Chapter 37 Blake
BLAKE
“HOW LONG HAS THIS BEEN going on?”
“Who initiated it? It was him, wasn’t it?”
“Oh, fuck off. That’s so sexist of you.”
“How is that sexist?”
“What, you think just because he’s a man, that means he made the first move? This is the modern world, John. Women initiate all the time.”
“Don’t fucking call me John, Garrett.”
Oh no, they’re full naming each other.
This is dire.
From my spot on the sectional, I send Gigi a silent plea.
Help us. Please. She’s the only “nonparty” (as my father phrased it) who was allowed entry to the great room, because apparently this is a Graham/Logan interrogation only.
Everyone else has been banished outside to the deck, which I’m grateful for.
I didn’t miss the hurt on Beau’s face when he realized Wyatt and I have been hooking up.
I’m not ready to have to explain myself to anyone.
“It doesn’t matter who initiated,” Gigi puts in. “So they’ve been hanging out. Big deal.”
“What is ‘hanging out’?” Garrett demands at the same time as my father growls, “Define hanging out.”
Hannah exchanges a look with my mom. “Okay,” she interjects. “Let’s all take a breath and calm down.”
“Yes, let’s calm down,” a voice pipes up.
“There’s no reason to freak out,” another voice chimes in. “We always knew this was gonna happen someday. I just assumed it would be a Golden Boy.”
We all turn to see Tucker lurking at the kitchen counter. Then Dean pops up too like a whack-a-mole. They must’ve snuck back inside through the front door and crept up without anyone noticing.
“Go away,” my dad snaps at them. “We’re dealing with a national emergency.”
“Fine, we’ll go, but we need an update in the group chat later,” Dean begs.
“Obviously,” Dad huffs.
Their footsteps thud in the hallway, and we hear them laughing as they exit the house.
On her end of the couch, Mom loosely clasps her hands in her lap and glances at me. “Look, obviously you don’t owe us any explanations—”
“Like hell they don’t,” Dad and Garrett say in unison.
“Oh my God,” I mutter, my cheeks hot with embarrassment. “We’re just spending time together. It really isn’t a thing.”
“So it’s a rebound?” Dad grumbles. “Rebounds are always a bad idea, sweet pea.”
“No, they’re not. Sometimes they’re a nice palate cleanser.” From the corner of my eye, I see Wyatt’s lips twitch, as if he’s amused by the notion that he’s a palate cleanser. “Would you rather I was still with Isaac?” I direct the challenge at my father.
His jaw drops. “Don’t put me in this impossible situation. The potato versus the fuckboy?”
“Hey,” Hannah cuts in, jabbing a finger at my father. “I get this is your only daughter and you’re—how do I say this nicely?—psychotically overprotective—”
My mom snorts softly.
“But you’ve known Wyatt his whole life,” Hannah finishes. “He’s got a good head on his shoulders.”
“Thanks, Mom,” Wyatt murmurs.
It’s the first word he’s spoken since the interrogation began.
But he doesn’t seem uncomfortable in the slightest. He just sits there looking like the easygoing, unbothered bad boy he is, looking at his sneakers and twisting his rings around on his fingers.
I’m not the only one who notices, as my dad suddenly narrows his eyes on Wyatt.
“Stop acting all cool,” my dad says to him. When I laugh, it earns me another glare. “Don’t laugh at him being cool.”
“I’m not laughing at him. I’m laughing at you.” I heave an exhausted sigh. “Guys. You seriously need to chill. We’ve just been hanging out this summer. Enjoying each other’s company.”
“Have you had intercourse?” Dad demands.
“I am not answering that.”
“Yeah, I don’t think you want the answer to that,” Wyatt concurs, while his twin laughs into her arm.
Dad promptly goes back to glaring daggers at Wyatt’s father. “Are you hearing your son, Garrett? What if he gets her pregnant?”
“Oh, because he’s knocked up so many other girls? I don’t see a bunch of grandbabies running around, John.”
“You wouldn’t, because babies can’t run,” Dad says smugly.
“Let me introduce you to something called a figure of speech, jackass.”
And on and on it goes. They talk in circles. They scowl. They demand details.
Until finally, I do a very un-Blake-like thing. I hold up my hand and snap, “Would you both shut the fuck up?”
“Language,” my dad chides.
“I’ll mind my language when you mind yours.
” Tamping down my frustration, I focus on my mom and Hannah, because they’re clearly the most reasonable people in this room.
“Wyatt and I formed a connection while we’ve been here.
We like spending time together. But I’m going back to college in the fall, and he’s going back to Nashville to record his album.
” Now I turn toward the dads. “Nobody is pregnant. Nobody is dropping out of school. Nobody is breaking anyone’s heart.
And even if any of that happened, we are adults and perfectly capable of handling it on our own.
With that said, we love you all very much—”
“Well, not right now,” Wyatt drawls, then grins when I flash him a dirty look.
“And our families are going to be just fine,” I finish.
“I’m not fine at all,” Dad gripes. He shakes his head at Garrett. “I don’t like this.”
