By the time Blake pulled his father's silver sedan into the driveway of his house, the sun was already beginning to sink below the horizon and everything in Holden was glowing orange. I locked my fingers around the edge of my leather car seat and held on for dear life, knowing that as soon as I let go, I'd have to face the fact that I was stuck babysitting two-year-old Isabel. All because stupid Blake Hamilton was blackmailing me.
The bastard.
I glared at the back of his head as he pulled his keys out of the ignition and pushed open the driver's side door, letting a gust of humid air pour into the car. I groaned and sunk down further into my seat, savoring the feeling of cool leather against my bare legs. If I could just sit in this air-conditioned car forever, I would die happy.
But of course, Blake interrupted my moment of peace by poking his head back into the car, an impatient frown on his face.
"Come on," he snapped, nodding towards his house.
"Fine," I muttered.
I didn't move.
Blake rolled his electric blue eyes at me and stood up, folding his arms across his chest as he waited for me to emerge out onto the driveway. Behind him, the Hamiltons' front door swung open. I craned my neck to look past Blake's torso and saw Chloe step out onto the front porch, dressed in all white and cradling Isabel in her arms. She spotted Blake standing beside the car and grinned. Then she noticed me, sitting in the passenger's seat and probably grimacing with reluctance, and frowned.
"Hey, um... you two," she began, obviously trying to sound cheerful rather than confused as she looked between us, her frown deepening.
"Hi Chloe," Blake responded, practically the embodiment of nonchalance.
"You gave Waverly a ride home, Blake?" Chloe asked, barely hiding her surprise.
"Actually," Blake began, leaning back against his father's silver sedan, "she volunteered to watch Isabel tonight."
Volunteered, my ass.
If it weren't for my seatbelt, and the presence of his stepmother, I would've launched myself out of the car and tackled Blake to the ground. I bet he was smirking. I hated that stupid smirk of his. I felt a malicious smile spread across my face as I imagined grinding his perfectly chiseled nose into the gravel driveway. Surely that would get rid of his smirk.
Jesus, since when did I get so violent?
"Waverly!" Chloe cried, beaming at me. "That's so kind of you!"
I couldn't help but smile back and loosen my death-grip on the edge of the seat.
"It's no problem, Mrs. Hamilton!" I chirped.
I wasn't sure, but I thought I saw Blake flinch. Whether it was because of my falsely chipper attitude or the use of his stepmother's title, I wasn't sure. Either way, I kind of liked seeing him squirm. So, I kept up with the sickeningly sweet attitude and hopped out of the car. I practically skipped up to the porch and climbed the steps two at a time.
When I reached the front door, Chloe was grinning.
"Look, Issie!" she cooed at the toddler in her arms. "It's Waverly!"
Isabel tilted her chin, her wispy white-blond curls bouncing around her head, and blinked her big chocolate brown eyes at me.
"Wave-ree!" she giggled.
Close enough.
"Hi, Isabel!" I said, bending my knees a little so that we were eye-level. Isabel let out another giggle and stretched out a chubby arm, her hand grasping for my nose. I laughed and stepped backward an inch, then held out my hand so she could grab hold of my thumb.
"Wave-ree!" she cried again, elated.
"Oh, this is just precious!" Chloe cried. Her eyes darted to the driveway and her smile dropped slightly. "I need to speak with Blake for a moment. Here, take Isabel."
My eyes went wide as Chloe shoved the toddler into my arms.
I let out a vague yelp of protest, but Chloe didn't notice, and instead wiped her palms against the front of her white jeans and started down the porch steps. Isabel squealed in delight and quickly grabbed a tiny fistful of my tangled hair. I smiled weakly at the child in my arms. Then I turned to watch Chloe stalk across the front lawn towards Blake, who was staring at me with a strange look in his electric blue eyes. When we locked gazes, however, Blake quickly looked down at Chloe.
I frowned, feeling heat rise to my cheeks.
"Wave-ree!" Isabel cried.
I turned my attention back to the kid in my arms and smiled.
"What's up, Issie?" I cooed, shifting her into one arm so I could use my free hand to untwist one strap of her hot pink overalls. Isabel was a gorgeous child, no doubt about it, but it looked like her mother's fashion sense was already starting to corrupt her. She was wearing a hideous floral printed shirt under the overalls and striped purple and white socks on her little feet.
