She had written something about me. Was it possible that I'd haunted her as much as she'd inadvertently haunted me?
And what did it mean if I had? My brain swarmed with the usual words—coincidence, accident, mistake—but my heart clung to something else, something that had me shaking my head and wanting to curse.
I finished off my Sam Adams and stood from the table. Regina and Nicole turned to stare at me, and I smiled apologetically.
"I really gotta get going," I said, and Audrey came to stand beside me.
"Do you really need to leave now?" Worry tied her words together, her eyebrows tipped with concern. "Can we maybe—"
"I really have to go," I repeated, firmer. "I gotta wake up early, but this was fun."
I wished her cousins a good night before making my escape. I hurried through the club, even as a new reader went to the stage, but I wasn't caring about etiquette or manners. I cared only about getting away from a woman that I hardly knew, who was making me think things I had firmly set myself against years ago.
When I reached the sidewalk, I realized I'd been followed. I groaned internally, squeezing my eyes and turning around. "Look, I really—"
"What did you think?" she interrupted meekly, and I opened my eyes.
"What?"
"My poem. I wanted to know what you thought."
I cocked my head, suddenly frustrated and ready to be done with this night of trying new things. "It was good," I answered half-heartedly, hoping it'd be good enough.
But Audrey smiled and saw through my bullshit. "Tell me what you really think. Please?"
"Why?"
"Because your opinion matters."
I scoffed, finding it hard to bite my tongue and keep the demons buried beneath my skin. "No. It really doesn't."
Audrey cocked her head and stared at me with too much sincerity, emotion, and way too much affection and care for someone who didn't even know me. "Of course, it matters, Blake."
I was crumbling, succumbing, as my shoulders relaxed and my hands found the confines of my pockets. With a begrudged sigh, my shoulders shrugged and I said, "You're talented. That's what I think."
Audrey smiled and released a sigh of relief. "Thank you. I’m sorry, I was just so blown away by yours, I needed to know what you thought of mine."
I nodded. "I get it."
"I'll let you go, now that I've made myself seem like a psychopath." She laughed nervously with self-deprecation, as one hand tucked a strand of fly-away platinum hair behind her ear.
"You're fine," I assured her. "I'm just not very good company."
The apples of her cheeks were highlighted in a glowing shade of pink as she said, "And I come on too strong."
I let my lips curl into a smile. "You're fine," I repeated, and she replied, "So are you."
Chapter Eight
MY PARENTS HAD invited me over for Sunday dinner, and while I normally wouldn’t have welcomed any extended amount of time with them, I was in desperate need of a distraction from my night with Audrey.
I hadn’t slept well Saturday night, with thoughts of her and poetry and otherworldly eyes keeping me from finding a deep slumber. And Sunday morning hadn’t proven to be much better, with the regular stream of new Instagram followers coming in, constantly reminding me of what had started it all—that girl and her tattoo.
To say I’d been shaken was an understatement.
I walked into the house and was welcomed by the warm and fragrant scents of pot roast, asparagus, and garlic mashed potatoes. They triggered my nostalgia, remembering a time when my parents regularly cooked these family dinners. That was so long ago, a lifetime even, but now I remembered those times like they’d happened yesterday. Back then, the house had been full of laughter and love. Not a single one of us had any reason to be unhappy. But that was before.
Now, the scents were there, but the laughter was missing. The love was stifled and damn near nonexistent. The house moaned beneath my feet with every ounce of agony my family had felt for the past couple of decades, and I recalled a moment from a few years ago, where I’d wondered, if I’d ceased to exist, whether it would make it all better.
I shook that thought away and walked into the dining room, where I found my father wrapped in an awkward conversation with Jake. Their interactions always left Dad with a pained expression on his face, like he’d rather lay on a bed of hot coals than engage in any way with my brother. I hated him for it—Jake couldn’t help the way he was, and he was still the man’s son. Dad could’ve made more of an attempt to treat him like it. But I didn’t expect he ever would.
“Oh, look!” Dad exclaimed, turning to face me with relief and gratitude. “Blake’s here!”
Jake’s face lit up at the sight of me. “Blake, I gotta show you the new plane Dad got me! You gotta see it! You wanna see it now?” He began to stand from the table when Mom bustled into the room, wielding a plate of asparagus and a bowl of potatoes.
“You’ll sit down right now, Jakey. No Legos until after dinner,” she commanded. Her eyes lifted to mine momentarily as she placed the dishes down. “Hi, Blake.”
“Hey, Mom.”
“Glad you could make it.” Her tone was so dull and curt, she felt more like a stranger and less like my mother.
“You need any help in there?” I nudged my chin toward the kitchen.
“Um,” she stilled awkwardly, wiping her hands on her shirt, “well, I guess you could cut the meat, if you don’t think you’ll hurt yourself.”
“I can manage.”
She looked skeptical but didn’t say anything as I followed her into the kitchen. I set to work carving the roast, while she busied herself by fetching a pitcher of iced tea from the fridge and taking it to the dining room. She made sure that she wasn’t alone with me for any length of time. It was just as well; we’d only argue, anyway.
When I was finished, I carried the platter of meat to the table, only to find Jake meandering around the room and my mother relentlessly scolding him for not sitting down. He stopped at the table and grabbed a banana from the bowl of fruit and proceeded to tap it against the wall.
“Jacob!” Mom shouted, smacking her hand against the tabletop. The glasses and dishes rattled with the impact and Dad winced. Coward.
In a battle for control, Jake continued to stand by the wall, tap tap tapping the banana until the tip was chipped and ruined.
“Jacob, if you don’t sit down right now—”
"Hey, buddy," I finally intercepted, rounding the table to take the banana from his hand. His stare was centered on the bowl of fruit and he reached for another piece, an orange, but I was quicker. Dropping the banana on the floor, I reached for both his hands and held them in mine. "Hey. Look at me."
Jake turned and met my gaze. His eyes flitted up to the crown of my head, and they dropped again. I saw in them the mirrored reflection of my own, along with an anger, a cool helplessness, and my gut was surrounded by dread. Call it a twin connection, intuition, whatever—I didn't need to ask my parents to know he'd had a bad day.
"You okay, buddy?" I asked.