Page 67

“I know. I swear. It’s just business. He can listen. It won’t take long.”

I take a slow breath in and let it out as quietly as I can.

Do I want to see Blake? Yes, if the butterflies in my belly are anything to go by. But with Chase there, we won’t be free to talk. Which maybe is a good thing…

Either way. I’m too curious about this business thing to say no.

“Chase has little league until six and we eat dinner at six thirty. Can you come by at seven instead?”

“Oh! What are you having for dinner?”

No way do I want to tell Blake that I’m cooking pasta and opening a jar of tomato sauce.

“Don’t know yet.”

“Do you want me to bring you something from the Grill?”

He means the Mountain View Grill.

“Um… sure.”

I’m sure Chase would love that.

“Great. Then, we’ll have dinner together.”

My belly does a flip-flop. “Sure.”

“See you at six thirty.”

And he hangs up.

It's hard to think of anything but Blake coming over later. I can't imagine what business he could want to talk about. And I’m glad that he won’t be able to ask me why I cried with Chase around.

We haven't talked much about what happened between us. And I feel like the longer we keep silent, the more it's just agreed that we'll pretend nothing happened.

Maybe it's for the best.

But the whole thing makes me uncomfortable. I let Chase know about Blake's visit as soon as I pick him up from school, and he's too excited about getting takeout to ask why he's coming.

I watch Chase's little league practice. I sit by myself on the bleachers—most parents drop their kids off and leave—but I don't mind being alone. It's just nice to be part of his life. I don't want to miss any moment more than I have to.

We get back home around six-fifteen, and Blake rings the doorbell at six-thirty sharp.

“I'm starving,” Chase declares as he opens the door.

“That's good to hear.” Blake laughs. “I got you extra fries.”

He walks in, a paper bag in each hand, bringing with him the smell of fried meat.

“Yes!” Chase jumps up and down, grabs one of the bags from Blake's hand, puts it down on the dining table, and starts digging through it.

Blake has a huge smile on his face when he turns to me.

“Hi,” he says

“Hi.” I stand awkwardly—a little dazed by his smile—holding the back of a chair for support.

“You got plates?” he asks, emptying the contents of the second bag on the table.