Page 15

FIFTEEN

Blake

WAKING UP HUNGOVER IS brUTAL. Waking up hungover because fifteen stones of pure muscle are pouncing on me? Bloody horrific. My head is pounding, my throat’s dry, and I have no idea whose bed I’m in. I open my eyes and see Theo’s face hovering over mine. I realize I’m in his. What the fuck?

“Good morning, sleeping beauty!” His voice is cheery and aggressively louder than necessary. “Do you know where you are?”

“It smells like shit, so probably your room.”

He ignores my jab—which isn’t even a real insult considering Theo’s a clean freak and his room smells like fresh laundry—and continues pestering me. “You practically had me breaking and entering last night, mate.”

A faint memory of dragging Theo to Ella’s room so I could apologize at 2:00 a.m. flashes through my mind.

“Sorry about that,” I mumble, mildly embarrassed. “I was a little drunk.”

“A little? You couldn’t make it back to your own room, so you crashed here.”

Fuck. I hadn’t meant to get so drunk. Well, I had. Anything to numb the pain of the weekend. Even after placing P3, I’d still been in a piss-poor mood. One drink turned into four turned into a lot more. I knew there’d be hell to pay this morning for my decisions, but I didn’t care too much last night. I let the liquor flow through my veins like I was on an IV drip. I’m sure my phone is full of texts and missed calls from Keith and Marion yelling at me for being publicly intoxicated.

I haven’t had an anxiety attack in months, yet I found myself doubled over and gasping for air an hour before my first practice on Friday. This weekend always reopens a lot of old wounds.

One cup of coffee and a hot shower later, I’m standing awkwardly outside Ella’s room. My knock is so weak, I’m surprised when she opens the door. Instead of her usual over-sized T-shirt, she’s in a form-fitting workout top. I manage to keep my eyes trained on her face, not wanting to piss her off even more by staring at her cleavage. The look she’s giving me is hard to interpret. I can’t tell if she’s annoyed, pleased, or indifferent.

“Uh, hi,” I say, a stammer rising in my throat as I speak. She opens the door, leaving enough space for me to walk in. “I owe you an apology.”

“For what?” She quickly throws on a sweatshirt before sitting on the couch. “Banging on my door at two in the morning or PMSing?”

“PMSing?”

I sit on the couch next to her and place my drink on the coffee table. Why didn’t I think to bring her a coffee as a gesture of good faith?

Her dark brows rise ever so slightly. “It’s when a girl’s on her—”

“Christ, Ella, I know what PMSing is,” I quickly interrupt her.

“Okay, well, it sounded nicer than ‘your nasty attitude and extremely rude behavior.’”

“PMSing it is.” I shuffle my feet against the carpeted floor. “I was unacceptably rude to you, and I’m sorry for that.”

I usually don’t apologize for how I act because I don’t care enough to do so. You can tell by how uncomfortable I sound. Ella tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, something I now recognize as a nervous habit of hers.

“Listen,” she finally responds in a resigned tone. “Everyone has rough days. But to ream me out in front of your team for doing my job? That’s really low, Blake. Even for you.”

It’s the “even for you” that makes my throat thick with guilt.

“And just a heads up”—the corners of her soft lips quirk up—“being a dick won’t make yours any bigger.”

Leave it to Ella to soften her censure with a teasing comment. Like a ray of sunlight peaking its way through storm clouds.

I stifle a laugh. If I wasn’t still walking on eggshells, I’d ask if she wanted to put that theory to the test. “You’re right,” I say instead. “I was a dick, and it won’t happen again. I mean it, El.”

She cautiously peers at me before nodding to herself as if my apology passed her test. “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

I sit there for a minute, unsure whether I should stay or leave. My desperation to get rid of the silence between us is the only reasonable explanation I can find as to why I blurt out, “I have generalized anxiety disorder.”

My spine stiffens as Ella’s hazel eyes meet mine straight on. I’m not sure which one of us is more taken aback by my confession. I wait for the world to come crashing down around me, but it doesn’t. Everything stays the same. My head doesn’t burst into flames for admitting my biggest secret, and the sky doesn’t open and swallow me whole.

“I’ve been on anti-anxiety meds since I was a kid and it works wonders,” I continue with a deep breath, “but this weekend was the anniversary of my dad’s death. It triggered some stuff.”

“I’m sorry about your dad, Blake.” An empathic frown settles on her lips. “If I’d known, I wouldn’t have—”

“You did nothing wrong, Ella.” I give her a tired smile. “I have a bit of a temper to begin with and when I’m anxious, I get more irritable. It doesn’t take much to make me lash out. I shouldn’t have been a dick, though.”

I don’t like talking about any of this, even with my therapist. Nothing good ever comes from it.

“Thanks for telling me.” She places her small hand in mine, giving it a light squeeze. “I don’t have anxiety, but I’ve struggled with my mental health since things at work got … bad. I started going to therapy, which has really helped.”

Her understanding and openness make my chest fill with a lightness I haven’t felt in a few days.

“Do you still go?” I quickly realize how invasive my question is. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. I go to therapy too, so I was just curious.”

“Not right now. I’m here, she’s there”—Ella waves her hands in front of her—“and it’d be a bitch with the time difference, anyway.”

I chuckle under my breath. “I’d imagine.”

“Were you guys close?” she asks quietly. “You and your dad?”

“It’s—it’s complicated. My mum left when I was a kid, so he was all we had, but he wasn’t around much. And when he was there physically, he wasn’t there mentally.” I know I don’t need to tell her about my family, but for some reason, I want to. “He pawned us off to nannies because he couldn’t be bothered to care. His death always brings up all those feelings I had when I was a kid. We were never a priority for him, so I finally gave up trying to be one.”

“You didn’t give up, Blake, you just realized what you deserve. You deserve to be a priority.”

A deep sigh leaves me. I hate getting upset over my dad. “Thanks.”

There’s no judgment in her gaze when she asks, “Can I ask you something? As a friend, not a journalist.”

I take a minute to think it over. I’ve already told her about my anxiety, so at this point, I don’t think anything she’ll ask will send me into a tailspin. “Go ahead.”

“I know stress can trigger anxiety and you have one of the most stressful jobs … the pressure to perform, social media scrutiny, the physical demands. How do you handle it? I’d probably try to move into my therapist’s house if I were you.”

Only Ella could make such a loaded question sound approachable.

“Lexapro and therapy,” I admit with a laugh. “My anxiety’s well-managed for the most part, and if something triggers it, Sam’s there to help me. I meant it when I said I don’t get nervous before races.”

I’m pretty sure I took at least a year off his life with the worry I caused him last year. We’re chalking it up to an anomaly.

“That makes sense,” she muses thoughtfully. “I can’t pretend to understand what you’re going through, but if you ever want to talk about anything, I’m always here to listen.”

“Thank you,” I mumble, not sure what the right thing to say is. “Good to know.”

Ella bounces slightly in her seat. “Want me to cheer you up?”

When she bites her lip in anticipation of my answer, I can’t stop myself from saying sure. I know it’s not going to be a blowjob, but you bet your arse I still say a silent prayer that I’m wrong.