I stopped in the middle of the foyer. My gaze scanned the expansive space. From the outside, I knew it was large, but I wasn’t prepared for how vast it would be on the inside. “Whoa, this is, um . . . big.” But it looked unlived in. Kind of like a hospital. The only personal touches I could see were military pictures of a man—I assumed, his dad—and some war memorabilia on the mantel in the living room. There was absolutely nothing at all that said a family lived there. No family photos hung on the walls, and there were none of Blake anywhere. No proud trophies on display. Nothing.
“I guess,” he said, taking my hand and leading me upstairs to his bedroom. “I’d describe it as empty.”
I stopped in the middle of his room and looked around. “This is, um . . .”
“Big?” he finished for me.
“No.” I dropped my bag and turned to him. “I was going to say empty.”
He glanced around the room. “I guess.”
“But this is your home, right?” I kicked off my shoes and slowly made my way to the side of his bed.
“Yeah, of course it’s my home. Why?”
I pulled back the covers and sat down. “I mean your permanent home. You’ve lived here for years, right? So why don’t you have anything personal in here?”
“What do you mean?”
“I just expected it to be different. You’re good at basketball, right? Where are all your team pictures? All your trophies? Your jerseys?” I shrugged. “Aren’t you proud of your accomplishments? Or your parents—they aren’t proud of you? Mary—she even keeps the kids’ participation ribbons. I just thought—”
A low laugh bubbled out of him. But then he stopped—he must’ve noticed the look of pity on my face. “It’s just a room, Chloe. I come home, and I sleep in the same bed every night.”
“I don’t know,” I said, moving down the bed until I was under the covers and my head rested on the pillow. “I guess I just grew up in foster care . . . moved around a couple times . . . Those places were houses, not homes. I’d give anything to have a room I could call my own.”
He cursed under his breath and moved to draw the curtains closed. “I’m an asshole, Chloe, I didn’t even think.”
“It’s fine,” I said through a yawn. “Are you gonna sleep for a bit, too?”
“Yeah, I’ll be downstairs. Just come—”
“Wait.” I sat up. “You don’t have to go. It’s your bed.”
He hesitated for a beat, until I pushed down the covers as an invitation. He smiled, and I could see any fight he had left was gone. I waited for him to settle in before I spoke again. “Thank you for waiting for me. You didn’t have to do that.”
“Why did you do it—take the fall for us? You didn’t have to do that, either.”
I turned onto my side. The bed shifted as he did the same. We were face-to-face, only inches apart. “I didn’t want you to get in trouble. Josh has Tommy. You have your entire future ahead of you.”
“And what do you have, Chloe?”
“I have the now.”
I could see that he wanted to persist, but he just frowned and stayed silent.
“They’re not pressing charges, Blake. Don’t worry.”
He nodded. “That’s good.”
“I’m wired now.”
“You want me to take you to get your car?”
“Do you want me to go home?”
“No,” he said quickly.
I laughed. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Anything.”
“Where’s your dad? And why does your mom live in the guesthouse?” He blinked once, his eyes searching mine for a long moment. Long enough that I suddenly regretted asking. “You don’t have to tell me. I’m sorry if it’s too personal.”
“No. It’s not that.” He reached out and settled his hand on my hip. My eyes drifted shut, but I didn’t remove it. After taking a deep breath, he continued, “My dad goes hunting with some old friends the first weekend of every month. That’s where he is now, or at least that’s what he tells us. The truth is he has a mistress. My mom lives in the guesthouse because she probably knows about it and hates her life. She’s a big-shot author. You know those romance novels with a bunch of white people almost kissing? Most of them are hers. She’d rather live in the world she creates in those books than deal with what’s in front of her. She’s also an alcoholic, so I guess living in the guesthouse makes it easier for her to not have to justify her actions or behavior to anyone.”
I felt I had plenty of reason to feel sorry for myself, but at least I had people that cared for and supported me, even when I didn’t deserve it. “I’m sorry.”
“Hey, it could be worse. At least I have parents.”
I smiled, but it was sad. “Mary and Dean are good people. They take care of who needs taking care of. I’m eighteen now, they don’t even have to let me stay there anymore. I’m lucky, really.”
“Maybe. Or maybe they just know how lucky they are to have you.”
I tried to hide my smile. “You’re not at all what I thought you’d be like.”
He laughed and pulled me closer. “You’ve been thinking about me?”
My cheeks warmed with my blush. “You know what I mean. It’s . . . never mind . . .” I buried my face in his chest.
“What, Chloe? What were you going to say?”
I raised my eyes to meet his. “You and Hannah. I get the whole high-school-jock-and-cheerleader thing, but you just seem above all that, you know? I guess it just doesn’t make sense to me why you’re with her. Well . . . apart from the fact that she’s ridiculously beautiful.” I stopped myself from saying anything else. “I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “I shouldn’t say stuff like that. I don’t even know her. I’m being mean.”
His hand on my waist gripped me tighter while his gaze roamed my face. His eyes met mine with that same intensity I’d seen before. “I think you’re beautiful.”
My heart tightened at his words, but I couldn’t let him see that. So instead, I laughed and pushed his chest. “Shut up!”
He fell onto his back but recovered quickly, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me closer. I didn’t care that it might have been wrong, and I didn’t think he did, either. Alone, in this room, we could be who we wanted to be. No faking. No hiding. Just us. “Oooh,” he teased. “Chloe . . . What the fuck is your last name? I’m the worst friend ever.”
“Thompson,” I chuckled. “And I forgive you.”
“Well, you did give me a fake name. What the hell was that about?”
I laughed and shook my head. “Blake, will you do me a favor?”
“Anything.”
“After we wake up and we go to get my car, will you come over and have dinner with us? Dean—he goes to all the games. And maybe you could hang out with the kids . . . shoot your touchdowns?”
He laughed. This beautiful, boyish, carefree laugh. “Shoot my touchdowns?”
“What?” I asked, playing along.
“You’re not kidding?”
I bit my lip, trying to contain my smile. “What?”
“You’re just cute, is all. Fire truck, yes. I’d love to meet them and shoot my touchdowns.” He pressed his lips to my forehead. “Now sleep, my beautiful little stoner.”