Chapter Thirty-one
Blake comes back to bed, his nakedness silhouetted by the light from the living room. He puts a glass of water on my nightstand and hands me my phone. I look down at it.
Blake: Can we text now please? You’ve worn me out, woman. Between signing all night and working your delectable body with my fingers, I’m not sure my hands will be good for anything more than texting for a while.
It’s hard to argue with that, so I don’t. I smile and nod. He crawls back into bed as if it’s his own. And I’m not quite sure how I feel about the warm, fuzzy feeling that brings to me. I watch him in the dim light as he closes his eyes and sets his phone on his chest. He looks… peaceful.
Maybe that’s because his head isn’t spinning out of control with warning signals. Maybe it’s because he knows that whatever this is has an expiration date. Because all of his—affairs? Conquests? Flings?—do. Or maybe it’s just because he’s accepted that he isn’t capable of more.
More.
Now I’m back to the warm fuzzy feeling of him lying next to me, one foot most definitely not out the door.
Even if more with Blake was an option, deep down I know it couldn’t happen.
It could if you let it.
I close my eyes and lie back, a war going on in my head like I’m in one of those cartoons with an angel on one shoulder and the devil on the other.
Warm lips kiss my neck. My eyes fly open. Blake is looking right at me.
I furrow my brow.
He traces the side of my jaw with his finger. “You’re beautiful.”
My insides melt. The angel—or maybe it’s the devil—crosses his arms and gives me a disapproving stare.
Blake: Now that we can talk, I wanted to ask you something I was curious about earlier. You haven’t said anything about going to Lucas’s wedding. Not since the day Lissa invited you. You’re going, right?
Me: I shouldn’t. I know she misread the situation.
Blake: You don’t want to be my date?
Me: Aren’t you the best man?
Blake: One of them, yeah. Doesn’t mean I can’t have a date. Come on, it’ll be fun. You can meet Dallas. And if you want, you can join in on the pool.
I narrow my eyes.
Blake: Don’t tell me you haven’t heard rumors about him.
After I shrug, he goes on to explain how Lucas has left several women at the altar and another one only weeks before. Apparently the entire town is betting on whether or not he’ll go through with it.
I shake my head disapprovingly and tap out a text.
Me: I’m not going to bet money on whether or not he breaks Lissa’s heart.
Blake: El, are you a romantic?
I’m pretty sure I let out an audible snort. “Hardly,” I sign.
He looks at me blankly, so I fingerspell it.
He laughs and pulls me close, tilting his head so I can see his lips in the light from outside the door. “I think you are. Maybe you just don’t want to be.”
It wasn’t a question, so I don’t provide an answer.
Blake: It’s settled then. You’ll come.
Though I don’t text him back, someone else clearly does. His eyes are glued to his phone. And he doesn’t look happy.
I put a hand on his arm. “Okay?” I ask when he looks over.
He shakes his head. “No. Not okay,” he signs. Then he hands me his phone.
My entire body clenches when I see who it’s from. I recognize the name from when he told me Maisy’s story.
Unknown number: Blake, this is Lucinda Wilcox. I got your contact info from a social worker. I’ve been going back and forth on if I should do this, but my counselor seems to think it’s a good idea. I’d like you to bring Maisy to the city on Sunday. It’s family weekend. I’ve attached the address. Come between noon and four.
Suddenly, I become protective. Of Maisy. Of him. She wants to see the daughter she neglected and the guy she kept her from all those years. The nerve of her to even ask.
“Sorry,” I sign, handing his phone back.
Blake: That’s what SHE should be saying. Sorry I neglected our kid. Sorry I didn’t tell you about her. Sorry I’m such a fucking loser. Who does she think she is texting me out of nowhere demanding I bring Maisy to see her?
“Do you have to take her?” I sign.
Blake: I don’t know. Maybe not. My lawyer told me I’d have to wait for Lucinda to get out of rehab and go before a judge to see what would happen in the custody case. I had no clue she’d ask to see Maisy before then.
“If you take her, I could come. You know, to help Maisy communicate and to be an impartial party to your meeting.” I have to fingerspell several words, but it seems he gets it, and I’m pleased.
