Page 10

10

After dinner at Becky and Malcolm’s house, I can’t sleep.

It’s one in the morning, and I’ve been staring at the ceiling for the last hour. I got up to take a piss twenty minutes ago, thinking that might help, but it didn’t. Krista is not having the same issue. She’s passed out next to me, her mouth hanging open, an adorable little puddle of drool on the pillow next to her. (I wore her out apparently.)

As I look at the cracks in the plaster over my head, I keep replaying the events of the evening. It’s obvious Becky and Malcolm both think I’m a huge loser. But the worst part of all was the way Becky looked at me when Krista told them what that psychic said. How could anyone think I would ever hurt the woman I love? How could they all turn on me so quickly?

I finally give up on sleep. I climb out of bed and creep down the stairs as quietly as I can so I don’t wake anyone up. But when I get to the foot of the steps, I’m surprised to discover that the first floor of the house isn’t dead silent, as I expected it to be. There are soft sounds coming from the living room, and although the overhead lights are out, there’s a faint glow from the television.

Whitney must be awake.

I walk into the living room, and sure enough, there she is. She’s sitting on the sofa, wearing that same skimpy pajama set she sleeps in, her eyes pinned to the screen of the television. When she notices me, she startles and clutches her chest.

“Blake!” she cries. “You scared me half to death!”

“Sorry.” I offer a crooked smile. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Me either,” she sighs.

“Mind if I join you?”

“Absolutely. The more the merrier at the Insomniac Club.”

Before I join her on the sofa, I grab myself a glass of water from the kitchen. And while I’m in there, I notice some leftover cookies Krista baked that didn’t make it to our little dinner party. I drop a handful of them on a plate and carry them to the living room.

“Oh my gosh, are those Krista’s cookies?” Whitney gasps.

I place the plate on the coffee table. “Oatmeal raisin.”

“These are insanely addictive.” Whitney reaches for a cookie, her straight hair falling in her face. “She should be a professional baker or something.”

“Yeah, she’s amazing.” I reach for a cookie of my own and take a bite. It’s just the right amount of soft and chewy. “If you see me eat more than four of them, feel free to stage an intervention.”

“You got it,” she says. “It’s the least I can do after you fixed that drawer for me.”

One of the drawers in Whitney’s dresser had come off the rail and was on the brink of collapse. Expensive piece of crap. I spent about an hour in her room, reassembling the pieces of the drawer until it slid in and out smoothly. It’s the kind of thing I did with my dad a dozen times. Whitney made a big thing out of what a great job I did, and I have to admit it was fun working on it, but part of me was also embarrassed that my greatest achievement in the last three months was fixing a dresser.

“So,” I say, attempting to change the subject, “what are we watching?”

Whitney tucks her legs close to her chest. “Well, it’s a show where people bake cakes that are supposed to look like things that aren’t cake, and you have to figure out if it’s cake or not.”

“Like what?”

“Like, you see that guitar on the table?”

“Uh-huh…”

“That’s cake.”

“No way!”

“Way,” she says with all the gravity of a detective reporting on a recent homicide.

I smile despite myself. “And this is the sort of thing that helps you sleep?”

Whitney stares at the TV screen; the images are reflected on her pupils. “Actually, I can never sleep. May as well be entertained.”

In the dim light coming from the monitor, I can just barely make out the purple circles under Whitney’s eyes. “Do you take anything?”

“I’ve tried. Nothing helps.”

“I’m sorry.”

Whitney lifts a shoulder as if it’s no big deal. “It’s okay—as long as it doesn’t bother you that I’m down here in the middle of the night.”

“No way. I’m glad for some company.”

That elicits a grin. “So what is keeping you awake tonight, Blake?”

Whitney reaches for another cookie from the plate on the coffee table. She is definitely not wearing a bra.

I squirm on the sofa. “I don’t know. I guess I’m nervous about the future.”

She arches an eyebrow. “You mean like getting married?”

“No, I’m not nervous about that at all,” I say honestly. “But I’m starting this new job Monday, and…it’s hard to start over.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Whitney says in a way that makes me feel like she absolutely does.

“Anyway.” I let out a sigh. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“You’re worried,” she acknowledges.

“No, I’m not worried . Just, you know…”

“Well, if it makes you feel any better,” she says, “you seem like the kind of guy who always lands on his feet, no matter what.”

Weirdly, her vote of confidence buoys my spirits. “Yeah?”

“Definitely.” She starts ticking off on her fingers. “You’re obviously intelligent, charismatic, motivated, handsome…”

Hopefully she’s just being polite, because Krista wouldn’t appreciate me being alone in the living room in the middle of the night with a scantily clad girl who is now calling me handsome. But she’s looking at me in a way that makes me think she isn’t just being gracious. Her intense eyes are locked on mine, and I have to grab a throw pillow to place strategically on my lap since all I’m wearing is an undershirt and a pair of boxers.

“I’ll tell you what,” she says. “I’m so confident that your first day is going to go well that I’m going to bring back some cake from the diner for us to celebrate tomorrow.”

“What kind of cake?”

“Any kind you want.” She flicks her tongue briefly over her upper lip. “What would you like, Blake?”

And now I’m really glad that throw pillow is on my lap.

Still, nothing is going to happen between me and Whitney. Not now—not ever. I’d never do that to Krista in a million years.

Although she is very attractive.

“Whatever kind you want.” I clear my throat. “As long as it looks like a piano.”

My joke breaks the tension as Whitney and I passionately debate whether the drum kit on screen might actually be cake. I’m even able to eventually abandon the pillow. We end up watching TV for the next several hours, exchanging occasional commentary but mostly just sharing the space and eating cookies. I pass out on the sofa around three in the morning, and when I wake up, my neck stiff and aching, Whitney is gone.