dragging the razor along his jaw, completely unbothered.
That snapped me back to reality.
“I wasn’t staring,” I said, a little too fast, a little too defensive.
He hummed like he didn’t believe me. “I could’ve sworn you were about two seconds away from drooling.”
“I’m here because you, you ruined?—”
Blake raised a brow, still guiding the razor along his jaw. “I ruin a lot of things. You’ll have to be more specific.”
“This—” I lifted my shirt between us, shaking it for emphasis. “Look at this! Look at what you did, Blake.”
He flicked a glance at the shirt, then at me. “Oh. That.”
“Yes, that. You ruined all my clothes?—”
“Oh, yeah.” He nodded approvingly. “That’s a strong pink.”
He didn’t seem guilty in the slightest.
In fact, he looked more amused than anything.
A strangled noise crawled its way up my throat.
“I have dance in two hours, Blake.”
“And?”
“And I needed my white tops!”
Blake set the razor down and stretched, his towel slipping just a little lower on his hips.
I turned my head so quickly I almost gave myself whiplash. “Oh my God, could you not?”
“Not what?”
“Be shirtless while I’m yelling at you!”
Blake chuckled dryly. “My bad, B. I’ll make sure to be fully clothed next time you storm into the bathroom unannounced.”
“You do math for fun , Blake. You mean to tell me you couldn’t figure out how a washing machine works?”
“Not my fault you left your pink stuff in the basket. I just threw everything in together.”
“How do you not know how to separate laundry?”
“I don’t know. Guess I was too busy reading as a kid.”
I stared at him in utter disbelief.
“You’re welcome,” he added lazily.
“Excuse me?”
He turned, one arm bracing against the counter, the towel slipping just a little lower. “Pink looks good on you.”
I blinked. “You’re joking, right?”
“Am I?” He quirked a brow. “You wear pink all the time.”
“That’s different!” I shot back. “You’re going to Target with me. And you’re buying me new white tops. And don’t even think about trying to get out of it with some excuse?—”
“Is that supposed to be a punishment?”
“What?”
“Shopping with you? Watching you try on tiny little tops, asking me what I think? Yeah, that’s real torture, B.”
“Stop calling me that.”
He grabbed his toothbrush and flicked on the faucet. “Why? You don’t like it?”
I did not answer that.
His smirk only widened. “You’re checking me out.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“This is an emergency,” I reminded him, shaking the ruined shirt again as if that would somehow convince him to take the situation more seriously.
“Tragic,” he deadpanned.
“Deeply.”
“Heartbreaking.”
“Devastating,” I added, lifting my chin.
Blake let out a quiet huff of laughter, shaking his head as he stuck the toothbrush into his mouth and started brushing.
I crossed my arms over my chest, my irritation growing with every passing second. “I bet you did it on purpose.”
He gave me a look in the mirror, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah, Beverly. That was my master plan. Destroy your wardrobe one load at a time. I’ve been plotting it for weeks.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me,” I muttered under my breath.
He spit out the toothpaste, wiped his mouth, and turned toward me again. “You seem awfully focused on my laundry skills, B. You sure that’s why you’re still standing here?”
“Yes. That’s exactly why I’m still standing here.”
He stepped closer. I took one very necessary step back.
But he didn’t stop. He kept coming. Not in a threatening way—in an infuriating way. In a Blake way.
My back met the wall with a soft thud.
I sucked in a sharp breath, suddenly painfully aware of how close he was. There was nowhere safe to look. Not at his chest, not at the lines of his stomach, or the ridiculous way his towel dipped lower every time he shifted his weight.
I forced my gaze up, up, up—but even his eyes were a trap.
His gaze dropped, just enough to make me very aware that I was not wearing a bra under this tank top.
I willed myself not to look flustered.
Blake looked back up and tilted his head slightly, his eyes flickering over my face. “If I wanted to make you lose your mind, B, laundry would be the last thing on my list.”
I refused to react. Refused to let my pulse give me away. Refused to let the heat creeping up my neck reach my face.
I straightened my shoulders, forced my breathing to even out, and gave him the flattest look I could muster.
“You already do that just by existing.”
“I’m flattered,” he murmured.
