Chapter 2
Darby
Idid not sit down intending to cry over a movie tonight. But my tear ducts have decided this is their moment to compete for the waterworks Olympics. The thing is, I’m not sure I’m only crying about the movie.
I’m more crying because my ex is probably out at some bar or restaurant, doing his charming wounded-boy routine on someone who doesn’t know better yet.
And I’m crying because the phrase date night makes my stomach clench—it used to be a promise, then it turned into “you stay home, I’ll be late,” and then it became me on the couch listening to him bring other women into what used to be our bed.
I’m also, unhelpfully, crying because Blake is on a date.
Different man, different life, same little knot of dread in my chest. I keep picturing some faceless woman out there experiencing his smile and his attention and his stupid, easy charm, laughing at his jokes and touching his arm, giving him a blow job in the car and saying things like “I don’t normally do this. ”
I hate that it bothers me.
He’s allowed to date. And get blow jobs. Obviously. Logically.
Emotionally, my logic is off somewhere eating paste in the corner.
Loki huffs at my feet and rolls onto his back, paws in the air, as if offering himself up as a distraction. Emotional support husky, full-time drama queen.
“You ever get tired of being the sad girl on the couch watching tear-jerkers?” I ask him.
He blinks up at me like, You’re the one in charge of the remote, babe.
“Not helping,” I whisper, dropping a hand to scratch his chest. He kicks one back leg repeatedly like I’ve hit the jackpot.
The house feels too big around me. The TV casts everything in blue, the corners of the room fading into shadow.
It still smells faintly like fresh paint and whatever cleaner Blake uses that somehow manages to be both masculine and not headache-inducing.
My mug sits abandoned on the coffee table, cold tea forming a skin on top.
There are three wadded tissues in a little pile and a fourth clenched in my fist.
I tell myself I’m not waiting for the sound of a car in the drive. That I’m just…here. Existing. Watching people make cinematic mistakes with orchestral swells to prod viewer feelings behind them.
Then the faint sound of a car engine draws close.
My breath catches. My spine goes rigid. My thumb automatically swipes under my eyes to check for mascara streaks.
I yank the blanket a little higher, like that will hide the fact that my face is swollen and my nose is red.
Old instincts kick in—make yourself small, make yourself invisible, don’t give anyone a reason to ask questions you don’t want to answer.
Then I exhale and remind myself this is not that house, not that man.
This one gave me a room with a door and never once made me apologize for using it.
Loki’s ears perk. He bolts upright and trots the first few steps toward the entryway, tail wagging, then glances back at me like he’s asking permission to go greet his real favorite person.
“Traitor,” I whisper, but my chest softens a little, and I wave my hand. “Go.”
I hear the door open, the dull thump of shoes being toed off, the low murmur of Blake’s voice saying something to the dog. I can’t make out the words, just the cadence. Tired. A little frayed at the edges. Not the tone of a man who just had the best date of his life.
For some reason, that makes it worse and better at the same time.
“Hey, Darbs,” he calls as he starts down the hall.
I swallow, arrange my face into something that I hope reads as sleepy and fine instead of pathetic puddle of feelings, and call back, “Hey,” aiming for casual. It comes out a little shaky anyway.
I swipe under my eyes with the side of my finger, trying to erase the worst of the damage, and yank the blanket a little closer around my shoulders. No way to hide the red-rimmed eyes completely, but maybe I can at least downgrade from actively sobbing to romcom sniffly.
“What are you watching?” he asks as he comes into the room.
His voice is closer than I expect, warm and familiar. I don’t look at him right away; I keep my gaze on the screen and take a steadying breath before telling him the movie.
He’s quiet for a moment, before asking, “Is it sad?”
And suddenly, I’m crying again. Pathetic and small. Like a little girl who can’t control her feelings. A woman with expectations too high for mere mortals to reach. The epitome of—
Blake takes me in his arms stilling my thoughts.
In that moment it’s like my entire world rights itself.
Curled against his chest, surrounded by the warmth of his embrace, and immersed in the masculine scent of his bodywash.
His strong and steady heartbeat thrums in my ear while the soothing strokes of his palm on my back erase any lingering tension as my whole being melts into him.
I lose track of time, having no idea how much has passed when I finally pull myself from his lap and back into my own space on the couch. The air turns cold and I stifle the chill that passes through me from the loss of heat Blake ignites.
“Thank you.” I don’t look at him as I say it. “I guess I needed that.”
My ex used to accuse me of being “too much” when I reacted to things—too loud, too eager, too obvious—so now I second-guess every sound that slips out of me. I don’t know how to be honest about wanting something without worrying I’m embarrassing myself.
He mumbles something that sounds like, “Yeah, no problem,” as he resituates in his seat, tugging on his sweats as though they are too tight before leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.
“So, remind me what we’re watching?”
“Some Nicholas Sparks thing.” My voice sounds rough after crying. “Everyone’s very beautiful and very tragic.”
“Ah.” I hear the faint clink of glass against his teeth as he takes a sip of his beer. “So you’re voluntarily making yourself sad tonight. Bold choice.”
My mouth does a little twitch, like it wants to smile but isn’t completely sure it’s allowed. Loki huffs and rolls onto his back again, now half across Blake’s foot and half across mine, making sure neither of us forget he exists.
“I was watching a comedy,” I say. “Then the autoplay demon took over. Now I’m emotionally invested in two people who are clearly not going to get a happy ending.”
“Could turn around,” he says. “Maybe they’ll all go to therapy and communicate their needs like well-adjusted adults.”
A surprised snort pops out of me. “In a Nicholas Sparks movie?”
“Right.” He tips his beer toward the TV. “So what you’re saying is, you knew what you were signing up for.”
I can feel him looking at me; I don’t quite meet his gaze, but the corner of my eye catches the little wink he throws in. It lands somewhere warm in my chest.
We sit like that for a minute, the soft glow of the screen painting him in colors that make him look other worldly.
I’m hyperaware of stupid, specific things—how his thigh is a solid line of heat along the cushion, not quite touching mine but close enough to feel, how his arm rests along the back of the couch behind my head, how it would take almost nothing for me to lean over and tuck myself back into that space.
“Other than”—he gestures with the hand holding his beer toward the TV—“did you have an okay night?”
My shoulders lift, then drop. “Yeah. It was fine.”
“Because.” He leans his head back against the couch and lets it loll in my direction. “I’m contractually obligated, as the de facto landlord, resident dog dad, and older brother to your best friend, to listen if you feel like talking.”
Something in me unclenches a little at that. He’s not prying, not demanding. Just…offering.
“Is that in the lease?” I ask, my voice softer now.
“Tiny print.” He squints at an imaginary document in the air. “Right under ‘no setting the kitchen on fire’ and ‘no summoning demons in the guest bathroom.’”
That pulls an actual, real smile out of me, remembering when my best friend Bristol and I tried that very thing at her house when we were kids.
What we didn’t know at the time was Blake and his best friend, Wyatt, now Bristol’s husband, caught us doing it.
Wyatt, always a prankster, planted a walkie-talkie outside the bathroom door which he used to curse us in a demon voice after he cut the lights to that part of the house.
We were so scared, Bristol wet her pants.
But after he finished laughing his ass off, Blake talked us through the prank to try and assuage our fears. And slept on the floor of Bristol’s room for two weeks after when she was too frightened to be alone.
The knot in my chest doesn’t disappear, but it shifts, loosens, makes room for the fact that, for the first time in a long time, being this close to a man in my living room at night doesn’t make me want to run and hide.
It makes me want to stay.