Patience is a virtue. That's the old saying, isn't it? If that's true, I must be the most virtuous person in the world. Each day since Blake agreed to let me probe a little deeper, I've limited myself to one personal question that makes him squirm in discomfort. Eventually, he'll give me a response, but he sometimes needs more than one try to give me an answer that truly tells me something.
I keep telling myself that it's good practice for him, and the fact he's telling me all these things is just proximity and luck. Any woman who was in my seat would be getting the same experience. My prickly pear was ready to shed some of his spikes.
The sketchbook perched in my lap is framed by panels, and I tilt my head, examining the latest one. This one is from a couple days ago when Blake and I were in the truck, and I think I've almost captured the expression on his face when he said, "I do want you to know me," and I melted inside a little. Almost. I pick up the pencil and add more shading.
After Blake suggested that my sketches might be worth pursuing, I spent an afternoon in a library reading graphic novels. Thumbing threw them gave me the idea to start documenting our trip in a different way. Rather than doodles and full-page sketches of specific events, I'm trying to recapture scenes in all their emotional resonance.
Maybe at the end of the trip, I can string together these moments into something resembling a narrative. Right now, they're just my Blake highlights—a time when he said something witty, another time when he gave me a piece of himself, another time when he made my pulse race with a touch or a look.
He hasn't picked up my sketchbook in a long time, so I haven't had to worry about him stumbling upon how my obsession has evolved.
This morning we're leaving for the airport in Quebec City to meet Izzy and Jeremy and then they'll follow us in their rental car to the cottage we've booked on the St. Lawrence River. They'll stay for a long weekend with us before heading back to Michigan.
This plan seemed great a few weeks ago when things were awkward between me and Blake, but now I kind of wish Izzy and Jeremy weren't coming. We've got our own bubble, our own groove, and I'm a bit nervous about what Izzy is going to think. Blake isn't like any guy I've ever spent this much time with, and I'm sure she'll wonder what we could possibly have in common.
Blake is out running, and I'm on the couch in the living room of our suite half-hoping he'll ask me what I'm drawing when he comes back. But I know he won't—because erotic-gate put a stop to that. He probably thinks I draw sex all the time.
Honesty, at this point, I'm not even sure I remember what sex is. This is the longest dry spell I've had since I lost my virginity at eighteen. Can you blame a woman for taking matters into her own hands?
The hotel room door opens, and I keep sketching, not bothering to glance up.
"Don't we have a rule about being half dressed in common areas?" Blake asks, his voice rough. He grabs a glass out of a cupboard and fills it with water from the sink before gulping it down.
"I thought it was a naked rule." I angle my head at my page and use my thumb to fix the shading. "I've worn less than this to clubs and bars." A red negligee isn't exactly platonic wear, but I didn't feel like getting dressed when I came out here.
"Not with me," he says, leaning against the counter.
"True," I say. "Bedroom wear as evening wear was more of an early twenties phase. Guess I'm going retro."
"Might be accurate, if it were the evening."
I pretend to sketch another line before glancing up at him. He's hot and sweaty, and his proximity has stolen all my attention. Gorgeous doesn't even begin to cover it, and it's moments like these where I marvel that I've made it this long without completely compromising our relationship.
That spark of initial attraction has never become less sparky; I've just become good at ignoring it. Or maybe avoiding it. Or perhaps just releasing the sexual tension in other ways. Whatever has gotten me to this point, I'm not sure it'll see me over the finish line. The restlessness is getting to me.
I snap my sketchbook closed, and I wander over to the kitchen to slide the book onto the counter beside Blake. He stares down at me for a beat before looking away and taking another long drink of his water.
"When do you think we'll be back in the late twenties phase of dressing?" Blake turns to fill up his water again at the sink.
"Do you think you'll ever move into the house you own beside your parents?" Might as well change the subject. If we're talking, I've got an excuse not to go to my room and get dressed. Is it wrong that I enjoy his discomfort and annoyance? Maybe. But I just really want those emotions to slide into desire, and it never seems to happen. Whether he's immune to me or I just can't tempt him enough, I'm never sure.
