Page 99 of Drive Me Crazy
There’s nothing happy about a holiday that celebrates the conquest of Native Americans.
Blake:
Yeah, I’m British, so this holiday isn’t a thing for me.
Jack:
I was talking to the listeners, not you two. But forgive me for breathing. Go to the airport. I have to send this to Peter so he can do all the tech stuff or whatever.
[episode ends]
FORTY
Ella
IT TAKES a lot for something to render me speechless. I was still able to talk after theGame of Thronesfinale, so my threshold for shock is damn high. Blake’s blown that out of the fucking water. My brain is in overdrive trying to comprehend everything I just heard. I’m holding my phone in my hand like it’s a baby; I’m not quite sure what to do with it. Do I call Blake? Text him? Send a carrier pigeon? Or is he supposed to reach out to me? How does this whole thing work? My phone vibrates, interrupting my internal debate.
MOM
Can you grab the package at the front door? It can’t stay outside for too long. Thanks, honey.
My mom single-handedly keeps our FedEx delivery guy busy with all the online shopping she does. I rush over to the door, eager to get back to the couch and come up with a game plan. Murphy follows closely behind me, on high alert in case whoever’s at the door has a treat for him. Swinging the door open, I find Blake bundled up in a jacket. This is not the delivery I was expecting. He calmly waits for my mouth to stopopening and closing like a fish out of water. There are so many things I want to say and ask that I’m inarticulate.
Since I can’t speak, I launch myself into his arms, burying my face in his chest. The familiar smell of him envelops me. He stumbles back a few steps at the force of my embrace, quickly grounding himself and pulling me even closer against him. I lean back a minute later and study him. He looks like he hasn’t been sleeping well. If he’s been sleeping at all. Week-old stubble and tired eyes exacerbate his slightly disheveled appearance.
“You’re here,” is all I manage to get out.
“Surprise.” He chuckles, switching his weight from one foot to the other. “I’m the special delivery.”
“Hi,” I breathe out slowly. I drink in the sight of him. I’ve missed his intense brown eyes. The broadness of his shoulders. The sharp lines of his jaw. I can’t tear my eyes away from him.
“Hey,” he says back. My stomach does more flips than Simone Biles at the Olympics. “Can we go inside?”
I nod dumbly and step back to let him into the house, shivering at the cool blast of air that sneaks inside. Murphy barks excitedly, running around Blake in rapid circles. He’s the worst guard dog ever.
“Hey, little guy,” Blake says, bending over to scratch Murphy behind his ears. “You’re a cutie, aren’t you?”
“You’re here,” I repeat, still dumbstruck. “In my house … with a beard.”
“Quite the investigative journalist.” Blake absentmindedly strokes his chin. “I figured we should talk … and I missed you.”
