Isabel snores.
And not those soft, almost kitten-like murmurs that you'd find adorable. No, Isabel sounds more like one of those heavy-duty lawn mowers they sell at Home Depot. A broken lawn mower, at that. It's hard to believe thirty pounds of fat and mucus can generate that type of noise.
Aside from the horrific electric gardening tool impersonation she was doing, Isabel looked angelic when I set her down in her crib. Her white blond curls were like a halo of light around her head in contrast to the hot pink pillow beneath her.
With the toddler safely delivered, I went back downstairs into the living room, where I collapsed on the long, eggplant couch and stared up at the white chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Now that I was finally alone, I noticed that the throbbing pain in the back of my head hadn't disappeared. Not to mention, my cheek was pretty tender where I'd been jabbed by that unidentified elbow.
I closed my eyes and groaned.
"That was the worst idea ever," I mumbled to myself.
At that moment, I promised myself that I was never going to follow along with one of Blake Hamilton's ludicrous plans ever again.
Speaking of which, where the heck was he?
I kicked my legs over the side of the couch and hopped up, then crossed the room to stand by the purple-curtain-framed window that had a decent view of the Hamilton's front yard and the houses across the street. I pressed my cheek against the glass and craned my neck in an attempt to see if Rachel's neon green Volkswagen was back in her driveway.
It wasn't.
Fucking Blake Hamilton.
Where was Lena when you wanted to chop someone's balls off?
I stomped back across the room and into the kitchen, because when the going gets tough, the tough grab a snack. I raided the Hamiltons' cupboards, eventually finding a large box of Ritz. With the package of crackers tucked under my arm, I headed back out to the living room. But before I could plop back down on the couch and eat my feelings, I heard the distinct clanging of house keys against the front door.
Someone was home.
For a moment, I thought Chloe and George were back. Which wasn't good, considering their son hadn't gotten home yet and was probably still trying to strangle Ethan. I knew I was about to be in a lot of trouble, so I braced my arms around my box of Ritz crackers and held it up in front of me like a shield as the front door swung open.
And there stood Blake Hamilton.
Looking like he'd just been hit by a bus.
"Holy shit!" I cried. "What the hell happened to your face?"
Blake's dark eyebrows pulled together and he blinked at me from where he stood, halfway in the living room and halfway out on the porch. There was a dark, shadowy spot that had appeared on the right side of his jaw, and an angry red scrape over his right eyebrow. And maybe it was just me, but I thought I saw a bit of dried blood on his cheek.
He blinked at me.
"What happened to your face?" he retorted.
Of all the immature things to say, he chose that?
"I'm serious—" I began, tossing my box of Ritz onto the eggplant couch.
"So am I," Blake interrupted, stepping into the living room and kicking the door closed behind him. He walked up to me, bending his head down slightly and narrowing his eyes as he looked over my face. "What happened? Did you run into a wall or something?"
Now I was really confused.
"What are you even talking about?" I demanded.
Blake glanced around the living room. Then, suddenly, he stepped forward, grabbed me by the sleeve of my T-shirt, and dragged me over to a mirror mounted on the lavender and white striped wall. I would've scoffed at how tacky the white-framed, vintage-looking mirror was had it not been for the horrifying sight that was facing me.
Hamilton was right.
I looked like I'd walked into a wall, cheek-first.
"Oh my God," I breathed, lifting up my fingers and pressing them softly to the large, purplish spot directly under my eye. It was exactly where I'd been elbowed at Ethan's party.
"What did you do?" Blake questioned. "Is Isabel alright?"
He sounded somewhere between angry and disappointed.
"She's fine," I said, turning around to face Blake again. I hadn't realized he was standing so close behind me, though, so I nearly whacked him in the chest with my hand. "And I didn't do anything. It's not my fault some douchebag has hard elbows."
Blake's eyebrows furrowed.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"Some dick elbowed me in the—"
"Who?" Blake snapped, his eyes ablaze.
I shrugged helplessly. "I don't know. I didn't see his face."
Blake opened his mouth again, looking ready to argue, but seemed to struggle to get any words out. Finally, he let out a little moan of frustration and snapped his mouth shut. I watched him run his hand through his dark, already-disheveled hair. How had I never noticed how tan his fingers were before? They made my fingers look like tiny white sticks of chalk in comparison. I wondered, vaguely, what our hands would look like intertwined.
"You look like shit."
That certainly was a mood killer.
"Thanks," I snapped, narrowing my eyes at Blake.
"I didn't mean it like—" he began, stopping halfway through his sentence to let out another frustrated grunt. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "How did you even get back here?"
"Jesse drove me."
Blake winced.
"Jesse?" he repeated.
"Yeah."
"Jesse Fletcher?"
"No, Jesse McCartney," I quipped, folding my arms across my chest.
Blake scowled at me.
