11
There were four packs of Tim Tams on the bench.
Caramel. Double choc. Dark. And one of those weird, limited-edition ones with raspberry and coconut that Blake knew, deep down, she wasn’t going to like but had bought anyway. Just in case.
Morgan stood at the pantry, lining up the decanted staples like it was a competitive sport. Every jar, storage container and tupperware item labelled. Every label facing forward. She kept her eyes on the containers. ‘You realise you have a problem, right?’ she said.
‘They were on special,’ Blake replied, already halfway through the caramel ones. ‘And I was sad. And the internet keeps showing me inspirational quotes. It’s not my fault.’
‘You’ve been sad since Wednesday.’
‘Exactly. It’s a public-health emergency.
’ She shoved another Tim Tam into her mouth like it was therapy and grabbed the envelope of second-chance date vouchers from under the microwave.
They’d been part of this week’s failed second-dates arc that Blake had sabotaged before it even got started. Which made them perfect.
Blake flicked through them, smudging chocolate on the corner of one. ‘Wanna use another date voucher tonight?’ she asked Morgan.
‘Sure. As long as it’s not alpaca yoga.’
‘Pottery class? Absolutely not. I’m not spoiling my Patrick Swayze Ghost fantasies.’
‘Karaoke?’
‘I’m not giving you a reason to record me and ransom it to Chelsea.’
Morgan leaned in, sorting the stack. ‘Escape room?’
Blake checked the fine print. ‘Minimum four people.’
She looked over at Morgan. ‘Anyone from school you’d want to invite?’
Morgan’s hands stilled on the containers. Her shoulders tensed, just barely, before she resumed her methodical arrangement. ‘No.’
Blake waited.
‘No one wants to hang out with the weird kid who finishes the term’s workbook in week one,’ Morgan added, her voice level but her fingers pressing harder against each label, smoothing edges that were already perfect. ‘I probably won’t have friends anytime soon.’
Her smile faltered for a second before she forced it back into place.
Blake nodded with forced brightness. ‘Okay. So we call in the big guns.’
She flipped the voucher between her fingers. ‘We could ask Chelsea?’ she said, her voice deliberately light.
Morgan gave the tiniest of nods. ‘She’d like it.’
Blake pulled out her phone, with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
‘Let’s get the band back together,’ she said into the phone.
Chelsea answered mid-chew. ‘Tell me you’re cooking.’
‘Better. Escape room. You in?’
‘I’m so in.’
‘It’s minimum four. You reckon…?’
‘Let’s ask Sam,’ Chelsea said. ‘He’s been weird all week.’
‘How can you tell?’
‘He forgot to say thank you to Britt, then spent ten minutes apologising. Something’s clearly broken.’
Blake ended the call and stared at her phone for a beat. Then, before she could overthink it, she pulled up Sam’s name and hit dial.
‘Hey,’ Blake said, fiddling with the edge of the voucher. ‘Got a second-chance date voucher with your name on it.’
Sam’s voice came warm through the line. ‘What kind of date are we talking?’
Blake’s stomach did something complicated at the word date, but she pressed on. ‘Escape room. Thought you might want to help solve a few clues that aren’t related to my personal life.’
He laughed, and she could hear his tone become warmer, more personal. ‘Sounds ideal.’
‘I’ll text you the details and we can meet…’
‘I’ll pick you up,’ he cut in, his voice carrying a note of certainty that made her pulse skip. ‘Twenty to seven?’
Blake caught herself nodding at the phone. ‘Yeah. Perfect.’
He hung up, and Blake stood there for a moment, phone still in hand, something nervous and anticipatory building in her chest.
She lowered the phone, grabbed another Tim Tam, and looked across at Morgan, who was now wiping the already-clean pantry shelf.
Maybe they both needed a win tonight.
Chelsea arrived first, still in activewear, clutching a full bottle of vodka like a trophy.
‘Escape room or therapy session?’ Blake asked, eyeing the bottle.
‘Why limit ourselves to one?’ Chelsea breezed past her. ‘Got any mixers? I’m thinking we pre-game.’
Blake laughed. ‘There’s Diet Coke in the fridge. But Morgan’s twelve, Chels. She’s strictly soft drinks only.’
‘Obviously. The vodka’s for us adults. A little liquid courage before our great escape.’
By the time Blake returned from dumping Chelsea’s bag, Morgan was explaining escape-room statistics while Chelsea nodded along, already pouring herself a vodka.
‘You know,’ Morgan said, watching Chelsea measure her pour, ‘at two standard drinks your power of deductive reasoning and problem-solving could be diminished by up to thirty per cent. Why you’d want to consume alcohol before we’re faced with a challenge where the success is based on problem-solving, I don’t understand. ’
Chelsea paused mid-pour, then deliberately added an extra splash. ‘Good thing we have a problem-solving genius with us, so my main contribution to the team is the energy and vibes.’
