by Clara Stone
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
“You think girls are a waste of time. Especially girls like me?”
“I didn’t—” And then it hits me. In my frustration, confusion, anger, and even self-pity, I had said those words. But they were only half of what I was feeling. And they were wrong. I shouldn’t have said what I said, even if I—
“Yeah, I heard you, golden boy.” She grinds her teeth. “I heard you loud and clear.”
“You don’t understand.”
“What’s not to understand? I’m nothing more than a character in a ploy to make Hope jealous.”
“Wait, what?” My brow knits in confusion. Where did she get that from?
“And I can’t believe I actually played along.”
“Blake—”
“Don’t you ‘Blake’ me,” she says, punching my chest, hard.
I don’t budge, until she says her next words:
“I can’t believe I actually fell for you. I should have known. All men are the same.” She shoves against my chest, and for half a second, I let her. I’m speechless. In shock. She fell for me?
I grab her wrist as she shoulders past and twirl her back. Her body slams into mine, and a shiver passes through me. She’s breathing hard. So am I.
“What did you say?”
Her eyebrows furrow, half in anger and half in confusion. “All men—”
I shake my head. “No. Not that. That you can’t believe you . . .” I want to hear her say it again.
Anger is replaced with embarrassment as red splashes across her face. She avoids eye contact, and I know I didn’t just imagine it. I tighten my grip in desperation. “Say it, Blake.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she says, her voice so small that I probably wouldn’t have heard it if I wasn’t watching her lips move. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
Her head tilts up, and her eyes connect with mine. She studies me like I’m a newfound mystery.
“Say it, Blake.”
“I fell for you, all right?” she blurts out in frustration. “I fucking fell for you. Somewhere, in all the flirting, between the kisses and all those stolen touches, I fell for you. Even now, even after you said you hated me in front of your friends, I still can’t get myself to hate you.” She’s crying, big tears flowing easily down her cheeks. She jerks her hand free from my grip and runs from the room, like she can’t get far enough, fast enough.
I’m shocked by the revelation. Blake fell for me. She fucking fell for me. Blake. Oh, hell. She can’t just say things like that and then run away. There’s no chance I’m letting this girl go. Not now. Not ever. So I chase after her.
“Blake!” My voice echoes down the empty hall and the stairs creak under my weight as I take them two at a time. I open the door to the bathroom and find it empty. Then I open another. Also empty. So I head for the third door, at the end of the hall. My hand trembles as I grab the doorknob. I turn it, slowly pushing the door open, and realize this is her room. Her personal space; something I’ve never seen before.
She sits on the edge of her bed, staring at her hands, folded meekly in her lap. I sigh and take a step into her world. The room is the smallest I’ve seen, and plain. Unlike the personality of its owner. It has a twin-sized bed, a small dresser, and a nightstand. The walls are full of pictures, movie stubs, and various other tickets. I want to take the time to learn more about her, but right now, I only have eyes for Blake.
I walk in and kneel before her, so that she can clearly see me even if she is looking down. I take her hands in mine and rub my thumbs over her knuckles.
“Pretending is easy for me, Blake. It always has been. Whether it was to entertain my brothers, or please my father. Even with Hope, it’s sometimes easier to be that guy. That guy who’s perfect in every possible way. Someone I know my mom would’ve been proud of.” I sigh. She’s still not looking at me.
“But then I met you.” That’s the first time she tilts her head up, her brown eyes boring into mine, glistening with unshed tears. I swipe my thumb over her cheeks. My heart aches, knowing full well that I’m the reason she’s crying, and I intend to make it better by the end of the night.
“I met you, Blake. My happy, smart, optimistic firecracker.” I smile. “Since day one, I don’t think I’ve ever pretended with you. Not when I was pissed you practically destroyed my Jags—”
“I didn’t do anything to your Jags. That was totally not my signature.” The corner of her mouth tilts up, crooked. “I did put the itching powder in your pants, though.”
