Chapter 9 Blake
BLAKE
WE BARELY SPEAK FOR THE rest of the day.
So much for Wyatt wanting to make it up to people whose feelings he hurt. Or maybe he only does that with his sister. Either way, Gigi was wrong. Telling him he hurt me only resulted in his ignoring me.
Now it’s nearly dinnertime, and I don’t know if I should cook enough stir-fry for two or fend for myself tonight. Wyatt’s been hanging out on the dock since we got back from our library excursion/top secret hockey practice.
I watch him from the window. He’s shirtless, hair damp as if he’d just had a swim. His guitar is balanced across his lap, and he’s writing in that worn notebook he always has on him.
From up here, he could be mistaken for peaceful. Relaxed. But he keeps shaking his head in disgust, which tells the real story. I saw him constantly do that on the boat yesterday, when he was unhappy with the words on the page.
Something inside me softens. I want to be pissed at him.
To hate him for the way he mocks me and makes light of my feelings, accuses me of wanting attention.
But it’s difficult to hold on to anger when he’s sitting there like that, clearly battling something inside himself.
And because being a bleeding heart is one of my fatal flaws, I suddenly feel bad about calling him a moody asshole.
I don’t think his problem is mood swings. I think…he’s stuck. Beyond writer’s block. Beyond insomnia. Looking at him now, I don’t see a guy who lashes out because he’s a dick. I see one who’s unhappy with his life and can’t find his way forward.
Before I can stop myself, I go outside and descend the steps to the dock.
He must hear the snapping of my flip-flops, but he doesn’t look up. His pencil sits loosely between his fingers. In the distance, the sun is starting to drop behind the trees, creating a golden aura around his head.
“Hey.” I pause a short distance away.
“Hey.”
I move closer, my curiosity getting the better of me as I glance at the page in front of him. I see scratches and smudges, circles around words, and entire phrases crossed out with aggressive strokes.
“Wanted to check if you’re coming up for dinner,” I say. “Should I make extra?”
“Yeah, sure. Sounds great.” He sounds distracted.
“How’s the song going?”
“It’s not.” His profile is tight, revealing his frustration.
“I’m sorry.” I watch him shove the leather cover closed and set it beside him. “I love that you write in a notebook. So old school of you,” I remark, trying to lighten the mood.
He finally glances at me, only briefly, before looking at his pencil, twisting it between his fingers. “Yeah. I like seeing the words on the page.”
“Does it make a difference?” I ask curiously.
“Sort of. I don’t know.” He spins the pencil again. “Writing it down feels…messier. More authentic. When I type shit out on my phone or on a laptop, it doesn’t feel real. It becomes too polished before I know what I’m actually trying to say.”
I nod slowly. “That makes sense.”
“Does it?”
“Yeah. Writing it by hand is like…like you’re physically connected to the page. I get that.”
He gives a noncommittal grunt.
“So what’s the song about?” I ask.
“It’s not working.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“It doesn’t matter, Blake. It’s a shit song. I’ve been sitting out here for days trying to force something that isn’t there.”
“I think you’re being too hard on yourself.”
“Christ,” he mutters.
A frown touches my lips. “What?”
“Nothing. It’s just… I haven’t written anything decent in a year. It all feels forced. Repetitive. Generic.”
I hear the shame that drips from that last word. I suppose every musician dreads being viewed as generic.
“I’m turning twenty-five this year, and I don’t even have a backup plan. If I can’t make a living making music, what the hell else am I supposed to do?”
I know exactly how he feels. I’ve felt the same crippling anxiety about my future for most of my life. But unlike me, Wyatt has talent. How does he not realize this gives him an edge? A real shot at greatness.
“Look, I know you said you don’t want to use your mom’s connections,” I hedge, but I don’t even get to finish that thought.
“Drop it, Blake.” He rubs the bridge of his nose, his features creasing with frustration.
“Do you think it’s easy being Hannah Graham’s son?
One of the best songwriters of her generation?
You think it’s easy being Garrett Graham’s son?
Mr. Perfect? It’s so much damn pressure.
And the only way I’m going to rise above that pressure is if I do this on my own.
Otherwise it won’t feel earned. I need to write a song this summer. A fucking good one.”
I’m startled by how forthcoming he’s being. Usually getting Wyatt to open up is like pulling teeth.
Worried I’ll scare him off by pushing too hard, I put on a careful tone. “Is this really about a song?”
I regret the question, as his expression instantly clouds over. “Don’t psychoanalyze me. It’s a waste of time.”
“I’m not. I’m just trying to—”
“Distract me,” he cuts in. “That’s what you’re always doing. Fucking distracting me.”
I’m taken aback by his sharp tone. “Wyatt—”
“Whatever.” He abruptly gets to his feet. “I’m not having dinner. I think I’ll go out instead.”
“Where?”
He doesn’t answer. He just grabs his guitar and heads for the stairs, leaving me alone on the dock.
Wyatt’s gone for hours. Even though he doesn’t drive, ordering a car instead, I still almost call Gigi a dozen times to ask if I should worry.
Just past eleven, the rumble of an engine and the slam of a car door break the silence of the night. A burst of relief flickers through me. He’s back.