Then the doorbell rang.
Blake glanced at the oven clock. Twenty to seven on the dot.
She wiped her palms on her jeans. ‘That’ll be Sam!’
She didn’t mean to sound so chipper. She was just used to seeing Sam in the studio, not in her doorway.
She opened the door and her breath caught.
Sam.
He wore a crisp white linen shirt, and his hair was neater than usual. Like he’d thought about this. Really thought about it. And the shirt was ironed. Sam never ironed anything.
‘Hey,’ he said, and his smile was different. Softer. More intentional.
‘Oh,’ she blurted out. ‘You look…’ She gestured vaguely at his ensemble, trying to find words that wouldn’t give away how her stomach had just performed a small gymnastic routine.
‘Figured I’d make an effort.’ His eyes held hers for a beat longer than necessary.
‘Hot date after this?’ Blake said. The joke tumbled out before she could stop it, a defensive reflex.
His face flickered, vulnerability flashing across it before he recovered. ‘Didn’t realise it was a full crew,’ he said, his gaze finding Chelsea and Morgan over Blake’s shoulder. The disappointment was subtle but unmistakable.
Still Sam. Still warm. But something was different. The careful way he’d dressed, the way he’d insisted on picking her up, the slight deflation when he saw they weren’t alone. It all clicked into place with startling clarity.
Blake stepped aside, her mind racing. ‘Come in. We’ve got snacks and vodka and no real plan.’
He smiled, recovering his composure. ‘You look great.’
The compliment hung between them, weighted with intention she hadn’t expected.
He thought this was something else.
And the worst part? She could see why. The phone call, her nervous energy, asking him along on what she’d specifically called a ‘date voucher’ activity. She was an idiot.
The rest of the pre-departure ritual unfolded around Blake while her mind spun. Chelsea clapped her hands. ‘Right! Escape time. Someone grab the snacks and let’s pretend we’re functioning adults.’ She glanced at Morgan. ‘Well, most of us.’
Morgan packed a ziplock of Shapes. Chelsea tossed Sam a can of Diet Coke, which he caught one-handed, still looking off-balance from recalibrating his expectations.
Blake felt underdressed, despite Chels being in her activewear. Like maybe she should have quickly changed to match Sam’s date attire to ensure he wouldn’t feel out of place. Would that only continue to give him the wrong idea?
Morgan beelined for the back seat and Chelsea slipped in beside her.
Sam opened the front passenger door for Blake, a gesture that now felt loaded with meaning she hadn’t intended to invite.
‘You sure you don’t want me to…take my car? Like, we take two cars…’ She was rambling.
‘I’ve got it,’ he said, gentle but determined.
Inside the car, Blake fiddled with her seatbelt, hyperaware of Sam’s cologne, of the way he’d positioned his body slightly turned towards her, of the weight of everything unsaid between them.
The silence stretched. Not companionable. Not tense exactly, but thick with possibility she hadn’t meant to create.
Sam shifted in his seat, hands on the wheel, thumbs tapping a rhythm like he was working up to something. Blake could feel it building, the moment where he might say something that would change everything, and she didn’t know how to deflect it without hurting him.
How different from Leo, who’d been so hesitant, so careful with his words, like each one cost him something. Sam was nervous but ready to lay his cards on the table. Both approaches terrified her in completely different ways.
And then, like divine intervention, Morgan piped up.
‘Do you reckon it’s a logic-based room or more hands-on puzzles? Because I prepped for pattern recognition and cipher solving. Physical puzzles aren’t really my strength.’
‘You prepped?’ said Chelsea from the back.
‘I reviewed common room types. Probability skews towards codebreaking or sensory triggers.’
Sam smiled, tension easing. ‘You’ll have to lead the team, Morgan.’
‘Well obviously,’ she replied.
Blake laughed. Too loud. Too forced. But grateful for the reprieve. She glanced at Sam. Still kind. Still him. But quieter now. Processing, maybe. Adjusting his expectations for the evening.
The rest of the drive unfolded in fits and starts of conversation, with Morgan and Chelsea carrying most of it. Blake contributed when she could, hyperaware of every word, its potential to make things worse. Sam drove with a quiet concentration.
They arrived at the escape-room venue. As Sam manoeuvred into a parking spot marked ‘Reserved for Game Masters’ with no hesitation whatsoever, Blake tried to find her equilibrium again.
‘You know,’ she said, defaulting to their usual banter, ‘when I parallel park, it involves three attempts, mild trauma, and at least one bystander pretending not to judge me.’
He shot her a grin, and for a moment things felt normal again. ‘It’s just angle and timing.’
She snorted. ‘I genuinely thought you were going to say “communication” and I was about to revoke your radio licence.’