"You pretty, Wave-ree," Isabel told me, tugging at the strands of my tangled, still-damp hair she had grasped in her little hand.
"Thanks," I said, "you are, too."
Isabel giggled.
"Me?" she repeated, gazing up at me with wonder in her big brown eyes.
I nodded. "Very pretty."
Isabel beamed up at me and tugged at my hair again. I winced but said nothing.
"Blake, I mean it! Now!" Chloe's frustrated voice carried over the lawn.
I turned to look at the driveway and saw Blake and Chloe locked in the middle of what appeared to be a heated argument. Well, that escalated quickly. Just moments ago, they had both been so calm. Now Blake was standing rigid and red-faced over Chloe, who was also pink in the cheeks and held her hand in front of Blake's face. I watched as Blake angrily smacked his car keys down into Chloe's waiting palm.
"Blake in trouble!" Isabel giggled.
"Yeah," I sighed, "looks like Blake's in trouble."
"Bad boy!" Isabel yelled at her half-brother.
Luckily, Blake was too busy glaring at Chloe to hear. It felt like everyone was holding their breath. Then Chloe turned and started across the lawn again, and the tension was broken. I watched silently as she climbed the steps and smiled at me.
It was a fake smile, though. One that didn't reach her eyes.
"I'm going to go get George and we'll be off," she told me, taking a deep, shaky breath before giving me an embarrassed laugh. "If it's not too much trouble to ask, Waverly, could you make sure Blake doesn't leave the house tonight? Just give me a call if he tries anything silly."
Great. Now I'm babysitting two kids.
"Sure thing, Mrs. Hamilton," I replied.
I could have argued, but Chloe didn't look like she needed another reason to be upset. So I stayed silent as she walked past me and disappeared into the house. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Blake start to make his way towards the porch. I was too nervous to make eye contact, so instead I looked down at Isabel.
"It's alright, Issie," I whispered, noticing the distressed crease between her eyebrows.
"Mommy mad," she mumbled.
I opened my mouth to tell her that mommy was just having a bad day, but the words never made it out. Blake Hamilton's shoulder brushed up against mine as he stormed into the house. I staggered back a step and tightened my grip around Isabel.
"Blake mad, too!" the toddler observed.
"Well," I said with a shrug, "nothing new there."
Isabel just frowned at me.
"C'mon, kiddo," I sighed, turning towards the front door.
Just as I stepped into the house, two pairs of footsteps came thundering down the wide staircase across the living room. I froze in the small entry hall and watched as Chloe and George arrived at the bottom of the steps, both wearing all white and sporting matching frowns. They stomped across the living room, muttering angrily to each other, and stopped suddenly when they spotted me standing in the little entry hall.
"Waverly?" George asked, his surprise evident on his face.
"Hi, Mr. Hamilton!" I chirped, trying my best to pretend I hadn't seen a glimpse of the family drama taking place in his house. I even offered him an awkward, one-handed wave.
"What are you doing here?" George asked, still sounding surprised to see me.
I couldn't blame him, though.
"Babysitting," I replied, casually nodding towards Isabel as if she were my proof.
George's eyebrows drew together and he frowned.
"I thought—" he began.
"Your son is cunning, I'll give him that," Chloe hissed, jabbing a finger at George's protruding stomach, "but somehow, he's gotten this poor girl to agree to babysit Isabel."
"Chloe," George let out a heavy sigh, closed his eyes, and brought up his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. In that moment, I couldn't help but realize how much he looked like Blake; sure, he was way older and his stomach was a little bit bigger, but he had the same dark eyebrows that furrowed together so often.
"I took his car keys, George, but you know he'll find a way to sneak out tonight," Chloe said before her husband could say anything. She folded her arms across her chest and took a deep breath; I could tell she was having an intense internal battle. It looked like she wanted to cry and scream all at once.
When she spoke again, her voice was softer.
"He already hates me," she all but whispered. "This time, it's your turn to whip out the discipline. I'm done playing evil stepmom."
With that, Chloe turned and stalked past me.