"No," he says with a scowl.
"You said you bought it as an investment, but..." I raise my eyebrows. "I checked the housing market in Newfoundland. It's not exactly hot."
"I was playing the odds."
"Blake."
He sighs and runs his fingers through his hair, dragging the longer strands back before they fall forward again, brushing against his cheeks. "I'm the oldest, and it wasn't a great house to grow up in."
He says this like I should understand the implications, but since I don't, I lean against the counter beside him and wait for him to continue.
"I bought it in case they needed somewhere to go." He sets his glass in the sink. "Somewhere safe."
"But your friend lives there?"
"Sat empty for a long while, and then, you know, the longer you leave a house empty, the worse it seems to get. None of them were using it, so I figured I might as well rent it out."
"Can I meet your family when we're in Newfoundland?"
Blake crosses his arms and seems to be considering my question when my alarm starts blaring from my bedroom. It's the "Gwen, get your ass in the shower" alarm that I set so I wouldn't be late meeting Izzy and Jeremy at the airport.
"Saved by the bell," I say, twirling around and rushing to hit stop on the alarm.
~ * ~
At the airport, Izzy and I stand hugging each other far longer than most people would consider socially acceptable. Over my shoulder, I can hear Blake going into doctor mode with Jeremy, which means the conversation is a bit stiff and formal. Small talk is not my favorite Canadian's strength.
That's enough to draw me away, and I immediately launch into finding out every single thing I can about Jeremy, who I've never met before. He's so laid back that I'm wondering whether he indulged in some legal cannabis in the bathroom the minute the plane landed.
Izzy is also trying to talk Blake's ear off. But while I'm getting a lot of "right on" and "yeah, man" from Jeremy, Blake's answers are more of the "yes" and "no" variety. My bus trip companion has resurfaced, which feels weird and wrong.
And worrying.
I want Izzy to like him.
As soon as it become apparent that Blake isn't going to warm up quickly, I grab Izzy. "Talk to Jeremy about drugs," I whisper to Blake on the way past.
Blake's expression is mild, as though my deduction is about five steps behind his own. "So, Jeremy," Blake says, "did you know you can have up to four cannabis plants for personal use per household in Canada?"
"Right on," Jeremy says. "A guy on the plane sold me some edibles."
Of course Blake would know the exact legal language off the top of his head while I was still furtively trying to search for it as we walked to the car rental place.
"I was a snowboard instructor in Whistler for a few years," Jeremy says. "Canada is like way more liberal than home."
"We've been to Whistler," I say, jumping in. "Right, Blake? And you went to college in British Columbia."
He gives me another look which is half amused and half annoyed, and I return it with a sheepish smile. My arm is still looped through Izzy's, but when we get to the car rental place, Jeremy and Izzy head up to the check in desk while Blake and I go back to our truck. We picked a carpool lot not far from here to meet up and follow each other from there.
"Are you going to be okay?" Blake asks once we're alone.
"Yeah. Why? I don't seem okay?" I pat myself down.
"Never seen you so uptight."
Can I admit that I want Jeremy and Izzy to like him? Would it be weird for me to say that? Technically, we're just friends. I've had friends that Izzy didn't like before, and it never bothered me. The thing about being social is that I often have friends who are fair weather or seasonal—they come and go like the tide. But then there are ones like Izzy who I've had forever, who've seen me at my best and my worst.
"Oh, no... I'm just. I was surprised Jeremy showed up so high, that's all."
"Okay." From that single word, I can tell he doesn't believe me, not even a little. He loops his arm around my shoulders, and he places his chin on the top of my head and squeezes gently while we're still walking before releasing me. "It'll be okay."
God, I hope he's right. Suddenly I'm nervous that he won't like Izzy, that she won't like him, that Jeremy will spend the whole weekend stoned out of his mind, and I'll regret all my life choices.
It's times like this where I really wish I thought things through a little more carefully.
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