Original Edition: Chapter Thirty

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We sat in Alissa's car for a long time.

At first, we just talked—quietly, candidly.

But after a while, someone handed Jesse the auxiliary cord so he could plug in his phone and introduce us to a Spotify playlist made up exclusively of pop songs by Norwegian girl bands. The rest of us gave him some shit for it, but Alissa just sat forward in the driver's seat and smiled to herself while she swayed to the drumbeat.

Blake's hand wandered into my lap to wrap around mine.

I knit our fingers together and bumped my shoulder against his.

It was an all-around nice time.

Eventually, when the wind was battering the side of the car with palm fronds and rain so hard that I began to wonder if it was possible for the storm to tip over a massive Range Rover weighed down with five people, we decided it was time to head home.

It was only when we started driving that we realized how bad the storm had gotten.

Entire blocks had flooded, curb to curb.

Alissa grew increasingly frustrated when she had to drive in loops and retrace our steps to avoid stretches of the road that were littered with debris and rainwater.

I was a bit relieved when we finally pulled onto our street, but beside me, Blake tensed. It didn't take a genius to figure out his sudden shift—we could all see the Hamilton's silver sedan parked in their driveway, sitting there as ominously as a 2004 Honda Accord could.

Chloe was home.

"Look, Blake! She's—" Jesse began, just as Lena said, "I'll fight her for you—" and Alissa chimed in with, "Who fucking cares if—" and I cried, "This is good!"

Blake sighed as we started to talk over each other, supplying words of encouragement and advice that he hadn't asked for.

"Guys," he finally said.

We all shut up.

"I'm fine."

This statement was almost as unassuming as his family's car, but equally ominous given the context.

Alissa, Lena, Jesse and I all exchanged looks, eyebrows raised and eyes wide, each of us trying to work out if anyone knew Blake well enough to predict what he was going to do.

He seemed calm.

I couldn't figure out if that was a good or bad thing.

Alissa pulled into the driveway behind the Hamilton's sedan and parked. Jesse unplugged his phone, cutting off the music mid bongo drum solo, and we all slipped out into the rain and made a mad dash for the porch.

We found Chloe and George in the dining room.

They sat in seats next to each other on one side of the circular table, their chairs pushed together and their heads bent as they talked in hushed voices. George had his arm slung over the back of Chloe's chair, his hand tracing shapes on her back, as she fiddled nervously with the handle of a hard-to-mistake white bag resting on the table.

I hated to intrude on what looked like such a private moment, but as soon as Jesse slammed the front door shut behind himself, there was no hiding.

Chloe jumped to her feet.

"Kids," George said in greeting.

His eyebrows furrowed as he took in his son and me. We had to be quite the sight—Blake in his sweatshirt and sweatpants combo, me in mud-smeared pajama pants and a cherry red Disney World poncho, both of us still decently soaked from our little stroll.

Alissa, Lena and Jesse stopped in the doorway between the living room and the dining room. I hung back with them, watching as Blake stepped forward to face his stepmother.

I couldn't read him.

Not his blank expression, not his body language.

Chloe seemed to be having an equally difficult time gauging his emotional status, because she seemed jittery with nerves as she wiped her palms against her jeans and met his eyes.

"I'm sorry," she blurted, tucking her hair behind her ears. "I didn't—I didn't realize I'd be gone so long. I thought—I just ran to the Apple store in Marlin Bay—I wanted it to be a surprise."

She scooped up the bag on the dining table.

Then she turned back towards Blake and held it out by the handle. A peace offering.

"I'm so sorry about your phone," she said.

Blake looked at the bag for a long, terrible moment.

He reached out and took it from her. Then, without looking inside, he set it carefully on the floor next to his feet.

And he hugged her.

It was poorly coordinated, like two people who'd never had a hug in their lives and had only read about them in academic texts.

Blake had to hunch significantly to wrap his arms around her middle, and one of Chloe's arms was trapped between them. Her eyes, which I could see over Blake's shoulder, were wide with stunned surprise. But after a beat, she seemed to realize what was happening. She tugged her arm free. And then, very tentatively, Chloe looped her arms around the wide stretch of Blake's shoulders.

I saw her blink. Once, twice.

Her eyes began to water.

She squeezed them shut.

George stood from the table and nodded his head at the doorway, motioning for the rest of us to clear the room so the two of them could have a moment alone.

"That went really well," Lena whispered as we shuffled into the living room.

It had, in fact, gone fucking superbly.