“Oh, because I’m jumping for joy?”
“I hate it more.”
“Would you prefer it was a Di Laurentis?” Garrett counters, at which point my father rises to his feet and stomps out of the room.
I spend the rest of the day in my room faking a headache. Which isn’t a total lie. My head is throbbing from all the nonsense it had to endure today.
After the fallout from the hookup bomb, it was decided that everyone was going to “digest” things. As if it’s anyone’s business but mine and Wyatt’s. But I should’ve anticipated this.
Fortunately, the girls know to back off when I tell them I don’t feel like talking about anything tonight. And the Golden Boys have disappeared for the night, thank God. I think they went drinking in town.
Deciding to go to bed early, I shower and change into my pajamas, returning to my room to find Mom sitting on the bed waiting for me.
“Got a minute for me?” she asks. “Or are we still hiding out?”
“We’re still hiding, but never from you.”
I close the door and get comfy on the bed.
Mom comes up and lies beside me, both of us curled on our sides.
Growing up, this was one of my favorite things to do with my mom.
We used to cuddle in bed and talk for hours.
I would ramble on about school and friends and whatever other random topic I had on the brain.
Mom would tell me stories about her college days, meeting my dad, her time at the news network where she worked as a producer for almost twenty years.
“So. I don’t need details. In fact, please don’t give me details,” she begs, and I snort. “All I want to know is are you being safe, and are you happy?”
My heart expands from a rush of emotion. I love my mom so much. “Yes, we’re being safe, and yes, I am happy.”
She hesitates for a beat.
“Say it,” I urge.
“Look, you know I love Wyatt. Your father is just being dramatic right now, because that’s who he is. But I’m not worried about Wyatt’s intentions. I don’t think he’d ever set out to hurt anyone…” Mom pauses again.
“But you think he’ll hurt me,” I finish.
Her tone is careful now. “I think…he’ll leave.”
Pain shoots through me. “He’ll leave me, you mean?”
“No, he’ll just leave. That’s what Wyatt does. He left Nashville and took off for Tahoe without telling his own family. He doesn’t like to be rooted to one place. He never has.”
Because he’s trying to outrun the chaos.
Because he’s lost.
I don’t express any of those thoughts; I don’t feel right revealing the vulnerabilities Wyatt has shown me.
I know that’s why he fled to Tahoe, though.
Because his head gets too loud, and he’s desperate to quiet it, but more than that, because he’s stuck in this narrative he’s created for himself, like a car spinning its wheels in the mud.
I don’t know if he’ll ever break free of this rigid perception he has of himself, but I’ve definitely noticed a change in him.
He’s not the same man he was when I arrived here at the end of May.
He doesn’t chain-smoke on the dock anymore.
Doesn’t pour alcohol down his throat to help him sleep.
Doesn’t snap at me in frustration or insist I’m not worth his time.
These days, he sneaks into my room at night and stays sound asleep until morning.
He spends hours writing music instead of fighting it.
He asks for his mom’s input about his songs when before, he would’ve rather swallowed broken glass than ask for her help.
He’s starting to find peace within himself, and maybe that’s all he needs to… not leave.
To stay.
After Mom says good night, I reach for my phone to text Wyatt. Even though we’ve kept our distance, we’ve still been texting all day.
I’m going to bed soon. Today was intense.
SONGBOY
Baby, I believe you’ve perfected the art of the understatement.
“The art of the understatement” would be a good name for a song.
SONGBOY
Nah too wordy.
Are you sleeping here tonight?
SONGBOY
I probably shouldn’t.
Disappointment lodges in my chest, but I understand his reluctance.
SONGBOY
It’s too risky. Your dad’s probably patrolling the hallway.
I don’t think you need the word probably in that sentence.
SONGBOY
Let’s give it a couple days? Let them get used to the idea.
Okay. Good night, songboy.
SONGBOY
Good night, freckles.
I’m about to burrow under my blanket when a knock sounds on the door. For a moment, I wonder if Wyatt changed his mind, but when the door cracks open at my hurried “Come in,” it’s Beau who appears.
He doesn’t come all the way inside, just lingers in the doorway. He’s wearing sweats, his blond hair damp from a shower. When our eyes meet, I don’t miss the glint of disapproval in his.
“Just say it,” I sigh.
“Wyatt? That’s the guy you’re seeing? You could’ve told me that the other night.”
“We were keeping it on the down-low.”
“Well, you did a shit job, because now it’s on the fucking”—he pauses—“up-low.”
“Wouldn’t it be up-high?”
He ignores that. “You don’t even understand the shitstorm you’ve unleashed. The dads are all holding a meeting about it right now.”
“Let them meet,” I say irritably. “This has nothing to do with them.”
Beau shakes his head. “You’re smarter than this, B. I love the guy to death, but we both know his track record. He’s going to break your heart.”
“Maybe. Or maybe not.” I huff out a breath, annoyed that everyone is sticking their nose where it doesn’t belong. “Either way, it’s nobody’s business but mine.”