by Lindy Zart
I watch as his throat works to swallow. “For?” he finally gets out.
“Everything,” I say offhandedly, already wanting to take back my words and what they imply.
“If we ever have a housekeeper, and you’re that friendly with her, I will get revenge in ways you don’t want to know,” Kennedy says from downstairs.
“I kind of want to know,” Graham answers.
“Think of words like The Golden Girls, and marathon.”
“Please, no.” Graham groans. “Besides, it’s a moot point. Why would we ever get a housekeeper? You know they wouldn’t clean the way I like.”
“I guess you’re safe.”
“So safe,” is murmured back.
“They’re really odd, you know that?” I say to Blake.
Blake’s eyes lighten and he pats at a particularly stubborn chunk of hair that refuses to lie down on his head. “Trust me, I know.”
Nervous in a way I don’t understand, I fix my gaze on the bedroom beyond Blake. My backpack is in there, along with my clothes and other meager possessions. Lingering isn’t going to do either of us any good. I step forward at the same time Blake moves for me, and then we’re kissing. His hands are on my face, his mouth hot and demanding. I press against him, wanting every inch of me touching him, and Blake responds to me with passion so consuming I feel my heart drop to my stomach.
How will kissing another man ever feel right after this?
I tug my mouth from his and kiss his neck, my breathing uneven and fast. My heart beating strong. I wrap my arms around his back and squeeze, and Blake squeezes me back. He brushes his cheek along my temple, his facial hair gently scraping my skin. Blake’s heart pounds next to my ear, and I close my eyes and try to memorize the sound of it and this moment. Out of all the places I’ve been, and all the people I’ve met, I found my favorite of each here.
Pulling away is the last thing I want to do, and when I finally do, Blake also briefly resists before releasing me.
“Clothes,” I announce, pointing at the bedroom.
“Shower,” he replies, pointing in the opposite direction.
I nod, and move for the bedroom, but he goes the same way and blocks me. I move the other way, and he unintentionally does the same. We pause, the seriousness of the moment lightened by our inability to get by one another. I look into his gray eyes flecked with paler streaks of light, like stars exploded in the irises. My stomach twists into a knot, and I pretend the uncomfortable tightness isn’t there.
“I’ll go right,” I inform him.
“Got it. I’ll go the other way.” He pauses. “Left. I’ll go left.”
My mouth stretches into a smile as we successfully pass each other, and I go about collecting my things to the sound of Blake showering. It doesn’t take long to gather up my stuff—along with a red Imagine Dragons T-shirt of Blake’s—and I spend the rest of the time until Blake is ready sitting in the middle of his bed. Thinking. Already missing him. I shrug against my emotions, knowing there isn’t another option.
I’m on my way to Paisley, and Blake’s going to Australia.
I study the drawing of Blake as I take it from the backpack, looking over his unsmiling features. I smooth the perpetual wrinkle of his brow, the straight line of his mouth. Kennedy doesn’t know him like I know him—not even his brother does. I just met him, and I see him better than them. He laughs. He smiles. He can be happy. He’s more than affectionate. I gaze into lifeless eyes drawn with a charcoal pencil, and I see the light hidden from most, like the sun peeking from behind a cloud.
“Mr. Sunshine,” I say out loud, a smile in my tone.
It has a sarcastic ring to it, when coupled with Blake’s personality, but it also has a bit of truth. I twirl a lock of hair around my finger, gazing at the paper. I tug too hard and wince, dropping my hand. Mr. Sunshine. I go still, his face locked in my vision. My eyes narrow as thoughts collect, take form. Excitement prickles my skin as direction and purpose clamp their hold onto me.
I could do something with Mr. Sunshine.
Blake saunters into the room, disrupting my thoughts. With little attention paid to me, and efficient movements, he grabs clothes from his dresser drawers and gets dressed. I catch a glimpse of pale, toned butt cheeks before they are covered up. It’s probably best that he dresses in a hurry and keeps his goods locked away, or I might never get out of here. He seems to realize that.