I listened to her wedge-heeled footsteps as she flew down the porch steps and started across the lawn. When I heard the faint crunch of gravel and the click of the silver sedan's car doors, I looked up at George. He smiled weakly at me.
"I'm sorry about all this, Waverly," he said, fidgeting with the silver watch around his left wrist. "You can go on home if you want. I'll call someone up and see if anyone else—"
"No, Mr. Hamilton, it's fine. I'll stay."
"You sure?"
I nodded.
"Thank you," George said on a heavy exhale, "I really appreciate this. Chloe does, too. I'm sorry about her, she's just—you know, she's having a rough time with Blake, and—"
"George," I interrupted, "I understand."
He smiled apologetically.
"Great," he said, clapping his hands together.
I stepped out of the entry hall as George started towards the front door. I watched him hop down the porch steps, cross the yard, and slip into the driver's seat of his silver sedan. Chloe was in the passenger's seat, feverishly wiping her eyes and patting away the mascara trails that stained her cheeks. I awkwardly shifted Isabel into one arm and used my free hand to wave at them as they pulled out of the driveway.
When their car was out of sight, I let out a deep breath of air.
"Wave-ree," Isabel said from her perch in my arms, "I hungry."
"Alright, kiddo," I replied, shutting the front door with my foot, "what do you want to eat?"
"Pas-tuh!" she chirped.
"You got it, boss. I'll see if there's any pasta."
The Hamiltons' house was built exactly like Rachel's house was; the living rooms were the same size, the staircase was placed in the same corner, and by the looks of it, the kitchen was in the same place. But the Hamiltons' house was totally different when it came to interior decoration. While Rachel's living room was mostly white and pale blue, with the singular white couch as the centerpiece of the room, the Hamiltons' had taken a different approach.
The walls of the living room were painted with thick, vertical, white and lavender stripes. In the center of the room, gathered around a flat-screen television mounted on the wall, were a grouping of floral-printed armchairs and one long, eggplant purple couch. Overhead was a vintage-looking chandelier, painted crisp white.
I almost laughed out loud.
It looked like Chloe had been given decorating rites to the living room. I almost felt bad for poor George and Blake. What kind of man wants to live in a house that's so... girly?
"Wave-ree!" Isabel whined.
"Sorry, sorry," I said, hurrying over to the eggplant couch and setting her down on the velvet cushions. "Why don't you watch something on TV while I make pasta?"
"Yeah!" Isabel squealed with delight.
I grabbed the remote off the small white coffee table in front of the couch and flicked on the television. The Hamiltons' had one of those ridiculous cable providers with over a thousand channels. I started searching for the children's channels on the guide. When I found them, I was shocked to see nearly fifty different shows, only about two or three of which I recognized.
"How about Sesame Street?" I asked the toddler on the couch. "Do kids your age still watch that show?"
"Sess-me Street!" Isabel cried.
I clicked on the channel. Isabel's attention was almost instantly stuck on the television screen.
I set the remote back down and hurried towards the kitchen, praying that there was pasta hiding somewhere behind the pristinely polished cupboard doors. Luckily, I found a box of dry bowtie shaped noodles next to the double-door, stainless steel refrigerator.
It looked like at least one of the Hamiltons was a serious chef, because the white marble countertop beside the large sink was covered in jars of spices. I stared down at the bottles, lifting a few to read the labels. But I wasn't much of a cook. For all I knew, the words tarragon and oregano could be the Swedish words for spicy baby-killing nuggets and bitter baby-killing powder. Okay, so I doubted that's what they really were. But still, I didn't want to poison Isabel or anything. So I set down the fancy spices and just grabbed some salt and pepper.
After I brought a pot of water to a boil on the stove, I dumped half the box of pasta in and stirred for a minute before standing on my tiptoes, craning my neck, and peeking back into the living room. Isabel was still sitting on the couch.
I smiled to myself and was about to return my attention to the pot of pasta sitting on the stovetop when something caught my eye.
