Page 128 of Blindside Me
“They’re crunchy. Remind me of summers at my grandma’s, before Mom…” I trail off, picking at the corner of the menu. “She’d make these monster sandwiches, all crooked, pickles falling out everywhere.”
Drew nods, gaze steady. He doesn’t push. “My dad was all about PB&J. No crusts, because Jake hated them. Used to make me cut them off for him, like I was his personal chef.”
“Jake, huh?” I keep it light, matching his tone. “He boss you around a lot?”
“Only every day.” He laughs, but there’s something else there, just for a second. “Kid was a tyrant with a hockey stick.”
The waitress brings our food, plates steaming. I grab a fry, still hot, and point it at him. “Worst food combo you’ve ever tried. Go.”
He pops a fry in his mouth, thinking. “Ketchup on mac and cheese. Jake’s idea. Tasted like regret.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Gross. Mine’s peanut butter and tuna. Thought I was a genius at eight.”
Drew’s laugh is low, real, and it hits me right in the chest. “You’re a menace.”
We eat, swapping stories. His thing for dipping fries in milkshakes, my hatred for soggy cereal. It’s nothing big, just us with greasy fingers and dumb stories, but it feels like everything. Like maybe we’re figuring out who we are, not the hockey star and the girl with walls, just two people sharing fries under a neon sign.
I pause, wiping my hands, the weight of the night settling in. “You ever think I’m too much? All this—I gesture vaguely at myself—“chaos, sharp edges, messy?”
Drew’s eyes meet mine with an intensity I feel deep in my bones. “You don’t scare me. Not your sharp tongue, not your chaos. Not even the mess you think you are.” His voice is low and raw, like he’s been holding this in too long. “I can’t stay away from you, Jade. I don’t want to.”
My breath catches, and for a moment, the diner fades. It’s just us, and the truth that we’re done running from each other. Iswallow, my voice barely a whisper. “I’m not good at this, Drew. People leave. I mess things up.”
He leans closer, his hand finding mine, fingers warm and steady. “If I lose everything else, I’ll regret it. But I’ll regret not choosing you more.” His eyes hold mine, unflinching. “I’m choosing you, Jade. Every time.”
I reach for his hand, fingers brushing his, and the spark is there, undeniable. “Fix yourself, then come back to me.”
“Always.”
I steal his last pickle to break the tension. He doesn’t complain, just watches me with that quiet intensity, like he’s memorizing this moment. I meet his gaze, and for the first time in weeks, I don’t feel like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. This isn’t a fix. It’s a start.
CHAPTER FORTY
Drew
My Jeep idles in the cracked driveway of my childhood home, engine rumbling like it knows I am having second thoughts. The house looks smaller than I remember. More beaten down. Peeling yellow paint curls away from the siding like the place is shedding its skin, trying to become something else.
Kind of like me.
I grip the steering wheel tighter, stretching my scarred knuckles across the leather.Fuck.I really hope I won’t need to use my fists. They’re barely healed. Not that I would hit my father. But self-defense? That’s another story.
I should drive away. Go back to campus. Back to the rink, where things made sense for the first time in days.
But running won’t fix anything. Not this. Not anymore.
Number one on my list of priorities is confronting Dad.
I kill the engine and step out. The lawn hasn’t been mowed in weeks, maybe months. Dead leaves still cling to the corners where the wind pushed them. Dad’s truck sits in the same spot, rust creeping up the wheel wells like a disease.
Twelve steps to the front door. I counted them every day as a kid. Still twelve. Always the same. Each one now feels like moving through concrete.
The porch creaks under my weight. The doorbell hasn’t worked since I was fourteen, so I knock. The sound echoes hollowly. My breath catches. My stomach tightens into that familiar knot.
Footsteps approach from inside. Heavy. Unhurried. The lock clicks, and the door swings open.
Dad fills the doorway, beer in hand. Not his first, judging by the glassy shine in his eyes. The gray strands streaking his dark hair makes him look older as does the lines carving deeper around his mouth. But his presence fills the space, making me feel like I’m taking up too much air.
“Well,” he says, voice rough from years of shouting and whiskey. “Look what the cat dragged in.”
