Chapter 2 Blake
BLAKE
IT’S BEEN SIX WEEKS, AND I still haven’t cried.
My friends don’t think it’s normal. Gigi even called me a robot the other day, which was a joke, I know, but it got to me. When your boyfriend of nearly three years cheats on you, it’s customary to cry, isn’t it?
Historically, I’m not a big crier. Crying invites attention, and that’s the one thing I’ve shied away from for most of my life. But it’s not like I never cry. A sad movie with a lost puppy or a broken relationship? I cry like a baby. Watching Gigi walk down the aisle at her wedding? Sobs.
Ergo, I know I’m capable of tears.
So where the fuck are they?
The first few days following our breakup, when I realized my eyes were bone-dry and that wasn’t changing, I wondered if perhaps I was never actually in love with Isaac.
But that doesn’t feel right. I did love him, and I’m grieving this loss.
Every time I think about him, it feels like someone is stabbing my heart with a thousand knives.
Isaac cried. When I packed up all my stuff, he was in tears. Hysterical. He begged me to stay, promising it would never happen again.
But there’s no coming back from what he did.
If it was just about a sex tape? Fine. I mean, not “fine.” I still wouldn’t have forgiven him—I hold a grudge till the day I die.
But it might’ve been an easier pill to swallow.
One crazy night, drank too much, gave in to temptation, and decided to film it like some sleazy amateur porn star.
But it wasn’t one night.
It was many, many nights.
For a year.
All those times he told me he was going out with the boys, when we were still living in Hastings near campus, he’d been hooking up with Heather the cheerleader.
Apparently, they met when the Pats were still wooing Isaac during his junior year.
He claims it didn’t mean anything, that there were zero emotions involved.
It was just a “sexual thing.” As if that makes it better. Nothing about this is better.
And I still haven’t fucking cried.
For the second time in six weeks, I’m getting off another plane and taking another parental call, this time from my mom. I’ve been staying with them since I moved out, and although I love my parents dearly, I’m looking forward to not having someone ask me if I’m okay every five seconds.
To his credit, after the cheating was exposed, my father didn’t organize a vigilante squad to help him murder Isaac.
Though I heard that in their group chat, Dad and his friends were trying to decide if there was a way to claim insanity.
It’s sweet he cares this much, but I can’t wait to taste some freedom.
“How’re you doing, sweetie?” Mom asks as I exit the airport and search the pickup lane for my ride.
“Good. Just trying to find my driver.”
I finally spot the silver sedan and wave at the driver, who slides out to help me with my bag. As he loads it into the trunk, I breathe in the night air, letting it wash over me like a soothing balm.
It’s nice to be back in Lake Tahoe. My family co-owns a house here with the Grahams. It used to be a rental, but when the property came up for sale last year, we couldn’t pass it up.
The lake house is going to be my home for the next three months, and I’ve never been more excited for an escape.
The usual faces will start showing up the third week of July—we have a big family blowout here every year—but for the most part, it will just be me and my thoughts.
But not my tears.
Because I still haven’t cried.
Which is normal. Totally normal. The online therapist said so.
“Is the alarm code still the same?” I slide into the back seat, balancing the phone on my shoulder as I buckle my seat belt.
“Yep, I texted it to you,” Mom says. “Oh, and we asked the houseman to go in and prep everything for you, make sure the house is nice and clean.”
“Do you think this will be the year we finally meet him?”
“Oh my God, honey. Imagine?”
I swallow a laugh. As my father likes to say, Houseman Henry is an urban legend around these parts.
For the past five years, he’s been our property manager/housekeeper/deliveryman/handyman, and yet not a single one of us has met him in person.
He always manages to get his tasks done when nobody is around.
Uncle Dean swears he saw him once—at dawn, wearing plaid, dropping off spare gas cans in the boathouse—but nobody believes him.
“He can’t deliver groceries until tomorrow,” she continues, “but—”
“I don’t want Henry buying my groceries,” I protest. “I already told you I’m planning to get a job this summer.”