“Yeah? Well, I hate you.” I hated him, I hated pink, and I hated that I had no idea where to put my eyes anymore.
He made a soft tsk sound, as if I was some slow-learning child he was growing fond of. “You keep saying that, Beverly, but you don’t look like you hate me.”
I opened my mouth, then immediately closed it.
“Say it again.”
I narrowed my eyes. “What?”
“Say you hate me.”
“I hate you,” I repeated, slower this time.
Blake smiled then—a small, crooked thing, like he’d just won a game I hadn’t known we were playing. “And pink,” he said softly. “Don’t forget pink.”
“I hate pink,” I gritted out.
His smirk deepened. “Your ears are pink right now.”
“You—” Words failed me, and I pressed harder against the wall, as if that would somehow create more space between us.
Blake opened his mouth—probably to say something cocky, something infuriating—but before he could, I shoved my ruined shirt against his bare chest, pushing him back just enough to sidestep him. “I’ll be in the car,” I muttered. “You’re paying.”
“Hey, B?”
I froze in the doorway, gripping the frame a little too hard. “ What ?”
He leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed. “The top you’re wearing now?” His tone was dripping with amusement. “It’s white.”
Frowning, I glanced down. And sure enough, the tank top I had been so dramatically ranting about needing for dance was, indeed, white. White as the realization hitting me like a truck.
Blake let out a low chuckle, the sound so unbearably smug that I was two seconds away from throwing the laundry basket at him. He stepped past me, brushing against my shoulder as he moved toward his room.
“You’re—”
“Hold that thought,” he said. “I gotta get dressed.”
The nerve of him.
“Fair warning, I’m about to drop this towel.”
I whirled around so fast I nearly tripped over my own feet. Behind me, I heard the towel hit the floor, followed by the sound of rustling fabric. “Oh my God. Warn me next time!”
“That was your warning.”
I snatched the closest thing within reach—a pillow from the hallway chair—and launched it at him without thinking.
“You are so lucky I haven’t strangled you yet.”
Silence.
“I’m not turning around until you have clothes on,” I added.
“Well, you’re in luck. I’m all dressed.”
I peeked over my shoulder just in time to see him tug a shirt down over his stomach, his gray shorts riding low on his hips. His hair was still damp, curling slightly where it clung to his forehead.
“I should smother you in your sleep.”
“Then I guess I’ll fall asleep smiling,” he said with a wry grin, “knowing that the last thing I ever felt was your touch.”
The words hit me like ice water down my spine. I froze, torn between disbelief and the sudden surge of something darker. Rage. Grief. Something else I didn’t want to name.
“You didn’t answer me,” I reminded him coldly.
“What was the question again?”
I was going to kill him.
“My shirts, Blake. Are you gonna replace them?”
“Come here,” he said, softer this time.
“Why?” I asked, my voice a mix of curiosity and caution.
“Just come here, B.”
I hesitated but stepped forward, eyeing him suspiciously.
Blake reached up, fingers suddenly at the base of my ponytail. Before I could react, he tugged my hair tie free, letting my hair tumble loose over my shoulders.
“Hey—” I swatted at his hand, but he leaned back to avoid me.
“Mine now.”
I blinked at him. “Give it back.”
“Nah,” he said lazily, looping it around his wrist and flexing his fingers as if testing the fit. “I think I’ll keep it.”
“Blake.” My voice dropped into a warning. “Give it back.”
His gaze flicked down to the hair tie as if it was suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. “Just to remember you by.”
“Remember me?” I deadpanned. “My room’s next to yours.”
His smile faded a little. Instead of handing it back, he slipped his fingers into the hair tie and gave it a slow twist.
I should’ve snatched it right off his wrist or snapped at him for dragging this out longer than necessary.
But something about the way he looked at it made me pause.
“Get in the car, Beverly,” he said finally, his voice quieter now. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
A strange ache pressed against my ribs.
I opened my mouth, ready to call him out for being so annoying, but the words never made it past my lips. They lodged themselves in my throat like a bitter pill I couldn’t swallow.
His fingers continued to trace the hair tie, spinning it idly.
I left his room before he could catch me staring or notice the way my heart seemed to beat a little faster than it should have.