Page 177 of The Fall
“I know you do.” His mouth quirks up. “That’s why I get them.”
“Softie.” I drop a kiss to his nose.
“Don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation to uphold.”
My laugh bubbles up between us, creating small ripples in the pool water. “Your secret’s safe with me.” I run my fingers through his wet hair, combing it back from his face.
The egrets take flight, startling us both. They soar over the canal, white against the deepening blue of the sky.
The afternoon slides toward evening, shadows lengthening across the patio. We drag ourselves out of the pool and onto the lounge chairs. Blair lies on his back, eyes closed, one arm thrownabove his head, the other stretched toward me, fingers loosely linked with mine.
“You’re staring,” Blair says, his voice low, without opening his eyes.
“Hard not to.”
Water droplets cling to his skin, catching light as his chest rises and falls with each breath. The quiet between us is worn-in, as if we’ve been doing this for years instead of weeks.
He opens one eye, catches my gaze, and his mouth curves up at the corner. It transforms his face from handsome to devastating.
“Tell me something I don’t know about you,” he says.
“My dad used to stack my hockey gear by the front door the night before a game. I couldn’t fall asleep unless I heard the zipper on my gear bag. I knew he had everything taken care of. I could skate my little heart out while he took care of the details.”
I stare at the sky, remembering how Dad always double-checked my skate laces before games. Blair turns on his side to face me, his eyes intent on mine.
“Sometimes I miss that version of him. Before I started winning, before the scouts started coming.” I swallow, surprised by how much this hurts to talk about.
“When did it change?” Blair asks, voice low.
“Gradually. Then all at once.” I take a deep breath of chlorine-scented air. “Before I was ten. That’s when he started talking about my ‘career’ instead of my ‘games.’”
“You don’t talk much about your dad.”
“We’re… taking a break. We need to figure some things out.”
He nods. “I get that.”
If I don’t talk about my dad much, Blair talks about his never. “What about your family?”
He stiffens beside me, the steady rhythm of his breathing interrupted. The silence stretches between us for three, four, five seconds.
“Don’t have one,” he says finally, voice flat.
“Everyone has someone,” I say.
“Not me. Not anymore.”
I wait.
His jaw tightens and relaxes, tightens and relaxes. “They don’t want me. I don’t want them.”
“Your turn,” I say. Reset, change topic. “Tell me something that I don’t know.”
I’ve given him an out, and he takes it. The way his eyes soften tells me he knows what I’m doing and he appreciates it.
“I still trace this scar I have on my knee before every game. It’s from my first big fall when I was six. I got three stitches. I run my thumb over it for luck.”
“Let me see.” I’m clambering into his lap before he finishes.
