Page 169 of The Fall
It’s beenthree days since he kissed me in my apartment. Three days of texts and stolen moments, and three days of waiting for tonight.
I rub my palms against my jeans. My reflection in the glass of his front door holds still, half-inside my mind, half-out of it. My finger hovers over the doorbell.
Before I touch it, the door swings open.
Blair fills the entry, solid and sun-burnished. He’s immaculate, wearing a gray T-shirt stretched tight across his arms, his hair damp and messy like he’s run nervous fingers through it endlessly since showering, but I catch the tension beneath his calm that matches the trembling in my hands.
“Right on time.”
“Had to startle the captain with my punctuality.”
“Glad you made it. Traffic okay?”
“Yeah, the Uber got me here.” Even after all this time, I still haven’t bought a car.
He welcomes me into his home, and the same known-unknown sensation from Thanksgiving washes over me. He slips into small talk: here’s the entry bench, I can drop my stuffanywhere—I still have my gear bag with me from the rink—do I want water or Gatorade?—
He’s nervous. He means to sound effortless, but his voice is deeper than usual. I drop my bag by the bench. “Water’s good,” I say. I follow him to the kitchen. “Nice place.”
He hands me a water bottle from his fridge. Our fingers brush. “Thanks. Bought it after my second season here.”
I take a sip, watching him. His eyes dart away, then back. I’m in his house for our first date and both of us are fucking rattled.
I lower the bottle, searching for words. We’ve been through so much, and now we’re standing in his kitchen, two feet apart, acting like strangers.
Enough of this. I ditch the water bottle and circle the island. He watches me come to him like he’s facing down a breakaway.
I take his hand from where he’s gripping the counter edge, and, before he can blink, I drop a kiss to his knuckles.
He exhales. His hand curls around mine, and the barrier between us shatters.
Blair steps forward, erasing the space I’d crossed. His free hand rises to my face, hovering a breath away from my cheek. I lean into his touch. His palm is warm against my skin, thumb grazing my cheekbone.
“Three days felt like forever,” he says. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you. About this.”
I turn my face and drop my lips to his wrist. “Me, too. Every minute at practice, I was counting down.”
That earns me a shy and crooked smile. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says, his voice dropping to a whisper. His thumb moves over my knuckles. “Come on. Let’s sit outside.”
He slides the back doors open, and humid air, sweet with salt, spills across us. The canal behind the house is a mirror of the sky, reflecting the evening’s sunset in a hush of moving water, slow and thick as syrup. It’s quiet and peaceful, with onlythe rustle of the wind through the palms. He leads me to his outdoor couch. We sink down together.
All the seams of the world loosen. I want to drown and float in him at the same time.
His arm wraps around my shoulders, drawing me against his side. Our bodies meld together as the sky deepens from orange to purple. A boat drifts by on the canal, its wake spreading in gentle ripples.
Hockey comes up between us first. It’s safe territory. “How was your checkup with Doc today?” he asks.
“Good. The balance exercises and the stretching have really helped.”
He smiles. “You back on my line tomorrow?”
“I am.”
“Good.”
We joke about Hayes’s slap-shot and Simmer’s hatred of penalty kills and Lily’s Nerf obsession.
“How many wars have you had now?” he asks.
