He hums along to music when he’s got earphones in.
Metallica is his favorite band judging by how many of their songs he plays.
Oh, and let’s not forget the obvious—he has a stalker.
Not me. Though I admit, I ponder timing my condo exits to run into him again, but my intentions are not to earn a night.
As hot as Cody is, there’s too much foul history and hatred between us to hope he’d ever look at me like anything but a waste of space. What I want is a chance to apologize. Really apologize, not just throw him a quicksorry. Forgiveness would be best, but it’s a stretch. I can’t expect people to forgive me when I can’t even forgive myself.
I’ll takecivilfrom Cody, as Brandon described it. If we can be civil, maybe somewhere down the line I’ll have a chance to apologize to Mia too. So far, all attempts have been futile.
Even with that goal in mind, I amnotstalking Cody. Ana is.
She was here again today. Or maybe she still is. When I came home an hour ago from my therapy session, she stood by the door, scrolling through her phone, large shades concealing half her face. She didn’t ask me to let her in, so I guess she decided to ambush Cody when he leaves. Which I’m sure he will.
It’s Saturday. He usually hangs out with his brothers, but they don’t meet until seven or eight in the evening, so Ana has a good six-hour wait ahead.
The notes Cody plays right now grow angrier with every strum, but it takes nothing away from the melody. If anything, it gives it a raw, gritty edge that sends shivers down my spine.
My fingers twitch as I spin a pencil between them. I’ve been sitting on the floor, back against the door, sketchpad in hand every day, but the pages are blank. I’d love to sketch him with his guitar, engrossed in the music, but I can’t seem to start.
I shouldn’t be thinking about Cody at all. I shouldn’t imagine how he looks right now. I shouldn’t listen to him play.
He’s not said one word to me in over seven months—since the Halloween party—but now we live across the hallway and I see him daily, the stupid crush has resurfaced.
I know I’m just trying to break the loneliness somehow, and I know Cody’s the last person I should lust after but it’s hard not to think about someone you see every day...
A loud knock on the door almost has me spilling tea all over myself. I know that knock. It’s so distinct there is no mistaking who stands on the other side.
KNOCK knock-knock-knock-knock KNOCK-KNOCK.
My muscles pull taut when, a second later, he knocks again, an angry boom. Before I scramble to my feet, a tight ball of nerves settles deep in my stomach.
He knocks again, measured annoyance reverberating through each thump of his fist as if I’m purposely making him wait.
I cast a quick glance in the mirrored coat closet doors, making sure I look decent. I purposely leave the scrunchie holding my hair up intact—a tiny blade in his back. Mom always wore her hair up and he hates that I remind him of her so much.
“Hey, Dad,” I say, stepping out of his way as he strolls inside, loosening his tie as if it’s choking him.
Stopping in the middle of the living room, he assesses the space, delaying the moment when his gaze will inevitably land on me. He has no problem using me, but looking at me when I’m not playing a role is a hard pill to swallow. Even standing ten feet away, I notice his breathing hiccup when our eyes lock.
It doesn’t last long.
After a fleeting glance, he returns to the safety of scrutinizing my new condo. “You’re not dressed,” he clips, two angry creases lining his forehead. “And this place is a fucking mess, Blair.”
Other than my sketchpad on the breakfast bar and a single Victoria’s Secret bag hanging over the back of the stool, nothing is out of order. He could eat off the floor it’s so clean.
“I didn’t have time to put the sketchbook away. I was—”
“Excuses,” he snaps, his eyes quickly appraising my body as he pinches the bridge of his nose in clear exasperation. “What is this?” He points at a wooden stand housing a few plants I bought to give this place a less clinical vibe.
This is my father’s idea of small talk—belittling me and finding faults in things I enjoy to reinforce the sky-high wall between us. Not that it needs reinforcing.
We barely speak unless I’m required to play a role in his schemes. Outside that, he usually contacts me through his assistant.
During the past year, I’ve seen him a dozen times at the many banquets and business meetings he organizes, but only twice outside the “work” environment, even though we lived in the same house the whole time.
I saw him at my mother’s funeral, then again when he handed me the key to this condo. A subtle way of sayingI can’t stand having you under my roof any longer.