“And I already told you we don’t expect that of you. You’ve had a summer job every year since you were fourteen, honey. You’re allowed to take one summer off. In fact, your father and I would prefer it.”
I wrinkle my forehead. “You would?”
“Yes. This is your last summer before you graduate. I want you to spend it getting to know yourself, not distracting yourself with a job you don’t need.
I know you have some money saved up, and your dad and I are happy to spoil you this summer with groceries.
” Her tone grows gentle. “You told me you were worried about the future, and I don’t want you worrying, my girl.
I’d rather you take this time to figure out what you want to do. ”
Emotion squeezes my chest. Part of me wishes I never confessed those fears; there’s nothing I hate more than pointing out my own inadequacies.
But I should’ve known my mom wouldn’t judge me for the talk we had last week when I admitted it scares me that I’m going into my senior year this fall but am no closer to figuring out what I’m going to do afterward.
Truth is I’ve never felt a deep-seated passion for anything. My best friend and sorority sister, Juliette, has known since middle school that she’s interested in nursing. Gigi knew from frickin’ birth that she wanted to play hockey.
Me, I’ve switched majors three times, finally landing on broadcasting last year.
But what am I going to do with a broadcasting degree?
I have no interest in being on television.
Radio barely exists anymore. I could get into podcasting, but about what?
Who makes a living podcasting anyway? Unless your podcast breaks out and starts raking in the ad money, it’ll likely just fade away into obscurity.
Passion aside, there isn’t much I’m even good at. All my friends are disgustingly good at something. I’m surrounded by prodigies, in fact. Talented athletes like Gigi, supermodels like our friend Alex, high-powered lawyers like Alex’s sister Jamie.
There is nothing worse than being ordinary among the extraordinary.
It’s embarrassing even.
“I want this to be the summer of Blake,” Mom says firmly. “I think it’ll be really good for you.”
I bite my lip. “Okay,” I relent. “But I’m going to research a gazillion postgraduation jobs while I’m here. Deal?”
“Deal. Are you almost at the house?”
I peer out the window. “Yep.”
“Good. Make sure you lock up and set the alarm when you get there.”
“I will.”
“And if a serial killer comes—”
“I’ll dive off the dock and swim to the Martin house.”
Mom and I have discussed many a contingency plan about how to escape a killer.
I’m not too worried about getting murdered in Lake Tahoe, though.
Our house is in a gated, affluent neighborhood, a nice perk that comes from having a father with a long and illustrious career in professional hockey alongside my surrogate uncle Garrett.
Our families can afford nice things, and while I don’t consider myself spoiled, I recognize how fortunate I am and try to never take that for granted.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Mom’s voice softens. “On the Isaac front, I mean.”
“I’m fine,” I assure her, then repeat the motto she recited to me growing up whenever something shitty happened. Like in the fifth grade when my best friend dumped me for no perceivable reason and proceeded to bully me for six torturous months. “Bruised but not broken, right?”
“Exactly. I love you, my girl.”
“Love you too.”
I slide the phone into my purse and focus out the window, the dark scenery blurring past my vision.
The driver doesn’t try to make small talk, and I adore him for that.
I haven’t been good company to anyone since Isaac decided to film himself in a cowboy costume smacking Heather’s ass as he fucked her from behind.
Did I mention they made their little tape on Halloween?
Heather was dressed as a sexy astronaut and kept screaming “Yes, Houston!” I don’t think she realized Houston isn’t a person. They both set women’s lib back about a hundred years.
This summer away is going to be good for me.
I desperately need it. And not to nurse a broken heart like my parents believe.
With every day that passes, Isaac gets smaller in my mental rearview mirror.
Six weeks later, my ego is more bruised than my heart, and the more pressing issue weighing me down is what the hell I’m going to do with my life.
