41. Blair
41
BLAIR
I stand at the window, his words echoing in my mind. The city lights blur as tears fill my eyes. I'm so stinking raw tonight. Every feeling is too close to the surface.
"I always wondered if you were..." The word catches in my throat. "If you were suicidal back then."
"Would it have changed anything if you'd known?" Ransom's voice is calm and steady. Loud enough for me to hear, but not loud enough to bother the kids. This subject isn't for their ears.
"I didn't know how to talk about it. I didn't know what to say." That was pretty common back then. It's not that I didn't have things to say, but I'd figured out by then that saying the wrong thing was sometimes worse than saying nothing at all.
"I wouldn't have talked to you anyway." He tips his chin until his temple rests on the cold glass. "I was done talking. They made me do counseling after the fire, but—" He pauses. "It was just words. Empty words that couldn't change the way I felt."
I turn to face him. "But me lighting my shirt on fire did?"
"More than a year of therapy ever could." A sad smile crosses his face. "You were the first person who showed me that I wasn't all bad. I couldn't see it before."
"I wasn't trying to fix you." The memory of that night floods back—the smell of gasoline and oil in the garage, the heat of the flame against my stomach. I'd held the shirt away from my skin –I wasn't an idiot–, but I still got burned. My stomach was red, nothing bad really, but I was a little sad when the marks disappeared. I like tangible reminders of moments in my life. Scars matter. But the physical ones are easier to heal from. "You were being obtuse. I just wanted you to see how wrong you were."
That familiar half-smile creeps up. "You scared the hell out of me." His hand finds mine, gently tugging my arms uncrossed. "You could have been seriously hurt, Blair."
I shrug, enjoying the warmth of his hand around mine. Something about the feel of his skin, his touch, steadies me. It’s something to hold onto when everything else is too overwhelming. "I knew how to stop, drop, and roll. Seemed worth the risk to get through that thick skull of yours."
His eyes trace over my face. "You weren't as expressive back then. What you were feeling always felt a little like a mystery I had to solve."
"I didn't understand what I was feeling most of the time." I lean back against the window. "Everything just felt... the same. One big jumble of sensations I couldn't sort out."
"But now?"
"Life happened. I grew up." My fingers trace patterns on the cold glass. "Somewhere along the way, I learned to separate the happy from the sad from the mad. To put names to all the things going on in my head."
Back in school, that blank face was armor. Better than showing the wrong thing, better than the stares when my reactions didn't match what everyone expected. The testing was endless—not Autism, not ADD, not any of the things they could put a neat label on. Just Blair being Blair, marching to her own drum. Usually by myself. At least until Dad moved us to Badger Falls. I didn't change overnight, but people were a lot more accepting of my particular brand of weird.
"You know what's funny?" I turn back to him. "These days, I don't have to think about it anymore. The right expression just... happens. The feelings make sense."
"I could always see what you were thinking." Ransom's voice drops lower. "The way your eyes would narrow just a fraction when you were annoyed. How your lips would twitch before you smiled. That little crease between your brows when you were frustrated."
Heat crawls up my neck. He always made me feel seen, even back then. "You noticed all that?"
"I studied you." His thumb brushes my elbow. "Every micro-expression. Every tell. I didn't want to miss anything."
"I didn't know." The words come out breathier than I intend. "That you watched me that closely."
"How could I not?" His fingers trail up my arm. "You were the most fascinating person I'd ever met."
My skin prickles under his touch. "I watched you too." The confession slips out before I can stop it. Maybe I don’t want to stop it. "At school. In the hallways. At home, when we were supposed to be watching a movie. At the garage, when I was supposed to be concentrating."
Ransom steps closer, his hand sliding around my ribs. The touch sends electricity through my body, making my knees weak. It would be so easy to lean into him, to let his warmth chase away the cold fear that's been gripping my chest since Maggie collapsed. To forget about hospitals and tests and all the what-ifs crowding my mind.
"Blair."
My name on his lips is almost my undoing. I want to disappear into this feeling. Into the way my body remembers his touch, even after twenty-five years. Into the safety of his arms and the heat in his eyes.
"I'm hungry." Max's voice breaks through the moment, shattering the tension. Mia stands next to him, nodding in agreement.
Heat floods my face as guilt crashes over me. How could I forget about Max? About dinner? Some guardian I'm turning out to be.
Ransom's thumb brushes my cheek, then he turns to the kids. "Let's see what we can rustle up."
I follow them to the kitchen, where Ransom pulls open a massive stainless steel fridge. "Alright, troops, let's see what we've got. If we can't find anything good, we'll raid Uncle John's place. He's got the best food."
"Can we have pizza?" Max peers around Ransom's leg.
"Look at all these containers." Mia points at stacks of takeout boxes. "Uncle John brought those."
"Smart man." Ransom pulls out container after container. "We've got chicken, some kind of pasta... ah, vegetables."
"Yuck." Max wrinkles his nose.
