Float, page 13
Blake opened his mouth again, eyes ablaze with righteous fury, but seemed to struggle to get any words out. He ran a hand through his dark, already-disheveled hair. How had I never noticed how big and sun kissed his fingers were before? I wondered, vaguely, what they’d look like intertwined with mine.
I hoped that was the elbow to the head talking.
“You look like shit,” Blake said at last, which was certainly a reality check.
“Thanks.”
“I didn’t mean it like—” He stopped halfway through his sentence to let out another frustrated grunt. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment before taking a deep breath and looking back up at me. “How did you even get back here?”
“Jesse drove us.”
The corner of Blake’s eye twitched.
“Jesse?” he repeated.
“Yeah.”
“Why didn’t you come find me? I would’ve driven you home. And Isabel. Shit, I had the car seat—”
“We went slow,” I snapped. “And you were a little busy.”
Blake was supposed to give me a ride back. That had been the plan. But then Blake had to go all mixed martial arts on Ethan’s ass, and all hell had broken loose. And for what? The two of them were still disputing over Alissa Hastings, who, might I point out, had been unconscious in the backseat of Jesse’s car for a good part of their toxic masculinity–fueled fight.
“I would’ve driven you home,” Blake said again, his deep voice a bit softer now.
He sounded chastened. Maybe even a little remorseful. It was at that moment that I became aware of the fact that we were alone in the house, except for Isabel. But I could just barely make out the thunderous rumble of her snoring, so I knew she wasn’t about to intrude or anything. Which meant that Blake and I were standing there, two feet apart, unaccompanied.
“Waverly?” Blake asked, his voice low and loud in the silent living room.
“Yeah?” I replied, my throat suddenly very dry.
Then his hand was coming toward me, and for a moment, I was reminded of the time at the pool when Blake had touched a strand of my wet hair. I kept my eyes locked on Blake’s face, unable to look anywhere but his eyes, as I felt his fingers brush ever so slightly against the top of my shoulder.
“Why do you have toilet paper on you?”
Blake pulled his hand back, pinching a single sheet of white toilet paper in his fingers.
My cheeks flushed.
“Damn shirtless toilet paper throwers,” I mumbled, snatching the sheet from Blake’s hand and quickly shoving it into the pocket of my oversized shorts. Then, ignoring the befuddled expression on Blake’s face, I stepped over to the couch and picked up the box of Ritz. I plopped down, reached for the remote, and clicked on the television.
As I flipped through the channels, Blake disappeared into the kitchen. He treaded back and forth across the tile floor, opened the refrigerator door once, and then headed back into the living room. I didn’t turn around to look at him because my cheeks still felt a little warm, and the last thing I wanted to have to do was explain why I was blushing.
Blake took a seat at the far end of the couch.
“Here,” he mumbled.
I looked over to see that Blake was holding something out to me. I frowned at the strange, round, deep-blue object for a moment before realizing that it was an ice pack and reached out to grab it. Then I tilted my head back and placed the cold compress over the side of my face, wincing a little at the frigid temperature.
“Thanks,” I mumbled back.
“No problem,” Blake replied.
I glanced over at him out of the corner of my uncovered eye.
Blake was slouched back just like I was, cradling an identical blue ice pack against the right side of his face. He was staring straight back at me, blue eyes unblinking. We were close enough for me to see the small, barely visible scar above his left eyebrow again.
I frowned slightly.
“How’d you get that?” I asked him, motioning my hand at the faint white mark.
“Boating accident,” Blake croaked.
He suddenly leaned forward and cleared his throat. Then, shaking his head slightly as if angry with himself, Blake snatched up the remote from where I had set it down on the couch cushion between us. I let myself stare at his profile for a moment as he clicked through the channels, his shoulders tense and the ice pack still against his face.
Neither of us spoke for a long time.
“I’m sorry,” Blake finally broke the silence.
“For what?” I practically whispered.
“Dragging you along to that party,” he explained. “It’s my fault you got elbowed.”
I couldn’t disagree, so I said nothing in response.
“And toilet papered,” Blake added. “I can’t believe those assholes did that.”
“Is it completely embarrassing for me to admit that I actually found that part fun?”
The corner of Blake’s mouth that wasn’t covered by the ice pack curled into a smile. I couldn’t help but smile too. We turned our attention to the television screen, although I doubt either of us was really interested in watching the evening news. I already knew what the weather forecast for the week was. Hot, with a chance of holy shit it’s hot.
“Did you kick Ethan’s ass?” I asked casually.
“Of course,” Blake said, puffing his chest out a little. Cue my eye roll.
“If you don’t mind me asking,” I said, pausing to flip over my ice pack and press the colder side against my cheek, “why’d you two decide to beat the snot out of each other, anyway? Do you really think physical violence is the key to solving your problems?”
“Ethan and I have never been friends,” Blake muttered.
“How come?”
I couldn’t help but be curious. It felt like I kept getting crumbs of history and drama, but no one was sitting me down and giving me answers.
