Page 35 of Bend & Break
She looks away first, lips parted, cheeks flushed. No quip, no comeback. Just silence thick enough to drown in.
I bend, grab the rubbish bag at my feet, and pretend my hands aren’t still shaking.
Whatever this is, it’s not over. Not even close.
It’s strange,having a Saturday off without practice looming or a game breathing down my neck. The coaches finally gave us the weekend since midterms wrecked half the team, and apparently even sadists know when to let up.
Blake and I rarely get days off, especially not together. And it figures the first one we do have comes on the heels of us basically witnessing a murder. Some rare stroke of luck, and it’s wasted on trying not to lose our minds.
I can think of a hundred better ways to spend the weekend with Blake, but there’s a small, twisted part of me that’s glad we’re in this mess together, because I’m not sure she’d have warmed up to me so quickly otherwise.
Homicide really brings people together.
The living room’s quiet, the takeout bag sitting on the counter, grease already staining through the paper. The smell hangs in the air. Comforting, ordinary.
Pasta, garlic knots, and a box of cannoli that I only ordered because I know they’re her favorite. Enough for two people who haven’t eaten since morning and leftovers for later.
I scroll on my phone, checking for updates I know aren’t there, then shove it aside. The laptop waits on the coffee table, screen dark but heavy with everything we’re about to dig back into. The idea of pressing play again makes my stomach twist, but what choice do we have? We need to figure out who those guys are, and we’re not going to do that by sitting here pretending we didn’t see what we saw.
The bedroom door creaks open, and I’m surprised to find the steam from the shower didn’t set off the smoke detector again, which has happened every time either of us has showered since we replaced the batteries.
Blake steps through, skin still flushed from the heat, damp hair curling against her neck. She’s wearing one of those oversized T-shirts that should look shapeless but doesn’t, because I know her shape by heart.
She doesn’t even glance at me, just pads barefoot across the carpet, toweling the ends of her hair. Meanwhile, I’m sitting here fighting the urge to tell her not to move, not to do anything, because she deserves to stay safe and untouched by all of this. She deserves a quiet night in bed. Reading. Gorging herself on cannoli. Wine. Rest. Maybe a few orgasms in between.
Her shirt clings where the damp from her hair’s soaked through, thin fabric teasing the soft skin underneath. I can’t stop my eyes from tracking her every move. Hips, waist, the line of her back. It’s ridiculous, the way my chest aches with equal parts want and the urge to lock the door, bar the world out, keep her all to myself. In my bed.
Every inch of her has me burning, but it’s tangled up with the all-consuming need to protect her from everything… even from me.
When she finally looks over and spots the takeout bag, her expression eases, the tension around her mouth softening. “Please tell me that’s for both of us.”
“Obviously,” I say, standing to grab it before she can. “What kind of barbarian do you think I am?”
“The kind who eats three meals a day out of the vending machine.”
She’s not wrong. I grin anyway, setting the containers down and handing her a fork like it’s some grand chivalrous gesture. My chest eases a little when she takes it, when she sinks onto the couch and pulls her legs under her like she’s actually comfortable here, with me.
The laptop is a perpetual shadow in the corner of my vision. We’ll get to it. We have to. But right now, she’s here, curled into the couch with a fork in hand, finally eating. I let myself soak in the sight, let myself believe that making sure she’s fed and comfortable is progress. Because if there’s one thing I love, it’s this—getting to take care of her, seeing her relax for once, watching her stomach fill instead of tying itself in knots.
Blake twirls spaghetti onto her fork, eyebrows lifting. “You ordered half the menu.”
I tear a garlic knot in half and point it at her. “Strategic. One of these is bound to bribe you into not murdering me later.”
She bites into the spaghetti, chewing slowly. “Which one do you think?”
I lean back on the couch, grin spreading. “Cannoli. No one murders the guy who brings dessert.”
She hides a smirk behind her glass of water. “You’re putting a lot of faith in a pastry.”
I nudge the takeout box closer to her. “I’d put my life in pastry’s hands. Preferably, your hands, holding the pastry.”
She stabs another bite, eyes narrowed in mock suspicion. “Are you flirting with me through dessert metaphors?”
I steal one of her meatballs and pop it into my mouth. “Yes. And succeeding.”
She kicks my shin under the coffee table, not hard enough to hurt.
She leans in just a little, fork still in hand, eyes bright despite everything. “Don’t push your luck, Keller.”