Turning to me, he pauses as he takes in my position on his bed and what I’m holding. His black hair falls over his forehead, obscuring one eye to give him a roguish look that only adds to his dark attractiveness. “Is that me?”
This belongs to Blake. It’s him. He paid for it. I don’t want to part with it, but I can easily draw him from memory. His image pulses there, large and bright. In my head, in my heart.
“Yes. It’s yours.” I hold up the circus drawing. “Bought and paid for, remember?”
Blake slowly crosses the room and takes it, staring down at the drawing. “Thanks.”
I swallow thickly. “It was a good time, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah. It was.”
Blake sets the picture on the dresser and lifts his eyes to mine, a perfectly blank expression on his face. My frail smile falters. Even with the nothingness masking his thoughts, his gaze sears me, reaches right into me and turns my limbs weak, my brain useless. I’ve never been looked at before with such raw intensity. Blake looks at me like I shine. He moves away from the dresser, breaking the stare. I try to breathe, and it takes a few tries before I can manage it.
Vaulting from the bed, I sling my arms through the straps of my pink bag and meet Blake at the door, bouncing on the balls of my feet. The quicker I get away from him, and toward my next destination, the less it will sting. “Let’s go, Joe.”
Blake moves forward, hesitates, and then grabs me into a hard hug. I love his scent, his feel. The hardness and warmth of him. He presses his lips to my forehead, making my heart go upside down, and then he lets me go. It’s over before it really began, but the feel of him echoes through me.
The descent to the first level of the house is quiet, and when we step into the living room, it’s even quieter. His brother and girlfriend are asleep on the couch, one head on each end with Kennedy’s feet in Graham’s face. Even in slumber, she has the wine bottle tucked to her side. I look to Blake, wanting to ask what her deal is with wine, but the look on his face says to not bother.
“They look cute,” I whisper.
“Yeah, cute like sleeping, rabid raccoons.”
I give him a thumbs-up sign and make my way from the house with a tight chest. It clenches, harder and harder, the nearer I get to the truck. I breathe around the ache, telling myself it’s nerves and hunger, but it isn’t, not really.
Two days have passed since the last time we approached his grandfather’s truck with the intent of heading into Bismarck. This time, it feels much different. We’ve lived years in days, and I hope I never forget the significance of them. With Blake, I was someone I like, and he seemed to accept who he was too.
Blake opens the truck door for me, finding me with his eyes and stamping their intensity into mine. I stop moving as a tendril of longing, and something more, pierces my heart.
One word. I get one word.
“Ready?”
Shifting my feet, I look down and back up. “I’m—just give me a minute, okay? To say goodbye.” His mouth pulls down with confusion, and I gesture around us. “I’ll never see this again. I want to appreciate it one last time.” Except for the homeless demon cat.
The frown deepens, and shadows play across his features. Blake taps his fingers on the door, his arm braced against it. He doesn’t look at me as he says, “If I asked you to stay, what would you say?”
My body turns to feathers; my heart soars. Yes, a thousand times, yes. And my body turns to lead, and
my heart plummets as logic intervenes.
“I can’t,” I whisper, my voice thick with remorse. “I have something I need to—”
“What?” Blake demands, desperation in his voice. “What do you have to do that’s so important? Where are you going, Opal? And with these criminals who may or may not be after you, how are you going to make sure you’re safe?”
I shake my head, refusing to answer that. He is right. There might be corrupt men after me; I can’t endanger Blake, or Paisley, with giving out details of my plans. I don’t even know where I’ll end up after Montana, but I know I have to go. I have to figure out myself before I can make any kind of commitment to anyone else. Be an adult on my own for a while. I owe Blake that. He deserves to be the only right choice, the only thing that makes sense.
“I’ll be okay, don’t worry. And…I couldn’t stay anyway; you’re leaving,” I remind him.
Lines form around his already rigid mouth. Blake’s eyes turn into what I imagine thunder would look like, if it was something that could be seen. The darkest gray and volatile—like spun pandemonium. “Yeah. Right. I’ll be in the truck.”