“It’s a long story,” Blake said, somewhat ominously.
“You know, I’m here all summer.”
Blake didn’t respond.
I sank down into the absurdly plush cushions of the sleek sectional couch. There was still a sharp pain in the back of my head, and now my hand and half of my face were going numb from the cold of the ice pack. I kicked my feet onto the coffee table and closed my eyes, letting out a little moan as I realized that the throbbing in my head wouldn’t stop.
“Waverly?” Blake asked.
I grunted halfheartedly.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m just tired,” I slurred out, too exhausted to say anything more.
Blake was weirdly quiet for a moment. “How hard did you get elbowed?”
“Not that hard.” I shook my head, then immediately regretted it. I grimaced and added in a pained mumble, “It was the floor that really hurt, to tell you the truth.”
Blake shifted on the couch. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
I cracked open one eye to see Blake’s sun kissed fingers wiggling in front of my face. The movement of them made me feel nauseated almost instantly, so I squeezed my eyes closed again and leaned my head back, trying not to feel sick.
“Not again,” I groaned. “Lena already tried this. It’s three.”
“Two, actually.”
“That’s what I said, right?”
“Waverly, I think you might have a concussion.”
“Your face is a concussion.”
Admittedly, I’d had better comebacks, but the throbbing pain in the back of my head was making it really hard to think straight. I briefly considered what Chloe and George would think when they came home and found Blake and me sitting on the couch, both holding ice packs and one of us nursing a possible concussion. We were in so much trouble. Of course, the one night I decided to pretend I was cool would end in head injuries.
“Stand up,” Blake told me.
I watched, with my good eye, as he pushed himself up from the couch. He tossed his ice pack onto the coffee table, then turned around and looked down at me expectantly.
“C’mon,” he coaxed. “Up.”
I scoffed. “I’m not a toddler.”
“Waverly, just stand up for, like, one second. Please.”
With one hand still clutching the ice pack to the side of my face, I rose from the couch, counted out One Mississippi in my head, and then collapsed back onto the soft cushions. I kicked my legs up on the coffee table and smiled sardonically up at Blake.
“There,” I said. “I got up for a second.”
“No one likes a smart ass,” Blake said.
“Fine.” I pushed myself up from the couch again. The sudden change in altitude, albeit only a few feet, made my head spin like the wheel on Wheel of Fortune. I groaned, trying not to feel sick, and reached out to grab the back of the couch to steady myself.
“Stay right there,” Blake told me, taking a couple of hesitant steps back. “I’ll be back in, like, one minute. Don’t sit down, and whatever you do, don’t fall asleep.”
“Why not?” I demanded.
“Because you might be concussed, and the worst thing you could do right now is nod off and let that little head of yours swell up. I’d really prefer it if you aren’t in a coma when Chloe and my dad get home. I’m already grounded for eternity as it is.”
“My brain isn’t little.”
“Just stay right there, okay?” Blake pleaded, already starting up the stairs.
“What are you—”
He was already gone. The cloudlike couch was calling my name, but I decided to follow Blake’s advice. He was a lifeguard, after all—they were trained to deal with minor medical emergencies. Besides, how embarrassing would it be if I fell into a coma? I might drool all over the Hamiltons’ couch. Talk about classless.
Blake came padding back down the stairs again a minute later, carrying a large rectangular box in his hands. I watched him walk over and set the box down on the little white coffee table beside me and frowned when I realized that it was a board game.
I arched an eyebrow. “What’s that?”
“Scrabble.”
“And you brought it down here because . . .”
“We’re going to play.”
With that, Blake plopped down in the matching armchair at the end of the couch. He wiggled back and forth, nestling into the cushions, and leaned forward to pull the top off of the cardboard box. Blake pulled out the dark velvet sack of tiles, embroidered with the word Scrabble in gold, and tossed it to me. I squealed in surprise and dropped my ice pack, then flailed my arms out. Somehow, I ended up grabbing a hold of the corner of the sack before it tumbled to the floor.
“Pick out seven tiles,” Blake instructed, ignoring my marvelously graceful catching abilities and unfolding the board on the table.
“I don’t want to play Scrabble.”
“Look,” Blake snapped, “I’m trying to keep you from falling asleep. If you sit down and watch television or something, you’ll be out in five minutes, tops.”
He wouldn’t let me watch television, but he wanted me to sit down and play what was possibly the slowest, most boring board game ever invented?
“And Scrabble won’t put me to sleep?” I drawled.
“It’s mentally stimulating,” Blake said, reaching out his long, tan arm to snatch the sack of tiles right out of my hands. He shoved his hand in the bag and pulled out a couple of tiles for himself, then set about arranging them in his little wooden tile holder.
I let out an admittedly overdramatic groan and plopped down on the couch.
“Give me the bag,” I grumbled, jabbing my hand out at Blake.
He tossed me the sack of tiles, a stupid, smug smile on his face. I narrowed my eyes at him and shoved my hand wrist-deep into the bag. Blake and I were silent for a moment as we arranged our tiles and planned out our first moves. I decided to go first.