I frowned and stepped up to the doors of the refrigerator, which were covered in a layer of schedules, school papers, crayon drawings and grocery shopping lists so thick that I could barely see the stainless-steel surface underneath. There were a few things on the door that surprised me. For one, Isabel's crayon depictions of Blake, George, and Chloe were spot-on. Not to mention, someone had taped up what appeared to be a history test Blake took in May. I wasn't sure whether I was more surprised by Blake's immaculate handwriting or the big bold letter A written at the top of the page by his history teacher.
But that wasn't what had originally caught my attention.
In the upper right-hand corner of the fridge, there was a small photo no longer or wider than my thumb. It was faded and dirtied at the edges, but still crisp enough that I could make out the three figures in the photo. There was a man standing in the back, grinning at the camera. It was obviously George, just a younger, slimmer version. With twice as much hair. Next to him sat a woman I didn't recognize, holding a young boy in her arms.
I narrowed my eyes and leaned in towards the picture.
Both the woman and the toddler had familiar blue eyes.
It was Blake... and his mom?
Before my jaw could drop, the kitchen timer started ringing. I jumped into action and sprinted for the pot of boiling pasta on the stovetop. Once I had drained the pasta, I dropped in a few chunks of butter and melted them over the noodles. I quickly spooned some pasta into a little pink plastic bowl and started back into the living room, praying that Sesame Street was distracting enough to keep Isabel from getting cranky about my pitifully slow service.
I only made it halfway through the doorway before I froze.
And I swear, I almost burst into laughter.
Blake Hamilton was sitting on the eggplant couch in the living room, as far away from Isabel as he could manage to get without actually sitting on top of the armrest. His back was rigid and he looked stiff, as if sitting so close to his stepsister made him uncomfortable.
Isabel, however, seemed to be enjoying Blake's company.
"Look, Blake!" She pointed at the television screen and giggled. "Cookie monster!"
"I know, kid," Blake mumbled, "I see him."
Isabel scooted a few inches closer to her older brother, grinning up at him and sitting on her hands. Her legs were so short that only her feet and ankles hung over the edge of the cushions. Blake flinched away from Isabel. Again, I had to suppress the urge to laugh.
What kind of person is afraid of a two-year-old?
"Wave-ree!" Isabel cried.
I had been so busy trying not to snicker at Blake's discomfort that I hadn't noticed Isabel turn to look over the back of the couch, her wispy white-blonde curls bouncing.
Blake's head snapped around.
His blue eyes narrowed when they landed on me.
"Um—" I stuttered out, finally just holding up the pink plastic bowl and hiding my face behind it. I peeked over the bowl and muttered, "I made pasta."
"Pasta!" Isabel cried, leaping up to her feet and stretching out both hands over the back of the couch. I smiled and set the bowl, along with a kiddie fork, into her eager grasp.
"Don't spill anything on the couch," Blake snapped at Isabel as she plopped back down.
I thought I was the one babysitting Isabel.
Besides, wasn't Blake supposed to be, you know, sulking in his room? Isn't that what teenage boys do when they get into shouting matches with their parents? I narrowed my eyes at Blake, who was now glaring at Isabel as she brought up a forkful of pasta to her mouth. A single bowtie shaped noodle slipped off the end of her fork and nearly tumbled onto the couch, but luckily it landed against the edge of the pink plastic bowl.
"Hey! I told you not to drop any!" Blake scolded.
"Leave her alone, Blake!" I snapped. "Just let her eat!"
Blake's eyes went wide for a second before narrowing into a harsh glare. The muscles in his jaw ticked as he clenched down his teeth, obviously trying not to swear at me in front of a two-year-old. Why do boys have to have such square jaws? It's a little intimidating.
"Wave-ree funny!" Isabel giggled.
Blake turned his glare towards the toddler seated beside him.
"Thanks, Issie," I chirped, relieved to have Blake's glare off of me.
"Welcome!" Isabel replied, beaming at me. She turned to face Blake and, still grinning, stuck her tiny pink tongue out at him. Blake's eye went wide and his mouth fell open. I let out a snort of laughter as he spluttered incomprehensibly.
Blake heard my little laugh and his head snapped up.
"You are a terrible influence on her," he accused me, pointing a long finger right at my forehead before jabbing his thumb at Isabel.
I rolled my eyes. "Sure, sure."
Like you're a way better influence, I felt like adding.
