Chapter 14 Blake Doesnt Get a Vote
Nathan and I have been together for about six weeks when Blake finds out.
The friend group knew before Blake did. Sierra figured it out first because Sierra notices everything.
She saw the way Nathan and I were looking at each other at a dinner two weeks into our relationship and she texted me afterward: "So.
Nathan." I responded with a simple "Yes" and she responded with a string of celebration emojis that went on for three full screens.
Chase found out next because Chase ran into us at a gas station together and I was wearing Nathan's jacket because it was cold and he wasn't subtle about connecting the dots. He just said "About time" and went inside to pay for his gas.
Ronnie already knew because Ronnie lives with Nathan and was the one who voluntarily disappeared on the night Nathan cooked me dinner.
Ronnie told me later that he'd been waiting for this to happen for months and that Nathan had talked to him about it before asking me out and asked for his honest opinion about whether it was too soon.
"What did you tell him?" I asked.
"I told him he'd waited long enough," Ronnie said.
So the friend group knows and supports it and the transition has been smooth because our group has already been through the disruption of losing two members.
Adding a romance between two of the remaining members is easy by comparison.
Nobody has expressed concern about the timing or the optics or any of the things I worried about in private. They're just happy.
Blake is the last person in Pinehurst to find out, which is appropriate and also inevitable.
In a town this size you can't date someone for six weeks without it becoming public knowledge.
Nathan and I haven't been hiding. We've been going to Clarkson's for dinner and walking through the park on Sunday mornings and his truck has been parked on Birch Street frequently enough that Dorothy has started asking when she's going to meet him.
The information was going to reach Blake eventually. The only question was when and how.
He confronts me on a Saturday morning outside the salon.
I'm unlocking the front door because I'm opening today. Cheryl is off and I have two early appointments and the morning is cool and quiet and the parking lot is empty except for my car. I hear a truck door close behind me and I turn around and Blake is walking across the parking lot toward me.
He looks better than the last time I saw him at Peterson's Market.
He's gained some weight back. His hair is cut short and clean.
He's wearing a flannel shirt and jeans that don't look like they've been slept in.
Someone has been taking care of him or he's been taking care of himself, and either way I'm mildly relieved because the version of Blake I saw at the grocery store with frozen dinners and hollow eyes was hard to look at even for someone who was done caring about him.
But his face is set in an expression I recognize from every argument we ever had. Controlled anger with something wounded underneath it. The look Blake gets when he feels wronged and wants to talk about it but knows that coming in too hot will backfire.
"We need to talk," he says.
"Blake, I have clients coming in twenty minutes."
"This won't take long."
I lean against the door frame. I don't invite him inside. The salon is my space and Blake doesn't get to enter it without permission.
"Is it true?" he asks. "You and Nathan?"
"Yes."
"Nathan Johnson. Ronnie's roommate."
"Yes."
He shakes his head. He puts his hands on his hips and looks at the ground and then looks back up at me.
"How long?"
"About six weeks."
"Six weeks. So you were probably interested in him before we even broke up."
"No. I wasn't. I had other things on my mind before we broke up, Blake. Things like discovering that my fiancé was having an affair."
"He was at every group thing. Every cookout. Every bar night. He was always there watching you."
"He was there because he's Ronnie's roommate and Ronnie's friend. The same reason you were there. The same reason everyone was there."
"Did something happen between you two while we were still together?"
I stare at him. The audacity of this question coming from a man who spent months sleeping with my friend while sharing my bed is so perfectly, absurdly Blake that I can't even be angry about it.
It's just information. Information about who Blake Winston is and how his mind works.
He cheated on me for months with organized deliberation and now he wants to know if I looked at another man while we were together.
The hypocrisy doesn't occur to him. Or if it does, it doesn't stop him from asking.
"Nothing happened between Nathan and me while we were together," I say. "He asked me if I was okay once at a bar. That's it. One conversation. Thirty seconds. He offered his number through Ronnie in case I needed someone to talk to. That was the full extent of our interaction while I was with you."