The five of us turned on the television, with the volume low enough that we could talk but loud enough so that Chloe and Blake wouldn't have to worry about us eavesdropping.

"Anybody else feel like this has been the longest day of their life?" Jesse asked, dropping into an armchair and slouching so low that his chin essentially rested against his chest.

George and I raised our hands simultaneously and exchanged glances.

"Your aunt called," he said. "She told me you were the one who chased down my son."

I nodded.

"Thank you."

"Of course," I said, like chasing down your boyfriend while he had a panic attack during a tropical storm was typical Saturday stuff.

"Can I get you a towel?"

"Please."

George saluted me and disappeared upstairs.

"I really wanna hear what they're saying," Lena murmured, craning her neck to peek over the back of the couch and through to the dining room.

Alissa plucked up a decorative pillow and whomped her with it.

"Don't be rude," she said. "Give them some—oh my gosh, look at them. They're actually talking. Like, inside voice talking. This is wild."

"Right?" Lena exclaimed. "Waverly, what did you do to the boy?"

The three of them looked up at me from their seats.

My face flushed. I shrugged.

Alissa narrowed her eyes at me.

Then she grinned.

"You told him."

Lena's eyes went wide. Jesse frowned and looked between the three of us like we'd suddenly started speaking French.

"Told him what?" he demanded.

"That she loves him," Lena huffed.

"Oh," Jesse said, waving us off and leaning back in his seat again. "That."

I folded my arms over my chest and grunted in outrage.

"Does everyone just assume that—"

"Well, do you?"

"—yeah, but—"

"Okey dokes!" George Hamilton announced as he came plodding back down the stairs. "Got you a towel!"

I closed my mouth so fast I nearly bit my tongue.

"Thank you," I mumbled as I caught the enormous neon blue beach towel he tossed me.

My friends watched me towel dry the tips of my hair with shit eating grins on their faces.

"I didn't tell him," I grumbled.

They all tossed up their arms and groaned like they'd just watched their favorite sports team miss a much-needed point.

"What are we upset about?" George frowned.

Luckily, nobody had time to fill him in.

Chloe and Blake chose that moment to appear in the doorway, both of them a bit puffy-eyed but visibly happier.

"We're done," Chloe announced with a sheepish laugh. "Sorry about that, everyone."

Blake smiled.

He met my eyes and nodded once, in a way that said, we figured it out.

There was a moment of content silence as we all stood there, basking in each other's company. Tropical Storm Donald chose that moment to break up our little family reunion with a thunder rumble so loud it shook the walls.

"Oh, wow," Chloe blurted, wide-eyed. "I forgot it was even raining."

"It's pretty bad out there," Alissa piped up. "A lot of the roads around town are flooded."

"I think this storm is serious stuff, honey," George said to his wife. "I don't think it's safe for the kids to drive home."

"Well," Chloe said with a shrug, "let's just have a sleepover."

And so it was decided.

Boundary rules were quickly established and negotiated—no girls upstairs, no sharing sleeping bags, and no touching the cabinet where George kept the good whiskey. Chloe said this all while wringing her hands, glancing at Blake every now and again to be sure she wasn't being too pushy or out of line.

When she was done, he nodded.

"Yes, ma'am."

Her shoulders sagged with relief and she beamed at him.

"You guys want some cookies? I'll make some cookies. Chocolate chip? S'mores? I can do both. I'll just do both."

Chloe trotted off into the kitchen, bouncing with excitement at the prospect of getting to play hostess.

While Blake and Jesse ran upstairs to round up some sleeping bags, blankets and pillows, Alissa, Lena and I pushed the coffee table to one side of the living room, so the carpet was clear. The two of them started talking logistics, like a pair of architects. I stood back as they mapped out how five people could sleep comfortably in the room, my thoughts still on our conversation.

You told him.

I hadn't. Not really.

Should I?

Oh, god. My stomach was in knots.

I managed to recover from my stress-induced nausea (miraculously) when Chloe brought out an enormous platter of cookies.

"Waverly, hon, do you want to borrow some pajamas or something?" Chloe asked, eyeing my outfit.

"That would be fantastic!" I said through a mouthful of chocolate chip cookie.

I regretted this, fifteen minutes later, when I stepped out of the downstairs bathroom wearing a pair of hot pink pajamas with little snowflakes all over them. The sleeves didn't reach my wrists. The pants hit me mid-calf. It didn't help that I'd taken a very hot shower, so my face essentially matched.