Slug.
It was only six points, but it was really all I had. Blake quirked an eyebrow but didn’t say anything. I watched as he picked up a few of his own tiles and laid them out on the board perpendicular to mine.
Gravy.
“This is embarrassing,” I grumbled.
“It’s invigorating,” Blake corrected, picking up a pen to scribble down our moves on the score sheet, “and you’re just mad because I got twenty-three points. Your move, Lyons.”
“What?” I gasped, leaning over to look at the score sheet. “How did you do that?”
“Double letter score.”
“No big deal.” I shrugged. “I’m going to win, anyway.”
There was no way I would lose a game of Scrabble to Blake Hamilton. Granted, I wasn’t a genius. Not by any stretch of the imagination. But I liked to think that I was smarter than some bipolar lifeguard who couldn’t go two days without getting into a fight of some sort.
“If you’re so sure you’re going to win,” Blake said, the corner of his mouth pulling up in a devious smile, “then why don’t we make this game a little more interesting?”
I narrowed my eyes at him.
“How so?” I asked, trying to sound more indifferent than suspicious.
“Winner gets to ask the loser three questions,” Blake proposed, leaning his elbows against his knees and placing his fingertips together, “and the loser—that’ll be you, Waverly—has to answer two of them entirely and truthfully. Loser can take one pass.”
Answers.
It was the one thing I wanted from Blake. Already I had thought up a million questions I wanted to ask him. How did he first fall in love with Alissa? What happened to his mother? Did he think I was as attractive as I thought he was? Okay, maybe not that last one. But still. The possibilities were endless, and he’d have to answer two of my questions honestly.
“Deal,” I said, extending my hand.
Blake reached his right hand out to meet mine and we shook on it.
It was only once our fingers untangled that I started to wonder what on earth Blake might ask me if he won. Would he ask why Jesse was acting so weird, especially around Alissa? Would he dare to bring up my parents? My lack of a social life back in Fairbanks? Maybe I’d been impulsive to agree to this. What if I ended up having to answer a really terrible question?
I couldn’t let him have the chance.
I had to win.
Blake and I both leaned down to peer at our tiles, planning our next moves and occasionally shooting each other intimidating I’m going to beat you glares. It was my turn, though, so eventually I had to stop glaring long enough to place my tiles.
Vet.
It was ten points, which was pretty good for only three letters. Blake mumbled something under his breath, which sounded suspiciously like he was criticizing the length of my word. I ignored him and drew two new tiles from the bag.
Tropic.
Blake got eighteen points, double letter score. Again.
Penis.
Twenty-two points, triple letter score. It was my first decent move. Blake’s eyebrows shot up and a sort of strangled sound came from his throat, but he quickly composed himself and sent me a reproachful glare.
“Seriously?” he asked. “This is a children’s game, Waverly.”
“It’s in the dictionary,” I argued. “And you’re only mad because I’m catching up.”
Blake glanced at the score sheet and his eyes went wide with disbelief. Before I could gloat, he hunched over his tiles and rearranged them, preparing to make his move. This wasn’t fun and games anymore. This was high-stakes Scrabble.
North.
Thirteen points.
Hamster.
It was thirty-two points, thanks to a double word score. Blake cringed and reluctantly wrote down the number underneath my name on the score sheet. I was in the lead. But that didn’t last long, because Blake’s next move was good.
Arctic.
The game went on like that for a while.
Run.
Ukulele.
Lump.
It wasn’t long before I reached into the bag of tiles and felt myself grasping at nothing but velvet. We had almost covered the board at that point, leaving little space for any decent moves. Blake had five tiles left while I had two, one of which was a Z, the hardest letter to use. I watched Blake lift up all five of his tiles to place them on the board.
Tickle.
And, just like that, he was ahead by twenty points.
My palms were sweating as Blake leaned back in the floral armchair. The corners of his mouth tugged up like he was proud of himself. I would have been much angrier at his smug little smirk if he hadn’t winced a little and brought his finger up to delicately prod the bruise on the right side of his jaw, which was apparently making it painful for him to smile. I had the sudden urge to swipe the Scrabble board and tiles off of the coffee table, launch myself over it, and plant my lips on Blake’s. I shook my head and forced myself to look down before I could impulsively hurl myself at the boy across the table.
The next time I played Scrabble, I needed to choose a less attractive opponent.
I glanced back and forth between my tiles and the board.
“Hurry up,” Blake grumbled impatiently.
“I’m thinking!” I snapped.
“Just let me win already,” he groaned.
And then, I saw it.
The perfect move. It was almost too wonderful to be real, like when school gets snowed out on the day your biggest test of the year was scheduled or someone gives you two free samples instead of one at See’s Candies. Shaking with excitement, I lifted up my two tiles, a Z and an O, and set them down on the board.
Zoo.
Triple word score.
“Eat it, Hamilton!” I cried, leaping up from the couch and pounding my fists in the air.
I almost didn’t feel the throbbing in my head. Almost.