"Why didn't you come find me?" he demanded. "I would've driven you home. And Isabel. Jesus, you didn't even have a carseat."
"Well you seemed a little busy," I snapped.
He was supposed to have given me a ride back anyway. 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 too wasted in the backseat of Jesse's car to even be aware of the fight.
"I would've driven you home," Blake repeated, his deep voice a bit softer now.
He sounded sincere.
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 come intruding 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.
I swallowed.
Then his hand was coming towards me, and for a moment, I was reminded of the time at the Holden Public 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 electric blue 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.
I felt my cheeks flush.
"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, I heard Blake's footsteps disappear into the kitchen. He treaded back and forth across the tile floor, opening 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 on the far end of the couch.
"Here," he mumbled.
I looked over to see that Blake was holding something out towards me. I frowned at the strange, round, deep-blue object for a moment before realizing that it was an icepack, 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 icepack 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 towards the faint white mark.
"Boating accident," Blake croaked.
He suddenly leaned forward and cleared his throat. Then, shaking his head slightly as if he were 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 started clicking through the channels, his shoulders tense and the icepack 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. 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."
"It's okay. Lena's on it."
The corner of Blake's mouth that wasn't covered by the icepack curled up into a smile. I couldn't help but smile, too. We both turned our attention towards 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 super hot.
"So did you kick Ethan's ass?" I asked casually.
"Of course," Blake snorted.
I noticed that he seemed to puff out his chest a little. Boys.
"If you don't mind me asking," I began, pausing to flip over my icepack and press the colder side against my cheek, "why'd you two decide to beat the snot out of each other, anyway?"
Blake pursed his lips.
"Ethan and I have never been friends," he muttered darkly.
"How come?" I pressed.
I couldn't help but be curious.
No one was giving me any answers.
"It's a long story," Blake replied, keeping his gaze locked on the television screen.
"You know, I'm here all summer," I commented.
Blake didn't respond.
I let out a long, frustrated sigh and sunk down further into the eggplant 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 icepack. I kicked my feet up 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 half-heartedly.
"Are you sure you're okay?"
"I'm just tired," I slurred out, too exhausted to say anything more.
Blake was quiet for a moment.
"How hard did you get elbowed?" he questioned.
"Not that hard." I shook my head, then immediately regretted it. I grimaced and added in a pained mumble, "It was the damn floor that really hurt, to tell you the truth."
I felt Blake shift on the couch.
"How many fingers am I holding up?"
I cracked open one eye to see Blake's big, tan fingers wiggling in front of my face. The movement of them made me feel nauseous 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."
"Close enough."
"Waverly, I think you might have a concussion."
"Your face is a concussion."
Blake huffed.
Admittedly, it wasn't my best comeback. But the throbbing pain in the back of my head was making it really hard to think straight. I wondered what Chloe and George would think when they came home and found Blake and I sitting on the couch, both holding icepacks and one of us nursing a possible concussion. We were in so much trouble.
"Stand up," Blake said.
"Huh?"
I watched, with my good eye, as Blake pushed himself up from the couch. He tossed his ice pack onto the coffee table, then turned back around and looked down at me expectantly.
"C'mon," he coaxed, "get up."
I scoffed. "No."
"Waverly," Blake groaned, "just stand up for, like, one second."
With one hand still clutching the icepack to the side of my face, I rose up 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."
Blake narrowed his eyes at me.
"No one likes a smart ass," he told me.
I rolled my uncovered eye.
"Fine," I groaned, pushing myself up from the couch again. The sudden change in altitude, albeit only a few feet, made my head spin like the Wheel of Fortune. I groaned, trying not to feel sick, and reached out to grab onto the back of the couch to steady myself.
"Stay right there," Blake told me, taking a couple of hesitant steps backwards, "I'll be back in, like, one minute. Don't sit down, and for the love of God, don't fall asleep."
"Why not?" I demanded.
"Because you might be concussed," he replied, "and the worst thing you could do right now is nod off and let that little brain of yours swell. 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."
I pursed my lips.
"My brain isn't little," I defended.
"Just stay right there, okay?" Blake pleaded, already starting up the stairs.
"What are you—"
He was already gone.
I glanced down at the couch. Horrendously tacky purple velvet had never looked so inviting, 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 rose an eyebrow. "What's that?"
"Scrabble," Blake responded.
"Okay, well, why'd you bring it down here?"
"We're going to play."
With that, Blake plopped down in one of the floral printed armchairs around the couch. He scooted back and forth, making himself comfortable, before leaning forward to pull off the top 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 icepack, then sort of flailed my arms out. Somehow, I ended up grabbing hold of the corner of the sack before it went tumbling to the floor.
"Pick out seven tiles," Blake told me, ignoring my marvelously graceful catching abilities and unfolding the board on the table.