"He was interested in you. I could tell."
"Maybe he was. But he didn't act on it. He didn't ask me to dinner.
He didn't send me late-night texts. He didn't book motel rooms. He noticed I was struggling and he offered to help and then he walked away.
That's the difference between Nathan and you.
He saw someone who needed something and he didn't make it about what he wanted. "
Blake flinches at the motel rooms comment. I didn't plan to say it but I don't regret saying it either.
"That's not fair," he says. "You're comparing me to him."
"I'm not comparing you. I'm answering your question.
You asked if something happened between us.
Nothing did. Nathan waited until I was single, until I'd had months to process, until I'd moved into my own apartment, until I was ready.
He waited because he respected me enough to wait.
That's not a comparison to you. That's just a fact about him. "
"So he's perfect."
"Nobody is perfect. But he's honest. And right now honest is the most important quality I can think of."
Blake is quiet for a while. He stares at the ground between us. I can see him working through something, wrestling with it, trying to decide whether to keep pushing or let it go. He puts his hands in his pockets. He takes them out again. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other.
"I didn't come here to fight," he says finally.
"Then why did you come?"
"Because I needed to see your face when I asked. I needed to know if it was real."
"It's real, Blake."
"And you're happy?"
I look at him. I look at him carefully because this question, unlike the others, is sincere. He's not asking to argue. He's not asking to manipulate. He's asking because he wants to know.
"Yes," I say. "I'm happy."
He nods. He stands there for another few seconds and I can see him processing something. Some final acceptance that the door between us is closed and locked and he doesn't have the key and never will again.
"Okay," he says quietly.
He stands there for another few seconds.
He looks at the salon behind me. He looks at the parking lot.
He looks at me one more time and his expression is something I've never seen on him before.
It's not anger or charm or desperation or any of the faces Blake has shown me over the past months.
It's resignation. Clean, simple resignation.
The acceptance that this chapter of his life is over and there's no edit he can make that will change the ending.
"Take care of yourself, Lara," he says.
"You too, Blake."
He turns and walks back to his truck. His boots make a familiar sound on the pavement. He gets in and starts the engine and backs out of the parking space and pulls onto the street. I watch the truck until it disappears around the corner.
I stand in the salon doorway for another minute. The morning air is cool and the sun is coming through the trees along the parking lot and I can hear birds and the distant sound of traffic on the main road. Normal sounds. Saturday morning sounds.
I feel something settle inside me. Not sadness exactly.
Not relief either. Something closer to completion.
The last conversation I needed to have with Blake Winston is done.
It didn't end with yelling or crying or dramatic declarations.
It ended with two people standing in a parking lot speaking honestly about something that hurt both of them and then walking away in different directions.
That's how it should end.
Then I go inside and I turn on the lights and I sweep the floor and I check the appointment book and I set up my station. My first client arrives ten minutes later and I smile and I pick up my scissors and I start my day. Between clients I text Raina.
"Blake came to the salon this morning. He knows about Nathan."
She responds within thirty seconds. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine. It went better than expected."
"What did he say?"
"He asked if it was real. I said yes. He asked if I'm happy. I said yes. Then he left."
"Did he try to talk you out of it?"
"Not really. He was angry at first but it faded. I think he's starting to understand that it's actually over."
"It's been over for months. But I'm glad he's catching up."
I put my phone away and I finish my day. Four clients. Four cuts. Normal Saturday. Cheryl would be proud of how steady my hands are.
That evening I tell Nathan about the confrontation.
We're at my apartment on Birch Street. He's sitting on my couch reading one of the books he bought at the bookstore, a thriller that he's about three-quarters through and that he says is predictable but entertaining.
and I'm in the kitchen making pasta, which is one of the five things I cook well and which Nathan eats without complaint every time I make it.
"Blake came to the salon this morning," I say.
Nathan puts his book down. He gives me his full attention, which is always immediate and complete.
"What did he want?"