Page 27 of Cautious

“God-fucking-damn it.” With the photo gripped tightly in one hand I sweep the other across my desk, sending letters and files tumbling to the floor. I’m so fucking pissed. I’m angry at her for shutting down, angry at myself for being a fucking dick, and angry at them for fucking dying. I need to?—

“Blake?” I turn at the sound of Marcus’s voice and drop into my chair with a sigh, my anger draining out of me as exhaustion washes over me instead.

“I fucked up. Again.” I keep fucking up. Placing the photo down on the now-empty desk, I bang my head against the wood and try to knock some sense into myself. I lift my head when I hear Marcus close the door. He turns to focus on me, waiting for me to explain.

“I don’t know how to fix this. She’s in denial about what her father did to her. She’s broken off all communication with her mother—I just, what do I do?”

I stare at my friend as he watches me, waiting for his words of wisdom.

“Nothing,” he answers with a shrug, making me frown.

“What? I can’t do nothing. She needs help,” I snap at him.

“Does she, though? What I see is a happy, sassy, beautiful woman who isn’t scared to be around men. Does she have nightmares? Intimacy issues?” he asks me bluntly.

“No,” I answer, thinking about it. “Nothing while I’ve been with her, at least.” Even with the creepy waiter at the restaurant on our first date, she seemed uncomfortable but not scared.

“Then why are you forcing this? It isn’t yours to fix, Blake. If and when she’s ready, you’ll be there for her. We all will. But that’s her call to make. If you force her hand, you’ll force her away.”

“Fuck. I get what you’re saying, Marcus, but I know you spotted her reaction out there when I mentioned Wellington.”

“Yeah, she froze for like a second, before you drew attention to it and dragged her away.”

“She stayed at Wellington with her mother when she was younger,” I explain.

“And?”

“What do you meanand?” I ask, frustrated.

“I mean so fucking what. Blake, you know what happened to her and her mother. You know what happened to her father. It was always likely they stayed in a shelter. So, she froze. Big deal. She likely associates that place with a fucked-up period of her life. From where I’m standing, you are the one that’s struggling with it.”

“Because she hasn’t accepted?—”

He cuts me off with his hand. “She doesn’t owe you anything. She deals with the memories of what happened to her every day, and she’s doing a pretty fucking good job, if you ask me. When she’s ready, she’ll get help. But it won’t be because her boyfriend has a hero complex.”

I jump from my desk and lean over it. “Fuck you, Marcus. That’s bullshit.” I just want to help her.

“Is it really? Have you talked to her about them yet?”

I follow his line of sight to the photo before turning back to him with a snarl. “That has nothing to do with this.” The two things have no correlation with each other whatsoever.

“Yeah? You sleeping through the night now, Blake?” I don’t answer him which, of course, is an answer in itself. I sleep like a baby when I’m with Callie, but alone, not so much.

“Exactly. People who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones. She’s dealing, just like you. Don’t force her to do something you’re not comfortable doing yourself.”

And with that, he leaves, closing the door behind him with an ominous thud and leaving me alone to let it soak in just how much of a dick I am and how badly I fucked up again.

Callie

I arrive at Olivia’s a little before 6:30, still mad at Blake but refusing to stay home and wallow. Besides, Blake is much more likely to track me down at home than come and cause a scene here.

Keeping it casual, I decided to wear a simple navy blue and white floor-length striped maxi dress with my tan wedge sandals and my favorite denim jacket. Not being in the mood to deal with the arduous task of washing and drying my thick hair this afternoon, I’d twisted it up into another messy bun, pulling a few tendrils free to frame my face. It was as good as it was going to get.

I knock on the door, careful not to drop the wine or the cheesecake I made for dessert.

“Callie, you made it. Come on in,” Olivia says when she answers, looking gorgeous in a black pencil skirt and a blood-red blouse. She snags the wine bottle from my hand and indicates for me to come inside.

“Thanks for having me. I made cheesecake too. I didn’t want to turn up empty-handed,” I explain shyly, following her into the brightly lit kitchen.

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