I quirk an eyebrow. “That was you?”
She pulls her lip into her mouth. “I was pissed at you for calling us junkies.”
I tilt my chin up in confusion. “Junkies? I didn’t—”
“Well, not to our faces maybe, but you wrote it on that note, telling us to go back where we came from—the junkyard. After Sara pointed you out as the note writer, I walked over. You looked so cocky, and people seemed to worship you, so I didn’t question that it couldn’t—”
“Be me?”
She nods.
Un-freaking-believable.
“It wasn’t?”
I shake my head. Something clicks though, and I remember the conversation with Roy earlier. He’d used a similar word to describe her—junk-town. Son of a gun. It was him; he sent that letter.
“Huh,” she says, her tongue pushing out her right cheek.
Then another thought hits me. “That’s why you pulled all those pranks on us, especially me.”
She nods, a hint of pink coloring her cheeks.
I laugh and quickly add, “Maybe I should find out which one of my shitball teammates wrote that note and send them chocolates . . .” A corner of my lip turns up, an image of Roy’s face as he runs to the bathroom coming to mind. “Lathered in laxatives.”
She looks at me, a mischievous gleam sparkling in her eyes. “Can’t come up with your own ideas, golden boy?”
“Why reinvent the wheel, when I’ve had personal experience with that one.”
She pulls her bottom lip into her mouth, the glint fading from her eyes. “I’m sorry, Hudson. I shouldn’t—”
“I’m glad you did.” I cut her off before she can finish her apology.
“You’re glad I made your life miserable?”
I shrug. “It was nice to know you couldn’t stop thinking about me.”
“I wasn’t . . .” She shakes her head.
“Oh, really? Admit it. You were dreaming about me, weren’t you?” I’m in full-on teasing mode, so I start to list off all the pranks she personally delivered to me. “Between the laxatives in the donuts, making me pour hot coffee on my crotch, and setting off the car alarm . . . oh wait, we can’t forget about the time you somehow managed to put itching powder in my gym shorts—”
She mumbles something under her breath, her cheeks burning red, and I know I’ve got her exactly where I want her. Vulnerable, with just the right amount of annoyance at being caught.
“The point is, if it wasn’t for that misunderstanding, we wouldn’t be here. Don’t you see? Meeting you was the second best thing that’s happened to me. I thought I was being brilliant, spending time with you under pretense, when all along, I wasn’t pretending at all. Not for a single moment. Not when I pranked you back, or when I kissed you that first time. It was all real, Blake. It is real. The kissing, the touching, everything has always been real.”
“So . . .” She pulls her bottom lip into her mouth, but then releases it. “You said meeting me was the second best thing. What’s the best thing that’s happened in your life?” she asks, looking downright cute and shy.
“You. Kissing you.”
She hesitates, like she’s mulling something over. “But yesterday, you said I wasn’t real. While kissing me.”
What’s she talking about? “I didn’t say you weren’t real . . .” Oh. Fuck. “You have it wrong. I wasn’t . . .” I thrust my fingers into my
hair and take a deep breath. I need to calm down before I screw it up. Again. “First of all, I didn’t realize that I said that out loud. And coupled with what I said earlier, I . . . I . . .” I wanted to punch myself in the face. “I’m sorry, firecracker. For both last night and earlier. You aren’t a waste of time. You make me happy and . . . and . . . I was frustrated, and I wasn’t thinking when I said it.”
“Hudson . . .” she says, her voice small.
“I’m sooo sorry.” The largest, stinkiest pile of shit can’t even come close to how I feel right now. “I can’t imagine what you must have thought.”
She shakes her head and cups my cheek. I press into it, my eyes closing for a second.
“You’re perfect, firecracker. Last night, when I said you weren’t real, I was thinking about how happy you make me, and how, because I can’t stop fucking smiling around you, I must be dreaming. Because, Blake, you have to understand that I’ve never had things just handed to me, despite how it might look. I’ve always had to work hard to get what I need or want. But with you . . . with you, it all just fell into place, like we were meant to be. Like there’s nothing else that could or would fit better than the two of us. So yeah, I had to wonder if I was dreaming, and if you were real. If you were really here. With me. Looking at me like that.”
