“What?”
“So I may have broken your face.”
Despite myself, a burst of laughter sputters out. I go to the mirror in the corridor to examine my reflection, sighing when I see my cheek. Blake got me right in the bone, and the skin is already starting to turn purple. Definitely gonna be a bruise tomorrow. Close enough to my eye that it might end up being a shiner too.
“I take no responsibility for the hypothermia,” Blake says when I return to the kitchen, “but I will very graciously apologize for the beer can.”
“Where’d you learn to throw like that, kid? Did you train with a major-league pitcher?”
“My dad,” she says before frowning at me. “And don’t call me kid.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not five years old.”
I slide onto one of the stools at the counter. “Whatever you say, kid.”
She ignores that. “Let me find something for your face.”
As we wait for the kettle to boil, she rummages in the freezer and pulls out an ice pack.
“Get that away from me,” I squawk. “I’m still freezing.”
She ignores that too, pressing the pack against the left side of my face. “Trust me. You’ll thank me in the morning.”
My breath hitches, and I hope she doesn’t notice. Her face is so close to mine, I can practically make out every freckle. The color is finally returning to her cheeks, giving them a pinkish hue.
“You have a lot of freckles,” I mutter.
“Oh wow, really? I never noticed.” Leaving me to ice my own cheek, she grabs two mugs from the cabinet. “What are you doing in Tahoe, Wyatt? I had my flight booked four days ago. We even checked with your parents to see if anyone would be here before mid-July, and they said no.”
“Yeah, it was sort of an impulsive decision.”
“They don’t know you’re here?”
“Well, I assume they will now.” I give her a pointed look.
Blake rolls her eyes. “What, did I ruin it? You were trying to hide from your family?”
“Not hide. Just…regroup.”
“Regroup,” she echoes.
“Yes.”
I don’t elaborate. It’s hard enough formeto make sense of what’s in my own head, let alone articulate it to other people. My mind is in a perpetual state of chaos. When I’m writing, I can channel thenoise into something beautiful. Something productive. But when I’m blocked, the noise becomes deafening.
It’s been a year.
I haven’t written anything in a goddamn year. Anything good, that is. I hoped that a change of scenery might help, but Blake just threw a wrench in that.
“How long are you here for?” I ask warily.
“The whole summer.”
Shit. That was my plan.
The kettle starts hissing, diverting her attention. She keeps her back to me as she prepares our tea, giving me an opportunity to stare without consequences. Her long hair cascades down the back of her robe in damp waves, curling at the ends. There might be something wrong with me, some dormant hair kink she triggers in me, because I notice Blake’s hair every time she’s in the same room as me, my mind flooded with images of all the things I could do to it.