"Nu-uh! Wave-ree pretty!" Isabel argued, as if me being pretty somehow made me a better role model.
I started to laugh.
But then I met Blake's eyes, and I felt like all the air had been sucked out of my lungs. I wanted to look away, because I knew my cheeks were flushing an unattractive bright red, but I couldn't tear my gaze away from Blake's bright blue eyes. Suddenly, he seemed to be interested in observing every square centimeter of my face. It was almost as if he was seriously considering Isabel's statement.
My heart started pounding painfully hard against my ribcage.
Did Blake Hamilton think I was pretty?
After a moment of silence, the corners of Blake's lips curled downwards and he returned his gaze to the television screen.
Okay, so, apparently I didn't live up to his standards. In fact, on the list of things-Blake-Hamilton-wants-to-look-at, I ranked behind Sesame Street. But it wasn't my fault; his ex-girlfriend was gorgeous. Alissa Hastings set the bar so God-damned high. How could I compete with someone like her?
The thought alone made me sick to my stomach.
"Finish your pasta, Isabel," I croaked out, surprised by how hoarse my voice sounded.
Unable to stand in the same room as Blake for any longer without either bursting into tears or staring at him like an absolute creeper, I hurried into the kitchen. I poured myself two glasses of water, both of which I downed in one large gulp each.
Okay, so Blake Hamilton didn't think I was pretty.
But didn't I know that already?
I leaned my back against the refrigerator and let out a long, heavy sigh. I'm not sure how long I stood there, clutching a nearly empty glass of water in one hand and bracing myself against the fridge with my other hand. But next thing I knew, I heard heavy footsteps coming towards me.
I straightened up immediately and stepped away from the fridge.
Blake walked in, his arms folded tightly over his chest, wrinkling his perfect white tee-shirt. He surveyed the room quickly, probably assessing the kitchen for any damage I might have caused, before allowing his gaze to land on me. Suddenly, I was very aware of the fact that Blake and I were alone in the kitchen.
No one else was here to see us.
His lips parted, and I braced myself for a declaration of love.
Or, at least an apology for being such a dick all the time.
"Isabel's asleep."
Okay, so that wasn't what I had been hoping for.
"Already?" I asked, my voice cracking slightly from disuse.
"It's like ten o'clock," Blake pointed out, quirking an eyebrow at the clock on the microwave across the kitchen. "Don't most two-year-olds go to sleep by ten?"
"Right," I mumbled, feeling stupid.
Where had the time gone?
"And since you're the babysitter," Blake continued, a mischievous smirk pulling up at the corner of his pink lips as he reached out a finger and poked me right in the middle of my forehead, "you get to carry her up to her crib."
"But—" I began to protest.
"Don't argue, Lyons. We had a deal," Blake told me, still smirking as he leaned back against the fridge. "Now, run along."
I contemplated kicking him in the balls.
"Why are you even here?" I asked before I could stop myself.
Blake frowned warily at me.
"What's that supposed to mean?" he drawled, standing up from his slump against the fridge and looming over me at his full height.
"Chloe said you were going to sneak out," I stated, trying to inconspicuously edge up onto my tiptoes and decrease the gap between our heights.
Blake's frown deepened.
"Well, I didn't," he replied, holding up his arms and motioning down at his body, which was very obviously still in the house and not at some wild teenage party. I frowned, trying to figure out why Blake hadn't even attempted to leave the house. I had been so busy fixing Isabel dinner, I had almost forgotten about him. He could've left the house, and I probably never would have noticed. So why didn't he sneak out?
"Why?" I asked.
Blake opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. He let out a grunt and ran his fingers through his dark hair, sending the already disheveled locks into complete disarray.
"I mean..." Blake began, then trailed off.
"Why didn't you sneak out?" I repeated.
Blake shrugged.
"I guess I wanted to make sure you... didn't kill Isabel... or anything," he fumbled out.
I blinked up at him for a minute.
Our staring contest was interrupted as Blake's cell phone started to vibrate. He shooed me away with one hand and dug into the pocket of his shorts with his other. As he answered his phone, making sure to turn away from me so I couldn't eavesdrop or anything, I stuck my tongue out at his back before turning around and hurrying into the living room, where I found Isabel curled up on the couch. She looked angelic with her white-blonde curls shimmering in the faint glow from the television screen. I took a moment to smile at her before I grabbed the remote, clicked off Sesame Street, and lifted Isabel up from the velvet couch.