Blake: Impartial, huh? Do you really think you could be impartial when it comes to Maisy? I’m just not sure what to do. She’s been doing so well. I don’t want it to mess with her head. Maisy doesn’t ever ask about her mom.
“Maybe she doesn’t know how to ask.”
“Whose side are you on here?” he signs.
“Yours.”
Blake touches my arm and looks out into the other room. He glances back. “Someone is at your door.”
I bolt up in bed. Someone is at my door? At eleven o’clock on a Friday. One who’s inside the building without me having to buzz them up? Sickness paws away at my insides. Could it be Grant? Has he found Tara and come after me?
Blake squeezes my hand. “You stay. I’ll get it.”
I rear back, swiveling my head forcefully.
He looks down at his nakedness and laughs, thinking that’s why I didn’t agree. “I’ll get dressed first.”
I pound on the bed to get his attention. When he looks over, I sign, “No.”
“Why not? Unless you think it’s your other boyfriend.”
At the moment, I’m too scared to unpack that sentence. His pants are already on when I get up to stop him, but then I realize I’m naked too. By the time I throw on a robe, he’s left the bedroom. Almost on instinct, I race to my bedroom closet, quickly dial the combo on the lockbox, and retrieve the gun, checking to make sure it’s loaded.
I stick my head around the corner, ready to defend both myself and Blake from Grant. My hand shakes a mile a minute, so I’m certain I would have terrible aim. But at least I’ll be able to make a stand.
I almost accidentally pull the trigger when Blake comes back and runs right into me. Or more accurately, right into the gun. His eyes go maniacally wide, and he says something I don’t make out, before he carefully takes the gun from my trembling hands, guides me back to the bed, and sits me down. He empties the chamber, sets the gun on my dresser, and picks up his phone.
Blake: Why in the hell did you have a gun pointed and ready to fire?
“Who was at the door?” I ask.
Blake: Nobody. Food delivery. She had the wrong apartment. Answer the question, El. Why did you look so fucking scared just now?
I don’t answer. Mostly because I can’t. Not without letting him in on my secret.
Blake: Is there an ex-boyfriend or ex-husband you’re not telling me about?
I shake my head.
He paces the floor at the end of the bed, staring over at the gun. His mouth is moving, but I get the idea he’s talking to himself, not me. It gives me time to come up with a plausible excuse.
“What’s going on, Ellie?” he signs. “You almost shot me. I deserve to know.”
I nod, calm enough now that I’ve been able to conjure up a believable lie.
Me: Everyone who knows me knows I can’t hear a knock on the door. It couldn’t have been anyone but an intruder. Especially at this hour.
Blake: Intruders don’t knock.
All I can do is shrug.
He stops pacing and sits next to me. Resting a hand on my knee, he blows out a long, drawn-out breath. “Do me a favor. The next time you get scared, call 911.”
“Sorry,” I sign.
Blake: Promise me, El.
I nod even though it’s another lie.
“Shit,” he says. “I promised Allie I’d be back by eleven. I’m late.”
“You should go,” I sign.
“I think I should stay,” he signs.
“I’m fine.”
He looks over at the gun.
I put a hand on his jaw and direct him to look back at me. “I’m fine,” I sign again, hoping he believes it this time.
He nods, albeit reluctantly. “Put that thing away.”
“Okay.”
Once fully dressed, he leans down and kisses me. When he pulls back, he signs, “Show me perfect again,” fingerspelling the word perfect. Then he says, “After all, the only time I ever get to use the word is when I’m with you.”
How this man continues to wedge himself further inside my heart is something I’ve yet to be able to explain.
I show him the sign.
“Perfect night,” he signs. Then he shrugs and says, “Until you almost killed me.” He crosses the room, turning back to wave goodbye.
I wait a minute to give him time to get out the front door, then I hop up and immediately lock it. Back in my room, I secure the gun away, hoping I never have another reason to get it out. Then I head to the kitchen for a midnight snack.
On the counter sits two halves of an opened fortune cookie, a slip of paper between them.
I read it, wondering if he simply forgot to throw it away, or if he left it as a message to me.