"I am a strawberry popsicle," I announced.

Alissa tried not to laugh and failed miserably.

"Stand still for a sec," Lena murmured, holding up her phone. "Just—checking—" the flash went off, "—my email."

I huffed.

"At least you're dry," Alissa offered.

It was a nice consolation.

Besides. I'd worn worse that summer. At least Chloe was too bougie for polyester.

I was rocking a hundred percent cotton, baby.

With my wet clothes tucked away in a plastic shopping bag under my arm, I left Alissa and Lena to fight over the sink and padded back into the living room. Blake was rolling out a sleeping bag next to the couch I'd claimed. He'd changed into a clean pair of pajamas—sweats and a long-sleeved shirt—and by the look of his wet hair, he'd showered, too.

"Where'd Jesse go?" I asked.

Blake shook out his pillow.

"He's upstairs, grabbing a few more blankets. Should I flip my sleeping bag around? Jesse's gonna be on the floor over there, and he kicks in his sleep, so I'm kind of scared he's going to break my nose in the middle of the night. But his morning breath is honestly worse than a kick to the face, so—"

"I love you."

Oh dear god, I thought in horror. That was me. I said that.

Blake's mouth snapped shut.

Why in the ever-loving fuck was I so bad at timing these things?

This moment could not get worse.

Blake's mouth twisted into a frown and he set his hands on his hips.

"Damn it," he grumbled under his breath.

It's worse.

My shoulders slumped and I clapped a hand over my eyes, wishing there was some kind of eject button that would catapult me out of the Hamiltons' living room.

"I did not mean to just blurt that—"

"I wanted to say it first."

My breath whooshed out of my body. I let out a half laugh, half croak of relief. Then I lurched forward and punched Blake in the arm.

I tried to scowl and look reprimanding, but I'm pretty sure I was laughing.

"You—big—idiot. I got all nervous!"

Blake darted forward and kissed the tip of my nose, wrapping his arms around mine before I could sock him again.

"I'm sorry, Waverly," he said, laughing against my forehead. "Obviously, I love you too. But I had this big plan and—ugh. This living room is, like, the least romantic place on earth."

"Port-a-potty," I mumbled into his shirt.

"This living room is the second least romantic place on earth," he corrected.

I pulled back my head so I could meet his eyes. Electric blue. All lit up with joy.

"You love me," I teased.

He nodded vehemently.

"I do. Waverly, you—"

"Bro! Feel this blanket!" Jesse shouted as he came stomping down the stairs, the upper half of his body completely hidden behind the massive stack of blankets piled in his arms. "It's the softest fucking blanket I've ever felt in my life."

Blake sighed sadly and squeezed his eyes shut.

"It was going to be so romantic," he murmured.

I shrugged. "I think it was pretty romantic. You. Me. Mood lighting from the storm. These awful pajamas. Jesse. What more could I ask for?"

Jesse stopped beside us to drop the pile of blankets.

"So are we gonna watch a movie, or what?" he demanded. "Because I haven't seen Mamma Mia in ages. So that's my vote."

Jesse was quickly overruled by Lena, who wanted to watch The Godfather and was perhaps the most gifted Rock Paper Scissors player I'd ever witnessed.

Chloe and George hovered for a while, seemingly concerned that we would soon revoke our cookies and classic cinema for some edgier teenage behavior. But eventually they determined that we were, in fact, just a bunch of dorks having a nice, wholesome night in, and that George's good whiskey was not in any danger.

"Goodnight!" Chloe called as the two of them headed upstairs. "See you all in the morning. Do you guys like French toast? Scrambled eggs? I'll just do both—"

George put a hand on her back and gave her a firm push up the stairs.

"Night, kids!" he shouted.

I'd never had a sleepover before. It was nice. Even if the movie wasn't exactly my cup of tea—I liked that Lena knew every line and did a pretty solid Sicilian accent. I liked Chloe's cookies. I liked sitting on the couch next to my boyfriend, who loved me, and whom I loved.

I tried not to think about the future.

The present was too good to waste.

And later, in the dark, with the rain battering the house and Lena's steady snoring like surround-sound ambient noise, I rolled onto my side so I could look over the edge of the couch cushions. Blake was on his back, the top of his sleeping bag pulled up to his chest, so his arms were free. He blinked up at me. I blinked back. And, without a word, I stretched my hand down just as he lifted his up to meet mine.

We locked fingers and held on tight.

The distance didn't matter. We'd always reach each other.


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