"Hey now, vegetables give you superpowers." Ransom winks. "How about we make a deal? Three bites of broccoli, and you can have extra chicken?"
"Two bites," Max counters.
"Four bites now because you tried to negotiate." Ransom's eyes sparkle. "Want to try for five?"
Max's mouth drops open. "Okay, three."
My throat tightens watching them. The scene feels so domestic—Ransom dishing out food, the kids climbing onto barstools, everything so natural. But wrong. This should be happening in Maggie's kitchen. She should be here, rolling her eyes at Max's vegetable negotiations, stealing bites off his plate just to make him laugh.
"Blair?" Ransom's voice pulls me back. "You want the pasta or the chicken?"
I blink hard, forcing back tears. "Whatever Max doesn't want."
"I want chicken!" Max announces.
"Then pasta it is." Ransom loads a plate, his movements sure and practiced. Like he does this every day. Like this is normal.
But nothing about this day has been normal.
The evening blurs past in flashes of sound and color. A movie plays—something animated with talking animals. Max and Mia sprawl on their stomachs, giggling at jokes I can't focus on. Ransom's warmth radiates from beside me on the couch.
Colton arrives at some point, his massive frame filling the doorway. Mia hugs Max goodbye, whispering something that makes him smile.
Then I'm sitting on the edge of a bed that could sleep four, watching Max trace patterns on the navy duvet cover.
"Blair?" His small voice cuts through the fog in my head. "Is Mom really gonna be okay?"
My chest tightens. "The doctors are helping her get better right now."
"But she told me—" He swallows hard. "She said she might not have lots and lots of time left. But it hasn't even been that long since she told me."
"Come here, buddy." I open my arms, and he crawls into them. "Your mom is the strongest person I know."
"But what if she's not strong enough this time?" His words muffle against my shirt. He’s saying all the same things I’ve been thinking. Every worry, every fear, out loud.
"Hey, look at me." I tip his chin up. "Remember what Mom told you about being brave?"
He nods. "That being brave doesn't mean not being scared. It means doing stuff even when you're scared."
"That's right. And your mom is being so brave right now."
"I'm trying to be brave too." His lower lip trembles. "But I don't want her to go yet."
"I know, baby." I pull him closer, rocking slightly. "I don't want her to go either."
"Will you stay with me?" His fingers grip my shirt. "Until I fall asleep?"
"Of course I will." I kiss the top of his head. "I'm not going anywhere."
Ransom stands in the doorway, a dark silhouette against the hall light. My fingers brush over Max's forehead, the same way Maggie does every night. His breaths slow, evening out as sleep takes him. I ease off the bed, careful not to jostle him.
Ransom backs into the hallway. I pull the door shut with a soft click, then lean against the wall. He mirrors my position on the opposite side, his blue eyes steady on mine.
"I don't know how to help." His whisper carries across the space between us. "I keep trying to ignore my instincts, to think about what you need instead."
The raw honesty in his voice makes my chest ache. "What are your instincts telling you?"
He swallows hard. "I want to take you to my bed." His gaze drops to the floor. "Just to hold you all night. So I know you're okay."
The words hit me like a physical blow. Because that's exactly what I want too—to feel safe, to let someone else be strong for a while. To forget about hospitals and responsibilities and just... exist. In his arms. Where everything used to make sense, even when nothing else did.
My heart pounds against my ribs. "Just sleep?"
"Just sleep." His voice is rough. "Nothing else."
I study his face in the dim hallway light, searching for any hint of deception. But his eyes are clear, honest. The same way they were all those years ago when he'd tell me things no one else knew.
"You sure about that?" The words slip out before I can stop them. Because I'm not sure. My head is fucked, and I'm looking for an escape. And maybe that's not fair to him or me, but I can't stop. And Ransom isn't Adam. With Adam, sex would be just that, an escape. With Ransom, it would be so much more.
His jaw tightens. "Blair." The way he says my name—like a prayer and a curse wrapped into one. "Trust me, I want..." He drags a hand down his face. "God, I want everything. But not like this. Not with you hurting and worried about Maggie. Not with Max in the next room."
Heat floods my cheeks. Of course he's right. What was I thinking? My best friend is in the hospital. Her son is sleeping on the other side of the door, and here I am, entertaining thoughts about...
"Hey." Ransom's fingers brush my arm. "Stop that. I can see you beating yourself up."
"I shouldn't be thinking about?—"
"About what? Finding comfort?" His thumb traces circles on my skin. "Being human?"
I let out a shaky breath. "Everything's so messed up right now."
"I know." He takes my hand, his grip warm and steady. "That's why I just want to hold you. Let you get some real sleep. No expectations."
The sincerity in his voice breaks something loose in my chest. Because this is the Ransom I remember—the one who could see right through my walls, who knew exactly what I needed before I did.
Or almost exactly what I need. "I need a drink first. Better yet. Make it the whole bottle."