I open my mouth to protest; I even lift my hand to stop him, but I don’t.
Instead, I turn my back to the truck, and sweep hair from my face when the wind blows it over my eyes. I take in the shed with the unfinished interior and unfulfilled dream, the old farmhouse with its character and peaceful ambience, the vast land, the pond, and I inhale slowly, breathing in the scents of grass, and dirt, and fresh air. It’s all green, and alive with hope.
One day, I vow to myself, I’ll return.
The driver’s side door slams and a stiff-jawed Blake appears on the other side of the truck box. He rests his forearms on the side of the truck and scowls at the ground. His shoulders are taut, his head turned to the side.
“What is it?” I ask, tightening my grip on the straps of my backpack.
Blake shakes his head, and then he laughs, but it sounds twisted with disharmony. “The truck won’t start.”
“Wow.” I shiver against an imaginary chill. “I almost think something doesn’t want me to go. Not that I can blame it—whatever it is. You get nothing but quality time with me.” I perk up. “Maybe it’s your grandpa.”
He looks up, a charge hitting me along with his eyes, and frowns.
“Kidding. Totally kidding.”
Blake rubs the back of his dark head and squints at the newly graveled driveway. He doesn’t say anything for a long time, and I take the silence to observe him. I have Blake’s features, mannerisms, voice—everything—memorized. I swear if someone asked me his favorite color, even though he’s never told me, I would somehow know. Blue. Not black. That’s the color someone who doesn’t know Blake would assume he likes, because it easily fits with his persona. But it’s a lie.
Blue is vibrant, hopeful, strong.
Blue is the color to represent Blake Malone.
A gust of wind sweeps by, flattening grass and tugging at my shirt. It’s like a warm hug, and I close my eyes to better enjoy it. And I somehow know the truck will start this time.
“Try it again,” I tell Blake.
When I don’t hear movement, I pop open my eyes. Blake studies me, something glinting in his eyes, turning them silver.
“I’m going to miss you too,” he says roughly, turning away before I can reply.
The sound of the old engine starting breaks the stillness, and it’s time.
10
Blake
Other than Opal singing along with the radio, the ride to Bismarck is quiet. She doesn’t sing any better than the last time we were in a similar situation, and a smile is etched onto my face. She sits in the middle of the cab with her arm occasionally bumping into mine, her voice unusually loud and screechy with the close proximity. I’m sad about her going, but it’s pushed to the back of my mind in her presence. I can’t afford to be sad now; I have Opal for a little bit longer.
My smile grows when she hits a high note and her voice cracks. Opal clears her throat and continues on with the song. I glance at her, and she shrugs. Unapologetic. That’s a good way to be. I knew from the moment I saw her, that she was different. It didn’t even take a full day around her to know that she’s special. And she is. There will never be another woman like Opal in my life. I know it.
The city is busy, vehicles getting the people within them to their destinations. Trees run rampant through Bismarck, splashing the area in greens, and in the distance, towering hills and mountains reign. They seem close, but they’re really not. I pull into the parking lot of the first gas station I see, like Opal directed, and turn off the engine.
Facing her, I try to smile.
I fail.
“Tell me one secret, Blake, before I go,” she encourages. “Just one.”
“Why?”
“Tell me something no one else knows,” Opal whispers, a silent plea in her eyes.
“I have none. I am an open book.” What can I tell her that she doesn’t already know? She knows all the things that matter. Anything else is inconsequential.
Opal’s expression says she knows I’m lying. “We all have secrets. And you have more than most.”
I reach over and touch a chunk of flipped up hair. “Tell me yours first.”
“Okay, fine…sometimes I don’t floss my teeth at night. And some days I go all day without changing out of my pajamas.”
Opal slides closer to me. “I don’t like fresh tomatoes, but I pretended I did once for a boyfriend who basically ate them with everything. I was actually relieved when we broke up, just because I was so sick of eating tomatoes. Like, literally sick.
