Page 62 of When Fate Breaks
“Well, I’ll be damned,” I mutter to myself, holding up my old Jays baseball t-shirt.
I turn the decade and a half shirt around, seeing the number 13 and, more importantly,mylast name, clear as day across the top.
I feel something click into place in my mind and something snap in my chest. Before I even realize what I’m doing, the shirt is once again inside out and at the bottom of the hamper exactly how I found it and I’m strolling back into the kitchen.
In one swift move, I swipe my baseball cap and the note off the counter, crumble the paper in my hand as I replace my hat, and drop it straight in the trash can as I head back out to the greenhouse. Not because I’m trying to get it finished, but because I know there’s no way in hell I can go to sleep right now. Because I know.
It’s not over.
12
TEN YEARS AGO
Annie
Blake and I bolt out of the tattoo studio and across the rain soaked parking lot towards his truck, both of us flinging our doors open at the same time.
Blake is inside the truck with his door closed before I can even set my foot on my side step. Rain is coming down in sheets, making the step ridiculously slick. The door hangs open as I struggle to get my footing, absolutely soaking my side of the front bench seat. I hear a slamming sound and, before I even have time to register what’s happening, Blake’s behind me, grabbing me by the hips, his fingers digging in my sides and sending a shockwave through my body that nearly takes my breath away, raising me up into the car seat within a split second as if I weigh nothing.
My door shuts and moments later Blake is back in his seat. I’m still attempting to get my heart rate under control when Blake removes his hat, shaking his dark curls out and sending water flying all over the truck cab like a dog. “Oh my God, that was nuts,” he says.
“Yeah,” I breathe.
My eyes stay glued to Blake as he replaces his hat, wringing his t-shirt out onto the truck floor and adjusting his mirrors. I watch as the muscles in his forearm flex as he reaches for the rear-view mirror, the cords rippling under his tan skin. I look back to his face, seeing his sea colored eyes deep in focus, water droplets gliding down his face. His tongue sticks out of the corner of his mouth in concentration as it has his whole life, but something about the action makes me feel differently this time. I feel like there’s a rock in my throat, my chest pinching in a way I don’t understand and can’t explain.
Blake must feel my eyes on him as he suddenly glances my way, questioning in his gaze.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He rolls his bottom lip into his mouth, surveying me. “Yeah, of course,” he says.
I don’t respond, content to just stare at Blake for a few more moments.
He finally clears his throat. “I don’t think you’re going to get to see my bank robber outfit in action tonight, unfortunately.”
I raise a brow. “What do you mean?”
“I brought some spray paint. I thought for our final rebellious act you’d like to create some art on a little bigger of a canvas than normal.”
My other brow joins the first, raising higher
“Like maybe under Mann Bridge,” he smirks.
“Graffiti?” I gape. “That’s another thing definitely illegal at any age, Blake.”
“The paint’s washable,” he chuckles. “I just thought you’d like it. But it doesn’t matter now. No way we’re getting down there in this,” he motions towards the rain outside.
“Well…it’s the thought that counts,” I smile. “Thank you.”
“Of course,” he says again. Before the silent tension can thicken once more, Blake starts the truck and pulls out of the parking lot.
As I adjust my sitting position, the heel of my foot swings against something hard under the seat. I lean over to investigate, discovering an old Polaroid camera.
“Is this yours?” I ask Blake, holding the camera up.
“It’s my mom’s,” he replies. “She must have left it in here after our fishing trip last weekend.”
I turn the camera around, staring into the lens and leaning towards Blake. “How does it work–Ah!” The flash goes off, nearly blinding me. Blake bursts out laughing.
