Page 33 of Four Simple Rules
"Hi," Blake says softly, extending her hand in greeting.
Aunt May takes that as an opportunity to pull Blake into her body and squeeze her to death with one of her famous hugs. Blake grunts but doesn’t back down when Aunt May finally releases her from her grip and holds her at arm’s length.
"Ah, this istheBlake, huh?" Aunt May raises a brow when my cheeks turn molten.
"Yeah," I say, clearing the jittery feeling from my throat. Heat sores through me when I feel Blake’s gaze darting to me and back to Aunt May.
I may have mentioned Blake several times over apple pie and ice cream. Her food is like a truth serum—a wonderfully flavorful tongue loosener. And I was a goner. Somehow, she saw the turmoil in my eyes shining through the moment I sat in her booth with a pale complexion and asked for her famous French toast.
I think Aunt May knows me as well as my own mother. Probably better. It's just one of those things. She was there for me at the right time and helped me in her own special way, just like my mother did.
Blake stumbles out of Aunt May’s grip with a gasp, gawking at her with wide eyes. "He's talked about me?" Blake squeaks, making my damn cheeks heat even more.
That’s right, Tulip. You’re all I have ever thought about since we went our separate ways. The pain, regret, and everything in between have haunted me since I uttered those stupid words. From then on out, she’s all I ever thought about. Fuck. I’m hopeless, and May is about to expose me.
"He sure did. All the time. Non-stop. The only way I could shut him up is with my famous apple pie." She winks in my direction with a grin. "Why don't you kids pick a spot, and Ralph will bring you some menus." My cheeks heat when May winks at me, grinning mischievously. Soft chuckles come from her throat when she turns on her heels and heads back into the kitchen.
“You’re dead to me,” I mutter playfully, sticking my tongue out at her.
Grabbing Blake’s hand again, I lead her through the small diner. Something so right clicks inside me like puzzle pieces coming together. This is how it was always meant to be. Blake and I together, enjoying meals and hanging out. I know now more than ever; I need to make every wrong I did to her right. One step at a time, starting right here and now.
"Thank you," Blake responds timidly as I pull her to a booth near the back of the diner, next to a set of windows. The exact spot my mother and I choose every Sunday.
After a few minutes of silence, Ralph drops off our menus, giving Blake a knowing look. Bastard. Go on and leave us alone before you spill more of my secrets. I nod in his direction, earning a chuckle, and he walks away. Staring down at the menu, I know what I want, but I leave Blake plenty of time to find the perfect breakfast.
"You said the French toast is good? Is it better than my mom's?" She raises a challenging brow, lifting her eyes to mine with that familiar dose of defiance.
Bring it on, Tulip.
“Better,” I say, wiggling my brows. “Your mouth is about to explode with flavors you didn’t know existed. It will blow your mom’s out of the water.” Blake offers me a soft smile at the mention of her mom, but I see the pain of her downfall muted behind her eyes and fallen face. My girl covers up her grief so well and has for years, but I can always see through the veil she’s masking with.
I’ll give Blake’s mom credit where it’s due. She could cook a mean breakfast. Years before she fell off the wagon, that is. Many nights, she'd invite me to eat dinner with them to enjoy a nice meal around the table. She knew, of course, what my home life was like. Well, some of it. I don’t think she necessarily knew how horrid my father had become. Or how bad the beatings were getting. I was an expert at hiding my bruises and covering his ass when my arm broke. She seemed to tune into my pain, taking me away from that environment. For a night, at least. Little did she know, Blake harbored me in her bedroom like a fugitive hiding out.
"French toast it is, then. I'm holding you to it being better than my mom's."
"Want to make a bet on it?" I ask, smirking when she frowns.
"Why?" She gently sets the menu down, folding her hands on the table. "What's in it for you?"
In it for me? Well, I know for a fact this particular recipe is one-hundred times better than our childhood favorite, and if I win, then I get something I want if she admits it.
"Are you going to our high school reunion?" I lean back, watching the disgust roll off her expression.
"Why would I want to be around people who made my best friend's life hell?"
Ouch. Touché. Why would she? It’s a fair point.
But again, I’m selfish as fuck, and I want her by my side so I can show her off to everyone who ever wrote her off as a nerd. Myself included. I want to show my girl I’m not the same asshole I was. Never again. She’ll never be invisible to me or wonder if I’m really her friend. I’m not, by the way. I’m light years away from being her friend. She’s my everything, and I’m going to prove it.
"Because I'm going? And I'd love to take you?" I flash her my best grin, imagining the night we could have together. Dancing, eating, drinking, and the grand finale—holding her tight in my arms. Ah, a guy can dream.
"No," Blake snorts, shaking her head. "Besides, I have to go back to work. I only took enough time off to come here."
My heart sinks. "So, you only have…"
"Until Wednesday. I have to drive home and then I'm going home to continue to live my life," she says firmly, sitting straight up in her seat with determination and leaving no room to argue.
Disappointment hits me square in the chest like a damn baseball bat whacking my heart into tiny pieces. This must be what heartbreak feels like. Crushing. All-fucking-consuming. I thought I had more time to prove myself to her. I thought I had at least a week to show her that I had changed, and my love for her hadn’t either. I guess I was wrong. Not that I don’t deserve the pushback and distrust. Every ounce of ire she has for me is founded.