Downstairs, the alarm beeps as it’s disengaged, then beeps again as he arms it. When I hear his heavy footsteps climbing the staircase, I debate staying in my room, but I want to make sure he’s okay. He seemed really upset before he left earlier.
I step into the dark hallway just as he emerges onto the second-floor landing.
“Hey,” I say tentatively. “You okay?”
“Fine,” he mumbles.
And then he trips on the floor runner and catches himself against the wall, bumping into a photograph of Dumpy and Bergeron, the Graham family dogs. Luckily, the frame doesn’t fall.
I eye him in disapproval. “Are you drunk?”
“No,” he says belligerently. He takes a couple more steps and stumbles again. “Maybe a little.”
He starts to laugh, but I’m not amused. I flick on the light and stalk toward him, and we nearly collide in the middle of the hallway. He’s noticeably swaying on his feet.
“Jesus,” I say. “How much did you drink? What the hell is wrong with you?”
“How much time do you have?”
I don’t even crack a smile. “Wyatt.”
Ignoring me, he staggers forward, trying to make it to his room.
He’s beyond wasted. Eyes unfocused. Hair messy as he drags one hand through it.
And even still, there’s something obnoxiously magnetic about him.
With his black T-shirt, ripped jeans, and those rings winking in the hall light, he’s the epitome of bad boy.
“Here’s the thing, Blake.” He drunkenly overemphasizes my name. “You show up here, and my head stops working.”
My heart stutters in my chest. “What?”
“You heard me. My head. Stops. Working. You smile and you talk and you ask questions, and suddenly I’m in my own goddamn way.”
I gape at him. “Are you blaming me for your writer’s block?”
“No.” He curses under his breath, sounding tormented. “You’re…just you. You’re there.”
“Where?” I’m so confused.
“Everywhere.”
Drawing a breath, I search his expression, needing to make sense of his nonsensical words. Now he’s raking both hands through his unruly hair, as if he wants to tear it out by the roots.
“I hurt your feelings,” he grinds out.
I blink. “What?”
“You said I hurt you.” His voice is sandpaper-rough, hazy green eyes trying to focus on my face. “I’m a prick, Blake. Don’t you get that?”
A frown wrinkles my brow. “Wyatt…” I start.
“No. You need to stop.”
“Stop what?”
“Always looking at me like I’m worth a damn.
I’m not fucking special.” He sways on his feet again, scrubbing his palm over his jaw.
“Remember that night you said you were into me? Know what I wanted to ask you? What the hell are you thinking? Because I’m not worth your time.
Wasn’t worth it back then. Not worth it now. ”
Alarm settles in my chest. I’ve never heard him talk like this before. Every word is dripping with disgust. And something else… Something raw and shameful. A darkness I’ve sensed in him before but haven’t glimpsed until now.
“Want to know what I’m good for?” Wyatt says roughly.
“W-what?” My dry throat is making me stammer.
“I’m good for one thing. My dick.” He laughs, a harsh, raspy sound that sends a shiver up my spine. “I have a really good dick.”
Damned if that doesn’t turn me on.
“I’m a great lay.” He licks his bottom lip, a feral glint in his eyes. “I can fuck you so good.”
Do it, I want to beg. Right here. Right now. I want him to spin me around, yank my pajama shorts off, and drive his cock inside me. I want it so badly I can scarcely breathe.
“They all love my dick,” he says, still laughing. “They fucking love it. And then they always want more.” His laughter dissolves in a sputtering expletive. “See, though, that’s the part I can’t do. There’s no such thing as more. Not with me. There’s only what I give you in the moment.”
He’s making my head spin, not only with his words but with his drunken swaying. I reach out to try to steady him, but he pushes my hand away.
“No,” he mutters. “Don’t waste your time on me. You’re better off without this fantasy you’ve built in your head.”
The last threads of my patience officially snap. “I don’t fantasize about you. Not anymore. You think I want this version of you? This drunk asshole who can’t even be bothered to apologize for hurting my feelings? Hard pass, Wyatt.”
With a bitter laugh of my own, I shake my head and stomp toward my room.
He doesn’t come after me.
I hear him stumble into the blue room, followed by a loud thump that elicits a pang of concern.
Despite myself, I walk back to make sure he didn’t fall and smash his head open.
I peek at the open doorway and realize the thump was Wyatt collapsing on his mattress.
He’s face down and spread-eagled, one cheek pressed against the pillow.
I linger for a moment, my heart squeezing painfully.
He looks so…lost.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I quietly close his door and head back to my room.
I hate that I’m always finding compassion for him.
I hate how weak it makes me, this exhausting instinct to keep showing up emotionally even when he constantly slams the door in my face.
Telling me not to waste my time on him. Whether he meant romantically or as a friend, I don’t know, but I can’t fight the feeling that he’s purposely trying to push me away.
Donning this fuckboy asshole mask so I don’t try to peer too close. So nobody does.
I slide into bed and force myself not to replay our entire conversation. I try to forget how anguished he sounded. How defeated he looked. The way his voice cracked when he uttered the words that are now running on a loop in my mind.
I’m not fucking special.