She swallows. “Like what, Hudson?”
“Like you can’t believe I’m real either.”
Tears roll down her cheeks again, and I get to my feet, pulling her to me. She comes with ease, her arms wrapping around my waist as she rests her cheek against my shoulder. I take a deep breath, knowing suddenly that we’re past whatever happened in the last twenty-four hours.
“Blake,” I say, cupping her cheek.
She looks up at me, tears brimming over her eyelashes.
“You’re the most real thing in my life, and I don’t want to pretend anymore.”
“Then don’t.”
My lips crash over hers as my body presses into her. We’ve crossed an unknown bridge into new waters.
My girlfriend.
My firecracker.
My Blake.
SOFT KISSES.
Warm hands.
Gentle caresses.
I slowly open my eyes, groggy and tired despite power nap number three. Mom’s in the recliner a few feet from my bed, still reading, while Hudson sits next to me, wearing his emotions on his sleeve. I know he’s worried and anxious to meet our baby girl.
“Hey, firecracker.” His eyes are glassy from lack of sleep.
I smile. “Hey. How are you holding up?”
He scoffs. “You did not seriously just ask me that.”
I raise both of my eyebrows. He leans forward and kisses my lips, then throws the question back at me: “How are you doing?”
We’ve been in the hospital for nearly ten hours and Sparkler hasn’t even shown an interest in coming out yet. I’ve been checked on four times so far and was asked to let them know when I’m ready for the epidural. But I’m still not dilated or effaced fully, even though the contractions have been coming much closer together.
“I’m a little sore, and tired,” I reply, honestly. I catch my mom glancing toward me with worry. But she doesn’t say anything.
“How can I help?” Hudson’s on his feet, ready to do whatever I ask of him.
“I’m hungry and thirsty . . .” I start, then catch the stubborn expression flickering across his face. I know he won’t relent. Not on this.
“I know, firecracker. But food and water are a big no-no. How about I get you some more ice chips?”
“I’ll get them.” Mom jumps to her feet. She places her book in the chair and says to Hudson as she walks out of the room: “You should give her a massage.”
“Oh, that does sound amazing,” I hint, imagining the soothing feel of his hands already.
Hudson moves to the end of my bed and grins. “Massage it is.”
His hands slowly and methodically start to rub circles over my swollen ankles and feet. I can’t help but groan in response. I was right. It feels amazing. “If you ever get tired of being a doctor, you can become my personal massage specialist instead.”
He chuckles. “You get through this, and I’ll give you a damn massage whenever, wherever you want.”
“Hmmm . . .” I respond. “That sounds heavenly.” And the baby agrees. A painful contraction hits me like an unsuspecting earthquake, and I double over, hissing in pain.
Hudson’s at my side immediately, holding my hand. “Blake.”
I exhale through my mouth, trying to breathe the way I’d been shown. Heee, heee, heee.
“That’s it. Breathe through it. You sure you don’t want me to call the anesthesiologist for that epidural?”
I can’t get the words out. Instead, all I can do is squeeze Hudson’s hand as tightly as I can and shake my head. Tears start to roll down my cheeks. When the contraction leaves, I fall back, straightening, and swallow a deep breath of relief.
I look at Hudson; he’s starting to look a little pale. His forehead has gathered the sheen of sweat. I know he thinks I can’t tell he’s worried, but I can read him like a magazine. After so many years together, there’s nothing he can hide, though I appreciate that he tries, in this case.
I’m beyond lucky to have a husband like Hudson. He’s always fought for me, with me, no matter who the opponent was.
“HUDSON,” DAD CALLS as I pass by his office on the way to my room.
I pause and quickly change direction, heading back to him, grumbling, praying that whatever new demand he has for me won’t take long. I’m already a little behind schedule. Practice ran over, and I promised to take Blake and Hope out to the movies.
