“Bugging!” she screeches. “And stop acting like you don’t know who that is.”
I take a closer look at him as he jogs up to us but stops five yards away. Probably because he’s a pussy ass little bitch manwith glamor muscles and stupid hair and moisturized skin like a total lame-o. “Is he your childhood best friend who always thought you’d end up married, only for you to friend zone him or something?”
I don’t even know where that came from.
The guy has the audacity to look abashed at that. “Oh no, you saw30 or Bust.I’m so sorry.”
I take one last hard look at him and realize he’s the guy from that movie. That was a fucking banger, I watched it probably half a dozen times because it was on rotation for flight movie options for a while, but in my opinion? The dude has not aged well.
I attempt to push the stroller again, but Tilly still blocks me. “Blaise. Apologize.”
“I said it was an accident!” I whisper, but now there’s a wheezing sound in it. This guy’s all old and decrepit and creeping on my . . . fucking whatever she is, but mine, but if he’s famous, I’m gonna get so much in trouble for pegging him in the gut with a football.
He looks willing to drop it, actually, but Tilly pushes. “Literally no, you didn’t. Stop being an ice hole and apologize for . . . why did you even do that? Oh my Bob.”
But then the dude, Emerson, just says, “It’s cool. But I’m gonna keep the ball. And can you sign it? It’ll be a great story.” He chuckles to himself. “Randomly getting hit by a ball thrown by Blaise Sinclair. No one will believe me.”
What a fucktwat.
Chapter 20
Tilly
It takes carrying Donovan upstairs, accidentally waking him up, hiding in the bathroom to nurse him in the dark until he passes back out, and settling him into his crib for me to process what just happened.
Blaise Sinclair is actually insane.
For real insane.
That’s something an insane person does.
And to attempt to lie like that, like he doesn’t get paid millions of dollars every year to throw footballs halfway across the field with surgical accuracy? Although I can’t for the life of me figure out where all that money goes when he was actually bitching about the price of eggs this weekend and seemed to imply it was my fault he decided to only get a dozen when he’s been going through at least two dozen every week.
Insane. Allof that.
And cruel. And pointless. And so incredibly confusing.
Nothing about what’s happened since Donovan arrived with Blaise in tow has made a lot of sense. I’ve had to accept a lot. A lot of what I’ve had to accept is bad, but it’s been worth it because even now, two months later, finally in the best health I’ve been in since starting chemo, I know I can’t do this by myself.
I’ve always known this.
I don’t know why I let myself get to this point, but at least there seemed to be a truce between Blaise and me. I thought he was getting over whatever slight he’d perceived. Yeah, he still glared at me at the most random times, the times when I thought we were really getting along, but we’ve been precariously stable. But now? I think . . .
I think I can’t keep doing this with him.
It hits me at the same time that something hits the trash can, and I look up in time to realize that Blaise has just thrown out the new wig Emerson brought me. It wasn’t even one of the things he took me shopping for. It was a really nice lace-front that he brought simply because I’d mentioned to him how out of place I was feeling now that I’ve been pulled into Joss’s football mommy circle. Everyone’s just so polished, with only Cadence breaking the mold with her gently purple but perfectly styled hair. But even Cadence is trying to hit an aesthetic that doesn’t match her past — half the time I see her, she has concealer on the tiny star tattoos she has near her hairline — and I’m stuck in either costume wigs or slouch caps.
“Get out,” I whisper, my voice flat, but it’s not even to keep from waking Donovan. Blaise is a psycho, and I need him to go. The wig’s bagged, so I can get it out of the trash after he leaves. I don’t need to know what possessed him to throw it out. I just need him gone.
I expect a fight from him. I expect frustration or anger. I expect him to belittle me or gaslight me.
I don’t expect him to reach me in three long slides and force me all the way back to the wall with a hand positioned just right over my collarbone that I can feel the pressure on my throat without the fear that he’d actually choke me.
And yes, there’s anger in his smoky eyes. It’s rare we’re this close and eye-to-eye; it always unnerves me when it hits me that they’re the same color as Donovan’s biological father’s, although I never once saw anger in his eyes. Only affection. And lust.
I swear I’m seeing that same lust in Blaise’s eyes now, but that’s impossible. Or maybe it’s the reflection of mine in his. He’s so close, and he’s breathing so hard, like he’s just gotten a great work-out but he’s ready to go again. His natural musk pairs well with his aftershave, which comes in an unlabeled bottle, so I’ve only ever been able to guess at its woodsy notes and its faint floral kick. Frustration comes in all flavors, and there comes a point where it’s hard to distinguish between them.
I need him to go.