"No," I said, folding my arms across my chest defiantly, "I don't want to play Scrabble."
Blake glared up at me, his lips pursed in annoyance.
"Look," he 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."
So, 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?
Genius.
"And Scrabble won't put me to sleep?" I cocked an eyebrow.
"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 towards Blake.
He tossed me the sack of tiles, a stupid, smug smile on his face. I narrowed my eyes at him and shoved my arm up to my elbow 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 him as he picked up a few of his own tiles and laid them out on the board perpendicular to mine.
Gravy.
"This is stupid," I snapped.
"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," Blake replied, smirking.
I wanted to slap him, but it would've been pretty low of me to hit a guy whose face was covered in bruises and scrapes. He looked like he'd been mauled by a lion. Or, more accurately, a board-shorts-wearing, borderline-alcoholic douchebag who fist pumps to Katy Perry.
"No big deal," I scoffed, folding my arms across my chest, "I'm going to win, anyway."
Blake snorted.
"Right," he mumbled sarcastically, chuckling under his breath.
"I am!" I insisted.
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 grumpy 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'd want 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 what Lena and I were planning? Would he ask about why Jesse was acting so weird, especially around Alissa? Would he dare to bring up my parents? Maybe I had been stupid 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 out 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 scoffed and 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. "Penis? This is a children's game, Waverly. Have some class."
"It's just a word!" 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 started rearranging 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 space on the board. 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.
Morbid.
Giraffe.
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.
I felt my palms start to sweat 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 up his finger 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. Eighty-one points.
"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.
Blake's smirk dropped instantaneously.
His blue eyes went wide as he lunged forward, leaning over the board and lifting both my tiles to check that I had, indeed, just kicked his ass at Scrabble. I grinned triumphantly as I waited for him to look up at me and say the magic words. Finally, after making sure I had actually scored more point than he had, Blake pushed himself up from his armchair reluctantly, folding his arms across his chest and refusing to look me in the face for a moment.
The corner of his eye twitched when he finally saw the idiotic smile on my face.
"Fine," he sighed, "you win, Lyons."
"What's that?" I asked, cupping my hand to my ear. I knew I was being an asshole. I knew it. But I couldn't stop from leaning over the coffee table a bit and saying, "I don't think I heard you right. Could you repeat that?"
Blake muttered something under his breath.
"I said you won, Waverly," he snapped, "you beat me."
"Damn straight!" I cried.
And then, with absolutely no shame or conscience, I began doing a little victory dance. It wasn't much of a dance, really, so much as me jerking my limbs around as I spun in a little circle and made myself a beat of little whoop-whoops. When I finally stopped spinning, I noticed that Blake, still with his arms across his chest, was fighting back a grin.
"What?" I asked innocently.
"You're so weird."
"But you love it," I teased.
I hadn't meant anything by that. It had been an almost knee-jerk response, the type you use when a best friend points out how awkward or embarrassing you are. But Blake's blue eyes flashed with something I didn't recognize and darkened a shade. For a moment, I was worried I had offended him by suggesting that we were friends, or at least knew each other enough to exchange a bit of friendly banter.
And then, all at once, I felt like he was getting closer.
Or maybe I was getting closer. Or maybe we were both getting closer at the same time. It was hard to tell, because all I could focus on was Blake's face; those electric blue eyes, the scattering of light freckles across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, the little white scar above his eyebrow, and, finally, his crooked lips. All coming closer, so slowly it was almost impossible for me to be sure that it was actually happening.
I was a mix of eager and terrified, all at once.
But before I could decide which feeling was more prevalent, I heard two pairs of footsteps coming up the front porch, one distinctly high-heeled. Blake seemed to hear them at the same moment I did, because his eyes went wide and he immediately stepped back from me, dropping his arm. I hadn't even noticed he'd brought up his hand before. Was he about to grab my chin and kiss me, or push me away?
I didn't have time to debate.
The Hamiltons' front door swung open. Chloe and George stepped into the living room, smiling a little and laughing at some joke Blake and I hadn't heard. They were still smiling when they saw the Scrabble board on the coffee table. Their smiles dropped just a bit when they saw the way I was awkwardly leaning halfway over the table. And then their smiles vanished altogether when they took in my bruised eye and Blake's battered face.
"What the hell happened to you two?" Chloe shrieked in horror.
"Uh..." Blake trailed off, glancing around the room for any sort of inspiration.
I glanced down at the coffee table.
"Scrabble!" I cried.
Chloe and George blinked at me in disbelief. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Blake bring a hand up to his face and clap it over his eyes. Chloe was glaring at him with a demonic sort of I'm-going-to-ground-you-until-college look.
"Scrabble?" George repeated, raising one eyebrow and folding his arms over his chest.
I glanced at the dark bruises and scrape on the side of Blake's face, then turned back to George and gave him one short, certain nod.
"It got really competitive."