Her small head settled down into the crook of my shoulder, and I realized for the first time that Isabel smelled like fresh baby powder.
"Where do I put her?" I whisper-shouted over Isabel's head.
Blake popped into the doorway between the kitchen and the living room.
"Last door on the left," he said, holding his phone against his chest for a moment. I nodded at him to let him know I understood, but lingered around long enough to hear Blake speak into the phone again, "Jesse? Yeah, I'm here... no, it's no one... just Isabel's babysitter."
Why wouldn't Blake want Jesse to know that I'm at his house?
He's probably embarrassed to be associated with me.
I hugged Isabel tight and started up the stairs, trying to keep as silent as possible so she wouldn't wake up.
The upstairs hallways of the Hamiltons' house was dark, but when I pushed open the last door on the left, I found a small nursery that was flooded with moonlight. The window across the room had a picturesque view of the moon hovering over the Atlantic Ocean. I set Isabel down in the white crib underneath the window and tucked her, then glanced up out the window one more time before turning and hurrying out of the room.
I closed the door behind me and tip-toed back downstairs.
I had hardly made it three steps into the living room before Blake Hamilton appeared in front of me, scowling darkly and holding a navy blue sweatshirt in one hand. I stared at the sweatshirt for a moment, then looked up at his frowning face.
And then it hit me.
He was sneaking out.
"Oh, come on!" I cried, slapping my palm over my forehead before pointing an accusatory finger at Blake's broad chest. "It is way too late for this, and I'm tired! Do not make me call your mother!"
"You're serious?" Blake asked. He glanced down at my finger, still planted against his chest, before scoffing. "I don't have time for this."
"I'm serious," I told him, folding my arms across my chest, "I'll call Chloe."
"No, you won't," Blake said.
"What do you mean?" I spluttered at his nonchalance. "Of course I will!"
"No, you won't," he repeated, "because you're coming with me."
"Coming where?"
"Ethan's party. Jesse just invited us. Now, let's go have some fun."
That had to be a lie.
For one thing, Jesse didn't know I was over at Blake's house. He couldn't possibly have invited the both of us. Not to mention, Blake didn't look like he was ready to go have some fun. He looked too tense, like he was ready for a fight or something. Which wouldn't be a surprise, considering he was going to Ethan's party. He hated Ethan.
"Bullshit," I accused.
"Fine," Blake rolled his eyes, "Ethan's throwing a party at his house. Jesse called to let me know that Alissa's drunk out of her mind, and he wanted me to go pick her up. Lena thinks she can handle it, but... look, I don't have time for this. We can talk later."
I wasn't expecting Blake to tell the truth.
And I certainly wasn't expecting that to be the truth.
"Alissa's in trouble?" I asked.
"Yes," Blake hissed out through gritted teeth, "now, can we please go?"
I would have thought the whole knight-in-shining-armor act was cute, but something about the fact that Blake still cared for Alissa, his cheating ex-girlfriend, made me feel sick. And I refused to admit that it was because I wished Blake showed me this kind of care.
"Shouldn't I stay here?" I asked, desperately trying my best to weasel my way out of inevitable trouble. "You know, and watch Isabel. Make sure she doesn't die or anything."
Blake gave me a pointed glare.
"There's a car seat in the front hall closet. We'll bring her," he stated, pulling his navy blue sweatshirt over his shoulders. When his head popped through the jacket, I nearly laughed. His dark hair was all mussed, sticking up at strange angles. I had to shove my hands into the pockets of Rachel's shorts to keep myself from reaching up and running my fingers through his hair. "But I need you to come along."
"Why?" I croaked miserably.
"In case you hadn't noticed, I don't have a car for the night," Blake pointed out, shoving his cellphone into his shorts and adjusting the hem of his sweatshirt.
"So?" I quirked an eyebrow at him. "Neither do I."
Blake looked up at me, a smirk pulling up the corners of his mouth.
"I know you don't have a car," he said, "but your aunt does."