Love Song(62)

The change of scenery or the muse? taunts the annoying voice in my head.

“Fuck off,” I tell the voice. Out loud. Which is never a good sign. Usually once I start talking to myself, it means I’m nearing the delirium point of the insomnia cycle. Might be time to crack open a few beers.

I grab an IPA from the fridge and carry it outside, but the alcohol doesn’t stop the thoughts of Blake from surfacing. Why is she so damn easy to talk to? I told her things last night that I’ve never shared with anyone else. Like how a part of me is envious of the connection my dad and Gigi have. It’s a bond I know he and I can never have, and that hurts sometimes.

I love my dad, but his brain is all hockey all the time, whereas my brain, as I told Blake, is chaos. It’s music. It’s incoherent thoughts and snippets of inspiration. It’s melodies, ones that speak through me, and others I can hear so clearly in my head only to never be able to recreate with any instrument. It’s so loud inside my head, louder than someone like my dad, who has a one-track mind, can ever understand.

Hasn’t been that loud lately… that voice points out.

No, I realize, gulping. My head’s been quieter these past couple weeks with Blake here. You’d think all our bickering and arguing would create more tension and stress, more noise, but it’s had the opposite effect.

Blake isn’t even gone two hours, home before ten. I’m lying on the couch when she returns, but rather than go up to bed, she plants herself in the dining room to work on the puzzle. Usually we puzzle together, but I’m trying hard to maintain this space bubble right now, so I stay on the couch, scrolling on my phone. But my gaze keeps unwittingly drifting toward the dining table, where Blake is scrutinizing a puzzle piece like it offers the meaning of life.

“What are you?” she mumbles, because she always talks to herself when she puzzles. “Are you sky? Or are you water? What in tarnation are you?”

I choke down a laugh, then get up to grab another beer from the fridge.

“That’s your third beer in an hour,” she remarks, and I don’t miss the disapproval in her eyes.

I suddenly remember what happened the last time I tried to conquer insomnia by getting loaded, and I find myself putting the beer back on the shelf.

“I think I’ll turn in,” I say without meeting her gaze.

I’m halfway to the stairs when her voice stops me.

“It was just talking.”

Her blue eyes meet mine across the room.

“We stayed up all night talking. It’s not a big deal, Wyatt.”

She says this as if I’ve never encountered a straight human woman in my life.

We stayed up all night talking. Yeah. Exactly. And that is a big deal. I recognize how big a deal it is, and I’m a man. So I can only imagine the fantasies swirling through her mind right now. She’s probably designing the wedding invitations in there.

But sure, if she wants to be dishonest, then so will I.

I shrug. “You’re right. It wasn’t a big deal.”

“Then why were you avoiding me today?”

“I wasn’t. Just thought we might need some space to do our own thing today. So neither of us would read too much into what happened.”

“You mean me,” she says darkly. “I’m the one who’s going to read too much into it, right? Because I’m some naive idiot who now thinks you’re in love with me because we spilled our guts to each other last night.” Her lips curl in a frown. “Trust me, I am well aware that you don’t want me, okay?”

Jesus.

My chest tightens.

I want you.

The confession burns my throat, but I refuse to let it escape. If I do, I’ll never be able to take it back.

“I know you’re not in love with me. And it’s hilarious to even think it, right?” Bitterness laces her tone. “So funny, right, Wyatt? Just like when I was sixteen and stupid enough to have a crush on you. You laughed then too.”

“Blake—”

“No,” she interrupts. “You don’t have to explain. I get it. I was a joke then, and I’m a joke now. It’s fine.”

Misery clamps around my throat. She thinks I see her as a joke?

At the table, Blake throws down her puzzle piece and pushes the box away. “You know what? I think I’ll turn in too.”

As she tries to bulldoze past me, I reach out and grab her hand, stilling her.

“You’re not a joke,” I say, my voice low, rougher than I mean for it to be. “You’ve never been a joke.”

She stares at me, eyes hard, then offers a tight shrug and brushes my hand off. “Could have fooled me.”

She disappears upstairs, and a moment later, I hear her bedroom door latching shut.

Fuck!

Since I got here, all I’ve done is piss her off and hurt her feelings. I should just go back to Nashville, let Blake enjoy Tahoe without my broody, complicated ass dragging her down.

We spend the rest of the night in our respective rooms. I shoot off some texts and watch a tutorial about classical guitar, because why not. Around midnight, when I’m about to try to force sleep, I hear stomping in Blake’s bedroom, followed by stomping in the hall as she stomps past my door and stomps down the stairs. Someone’s trying to annoy me, it appears.

I assume she’s getting something from the kitchen, so I tense up when I hear the sharp beep of the alarm disengaging. That sounded like the back door.