I banish the familiar doubts and frustrations, because thanks to my mom, I’ve been given a reprieve. I don’t need to figure it all out right this second. I have three months to come up with a plan.
Three months to get to know myself.
The car’s tires crunch over gravel, stopping at the enormous iron gates, where I have to lean halfway out the window to enter the code. A few moments later, the sprawling lake house comes into view.
Our house is a little…extra. Located on the west shore, it’s eight thousand square feet and offers panoramic views of the water and the surrounding Sierra Nevada mountains.
It’s more of a compound if anything, with the main house, various outbuildings, and a gorgeous two-story boathouse boasting its own four-bedroom apartment upstairs.
It was a long journey from Boston, but when the car stops and I glimpse the house, with its massive windows that reflect the lake and sky, every mile feels worth it.
As the driver hops out to get my suitcase, I step into the alpine air and inhale deeply. I love the way it smells here. So crisp and fresh. Like freedom.
“Thank you so much,” I tell the dark-haired man, then wait until the sedan disappears down the long drive before I turn toward the wide stone steps.
I input another code at the front entrance, and the huge double doors unlock for me.
Another familiar smell fills my happy nostrils.
Cedar, leather, and fireplace smoke. Inside is a mix of natural stone and exposed beams. Floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlook the wraparound upper deck, with gorgeous views of the lower deck, dock, and boathouse.
I roll my suitcase toward the grand staircase and leave it at the bottom.
I’ll lug it up later. Upstairs are twelve bedrooms, most with en suite baths, while three of the rooms have wall-to-wall bunks to accommodate the large family gatherings we hold every summer.
When I was younger, the girls would all pile into a room and have monthlong sleepovers.
As the co-owning families, the Grahams and I get our own rooms now.
I go into the kitchen and open the fridge, not expecting much since Henry isn’t delivering groceries until tomorrow.
But I’m startled to find a case of beer and an entire shelf of still and sparkling water.
I reach for a bottle, then decide what the hell and pry one of the beers from the case instead.
It’s some artsy IPA, which makes no difference to me because all beer tastes the same no matter where it’s from or what it’s called.
I wander through the great room toward the french doors and step onto the deck, sipping my beer as I approach the railing.
The slight breeze tickles my neck, drawing my attention to the lake.
Natural stone steps wind down to the second deck below and then lower still to the dock.
We even have our own private beach and a long pier extending from the boathouse.
It’s cool out, but I don’t mind. I take the stairs down to the dock, the weathered slats creaking slightly beneath my sneakers as I walk to the edge. A sense of peace washes over me as I listen to the low drone of insects and the soft hush of water lapping at the wooden pillars beneath the deck.
The moon sits low in the sky tonight, practically in reach. Its light creates silvery lines across the water. Lake Tahoe is so beautiful. I could see myself living here full-time one day.
“This is going to be a good summer,” I murmur to myself.
My voice sounds so quiet in the still night air. I swallow another sip of my beer just as the dock creaks again. I catch a flash of movement and turn my head, and my heart rockets into my throat when I glimpse the shadowy figure only a few feet away.
He stumbles toward me, making a growling sound, thick and menacing.
Holy shit.
He growled at me. Like a fucking rottweiler.
“Don’t come near me!” I burst out.
As fear and adrenaline spike in my blood, I act on instinct. I am not going to be the woman who gets bitten by the alligator in the sandpit. No fucking way.
With a high-pitched scream, I hurl the beer can at my would-be assailant.
I’m rewarded by a loud crunch, as if I’ve hit bone.
He lets out an outraged shout, but I’m already leaping forward to kick him in the balls, just the way Master Kato taught us at our mother/daughter self-defense class.
That gets me a strangled expletive before the growler promptly doubles over, providing me with precious seconds to escape.
I spin to run, but my heel catches on a plank, and suddenly the dock shifts beneath my feet. I lose my balance and topple over.
For some baffling reason, the serial killer tries to steady me.
The next thing I know, we’re both falling headfirst into the lake.