I stand at the entrance to his office—the white French doors are wide open—and he looks up from the papers scattered all over his desk. “Have a seat, son.” He points to the chair across from him before gathering the documents into a tidy pile.
When I don’t move, his hands still, and he looks up again.
“I’m picking up Hope for the movies soon,” I say. Which is the truth. Just not the whole truth. I don’t know why, but I don’t mention Blake.
“How’s school?” he asks.
“Good.” I cross my arms over my chest and widen my stance.
He looks at me thoughtfully. “Good.”
I nod, but don’t relax. I know there’s more to come. “Anything else, Dad?”
“Yes.” He slaps his laptop closed and focuses completely on me. I fidget a little, feeling uncomfortable with his full-on attention. “I heard you’ve been hanging out with a girl lately. Someone that’s been a very bad influence.”
My hackles rise, but I stay calm. “I’m not sure I know—”
“A brunette, from what I hear. The one from the run-down part of town. The one you’ve been skipping practices for.”
First of all, the neighborhood she lives in isn’t run-down, and secondly, how the hell does he know about Blake?
“I know it can be hard, son. Girls are a distraction, especially girls like her.” I wince, noting his choice of words with shame, the echo of my own voice ringing in my head. Hadn’t I said something similar not too long ago? He stands and walks toward the sofa. A black bag—presumably a suit—is splayed across it. He picks it up and saunters over to me. “I know you have needs, what hot-blooded eighteen-year-old doesn’t,” he says, laughing matter-of-factly. “But as far as I’m concerned, you should be concerned. She’s a distraction. You’re meant for greater things.”
Anger slices through my veins. I clench my jaw to keep it from bleeding out. I’m used to this kind of critical downpour from him; it’s a daily occurrence. But when he starts to mouth off about Blake—someone he clearly doesn’t know—I can’t stand it. I open my mouth to defend her, but he cuts me off.
“Now.” He hands me the bag. “A little present for you. Go on, open it.”
He smiles brightly. I hold his gaze for another second before I unzip the bag. Disappoin
tment floods me. A white Armani suit. A color I despise wholeheartedly.
“Thanks, Dad,” I say, hooking it on my finger and throwing it over my shoulder.
He reaches out and straightens the collar of my Lacrosse uniform, though I know it doesn’t need it. Then he pats my back, pride filling his features.
As I turn to leave, he says, “I love you boys. You’re all I have left in this world, Hudson. You understand, right? It’s my responsibility to keep you safe from everything.”
Yes. I do know he loves us. He loves us so much, his affection sometimes holds me back, smothering the very air I breathe. He wants to take care of us. I get it. He wants what’s best for us. I get that, too. But times like today, it gets suffocating. I’m old enough to vote for Hell’s sake. Is it too much to ask that I shop for my own damn clothes and decide who I want to date?
Sometimes, I want to scream at the top of my lungs that I’m not a child. I don’t need his help anymore. Sometimes, just sometimes, I wish I could tell him what I truly feel.
“Trust me, Dad,” I want to say. “Let me take chances, make mistakes and learn from them. Because if you don’t, I’m never going to learn to walk on my own, and I’ll end up as the biggest failure known to mankind.”
I head to my room to call Blake, but then decide against it.
Instead, I toss the Armani suit into the closet—letting it fall ungracefully to the bottom—change into something relaxing, and head out again. I slip into Jags right as my cell phone rings, and I hurry to pick it up.
“Shit—oh hey, Son,” Hope chimes from the other side. “Something came up, and I can’t make it.”
“Hope?” I pause, hearing loud noise and chatter in the background, like she’s in the middle of a party. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” she replies. “Listen, I gotta go. But we’ll talk soon. Tell Blake I said sorry, okay?”
“You got it,” I respond.
I want to ask her why she’s being secretive, but nip my curiosity in the bud. She’ll share soon enough.