“When I was eight, I stole a headband from a store, and then I felt bad and tried to return it, but when I did, they caught me and thought I was trying to steal it. Ironic, right? I haven’t had my hair this short in a long time, and I’m not really sure why I had it cut so short.”
As if unendingly inspired to declare all things, Opal continues. “I love cats—with exception to the scary one on your land. I fear, once I get settled somewhere, I will quite possibly one day be the neighborhood crazy cat lady. I also think the likelihood should bother me more than it does.”
Laughter is pulled from me in a choked, unexpected burst, and I bite it back. Opal swallows, looking at me like I am some mystical being she can’t quite place. I try to relax my stance and fail, wanting to shrink away from her knowing eyes. She’s close enough to touch, and I find, the longer I’m near her, the thought of no longer being able to touch her twists my insides.
“Tell me, Blake Malone.” She tilts her head and studies my tight-lipped face. “Tell me a secret.”
Dipping my head forward, I stare into features masked by shadows and pale light. The gesture is to intimidate, but instead I feel thunderstruck as I gaze at Opal. Her face seems ordinary at first, but there is something sensual about the curve of her lips. And her eyes are pretty. I like the strength of her jaw. I like everything about her. Everything. Even her lies.
Who would have thought I’d find the truest of hearts locked inside a woman who routinely tells mistruths?
She stares back, silently challenging. Daring. I am intrigued by Opal. I am enthralled by her, I correct—only to myself. No one else needs to know the feelings I have for a woman I might never see again. Opal sways toward me, and I lower my head, tracing her lips with my eyes. My heart booms an unknown beat, and it’s hard to draw air into my lungs. A few more inches and our mouths will touch. With our goodbyes a whisper away, kissing her is a bad idea.
Knowing this, I look into her fathomless eyes and ask, “Where did you meet Jane the dog?”
Opal blinks and pulls back, her eyes focusing on a spot above my left shoulder. A faint blush creeps up her neck. “What? Oh. Uh…um…wow.” She lifts an unsteady hand to her forehead and pushes long bangs fro
m her eyes. “I can’t remember. This is really bad. A—a friend of mine has a dog named Jane.”
“A friend?” I repeat dubiously.
“Yeah.” She strains to produce a name, looking relieved when it finally comes to her. “Thor.”
It takes me a moment to respond. “You have a friend named Thor? That’s his real name?”
“Well, had. I haven’t talked to him in years. I should look him up.” Opal smiles, the act lifting the remaining fog from her expression. “His parents love all that mythological stuff, hence the name. What’s really weird is that he kind of reminds me of the god with his long blond hair and tall frame—well, but he’s not muscular. But, well, maybe he’s changed, since that was a while ago.”
She draws in a breath and continues. “We met at a comic book convention a few years ago, when I was thinking of—anyway, we hit it off, realized we lived near each other, and became friends. I walked his dog for him. Jane—like in the newish Thor movies? She was a little cocker spaniel with more personality than substance. She bit everyone but me, even Thor.”
So this Thor, and his dog, meant something to her. And still do.
“I don’t care,” I interrupt, moving for the door. I’m being an ass, but jealousy is stronger than tact. I don’t want to hear about her guy friend who looks like a god, or know that that bright smile on her face is for him.
I get out of the truck and take a painful breath, telling myself to knock it off. This is not the time to let emotion bypass logic. But she’s leaving, and maybe she’s going to see a blond-haired guy named Thor who has a dog named Jane. My mouth twists; my stomach churns. I literally feel sick, and I don’t understand it. I want it to stop, but more than that, I want to know why it’s happening.
Forget about the why right now. Stop being an ass. Give this to her. Tell her a secret truth.
I hear the door open and close, the sound of her approaching footsteps, and I say softly, “That day at the circus?” I swallow around the feel of razorblades in my throat, turning to face her. My brain is telling me to choke back the words; my heart won’t allow it. “I didn’t really believe it, but I told myself that day was going to be outstanding.” I touch the side of her face, feel the completion with which she focuses on me in the way her gaze won’t leave mine. I take a breath. “It was, Opal. It was outstanding.”
