Entangled (A Tryst Novel) (26 page)

He shrugs like he doesn’t give a shit about me, and it’s the most hurtful thing he’s ever done.

He turns his body around, ready to head in the opposite direction. His rigid, determined movements tell me he wants nothing more than to put distance between us, but I can’t let him walk away.

I reach out and grab his arm in a panic. I hate that he tenses at my touch.

“Wait!” I say.

“Skye, let go.”

“No! Listen to me!” I rush, yanking his reluctant body to the beginning of the row of photos, pointing at the first one. “You have to let me explain this, and if you want to leave after, then leave, but I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Spit it out, Skye. What is it you need to explain?”

He doesn’t want to hear more of my apologies. He’s done with them, and with me.

I blink back the tears that want to spill over. I continue to point at the photo. “When I ran to Gio’s, he asked if he could take photos of me like he had originally asked of me when we first met. I wasn’t sure, and all I could think about was that I had just run uninvited to his house, freaked out by Jason, and drenched because of the rain. All I wanted to do in that terrible moment was call you, and I couldn’t. No matter how much I wanted to. No matter how much I needed you. He was all I had in that very terrifyingly low moment. He didn’t ask questions. He just took me in. He gave me dry clothes, and I obliged to his request, feeling I owed it to him to follow through. He asked me to lie down—”

“Skyler, please . . .” Blake hates hearing this, and tries pulling out of my grasp, but I tighten my grip. His eyes widen infinitesimally at the force.

“NO!” I wave my finger at the photo. “Gio would say a word, and then snap a photo of my emotional reaction to each. This one was ‘love.’”

Blake’s eyes are resistant, but his vision flickers to the photo, taking it in quickly.

In the photo my wide-eyed look and tight smile directed at the camera shows how I feel about the word. I only give Blake a second to process it before pulling him to the next one.

“This is ‘pain.’ All I could think of was how I just saw Jason. He hurt me that day, too. He grabbed my arm, and that’s why I’m touching it in the photo. I knew there would be a bruise, and I was so scared you would see it.”

Blake’s eyes widen blankly as he digests my words, and I move on. I skip two of the photos that are insignificant to me.

“This one, Gio asked me about my parents, and I always almost cry when I think of them. I lost them, when I was a teenager, in a car accident, Blake. Did you know that? We don’t really talk about my family unless it’s Josh.” I don’t turn to see what look Blake might have because, when it comes to my parents’ death, I hate sympathy.

“This one,” I point to the picture next to it, “He said ‘brother
.’
 All I could think of was the time Josh drove me to my first day of sophomore year of high school. He had to take time off school for a few days just to do it, but he did it anyway, even though his scholarship at Cornell was at risk. I lived with my aunt after that for a while before I turned eighteen. Even though Josh left me to deal with the death of my parents alone, I was so thankful to have him there for the one day I needed him most. It was hard to face the world without my parents. He gave me that little bit of confidence I needed. He made it bearable to exist, even with just the gift of a few hours of his time. He had to go back to university, but he was there when it mattered, and that’s all that I cared about. I’ll never forget that.”

I can feel Blake’s rapid heartbeat at the pulse point in his wrist that I’m gripping hard, but I won’t let go in fear he’ll run.

A tear spills over my cheek as I skip over the next couple photos to the ones that he needs to see more than the others. These specifically are so raw. I stare into my own face, remembering each emotion. It stings, and has me in awe. I can’t tell if I love or hate them.

I point to the second-to-last photo, which I find strange that Gio included. My expression is not necessarily sour, but my brows are knit tightly with apprehension and suspicion, but there’s an odd curve of curiosity to the right side of my mouth.

“This photo, Gio said his own name.”

I don’t care what Blake’s reaction is, because it doesn’t matter half as much as the next photo.

I don’t lift my arm this time, I turn around to face him instead when we’re standing next to the very last photo. “This one is when he mentioned 
your
 name.”

I let go of his wrist, and it falls slack to his side. My tears continue to spill silently over my cheeks as I watch him. I don’t need to look at the photo to remember how I feel or look when Blake is mentioned. I remember the way my joints turned to jelly, and my skin blushed all over, and how I felt my body glow.

Blake doesn’t run away, he just stares, taking it in, and I swear I see the slightest shade of pink hit his carved bone structure with his jaw clenched tight. He dissects it until seemingly satisfied before turning to me.

He releases a breath as if he had been holding it, and for the first time ever, his eyes tell me 
nothing
. It’s terrifying.

“I gotta go, Skye.” He shakes his head apologetically. “I’m sorry.”

He shouldn’t be apologizing. I should. I reach out for him, and try to speak, but he’s already turned around and gone.

I lick my lips, and all I can taste are my salty tears.

Skyler

I can’t take it any longer. I need to go outside. I need fresh air.

So, I decide to go for a run, testing my body to the limits as much as this situation is testing my sanity.

There are a handful of photographers hanging outside my front door when I open it. I’m stunned at first, and then remember I’m not in the mood to deal with other humans unless their name is Blake Everett, who’s been MIA for three days now.

I force a smile to the paparazzi who find the need to snap my photo, but the moment they try asking me something, I sprint down the road.

My mind is all over the place when it comes to the reasons they could possibly care enough to be waiting on my doorstep for days on end. Is Blake’s fame so large that I just haven’t grasped it yet? Have they got ahold of the scandalous attempt his costar made on him? Or did word get out that his girlfriend’s abusive ex-boyfriend showed up on their doorstep?

Right now, I can’t imagine I matter in any way to this cruel, cold world.

I shake my head, focusing on my determined strides as air rushes into my lungs, the crispness of the morning burning down my throat with the same intensity as that beating thing in my chest. You know, the one in thumping pain, pumping blood from atrium to ventricle, serving its purpose, sure, but it’s also the sounding board for my overwhelmingly sad emotions. Yeah, that 
thing
. I think as a premed student I’m supposed to identify it as my heart, but right now, I want to call it a pain in my ass.

Blake really needs to answer my calls. I’m obviously losing it.

Three days of agonizing waiting is enough to put me over the edge, but at least this surge is exactly what I need to counter the pain. And by pain, I mean the pain of waking up alone in bed every morning, the pain of Blake not answering my calls, or how about the pain with the fact he’s all around ignoring my existence?

I hate myself for all of it, because this is my doing. As if my self-loathing couldn’t get any worse, it’s expanding exponentially, and I try to outrun it.

I push and push my body, even though my muscles burn more than the icy chill I’m breathing in. The pain spreads, but I can’t identify it any longer. All I know is that I keep running until the pain in my lungs overrides the pain in my heart. That’s when I stop.

I shake my limbs out as I approach a bus stop, looking for a place to rest my body. It’s early, but the streets are buzzing with activity.

I let my body catch up with the intense sprint I just did from my front door to the inner workings of the city.

I need something to clear my thoughts, and all I can think is 
when
 will Blake talk to me? I’m not good at waiting. When my heart aches, my brain joins in on the fun, making a meal out of my nerves as it overanalyzes every fiber of the tragedy that is my relationship.

I bang my head against the bus stop. I’m being dramatic, even for my standards. But it all feels so extreme. I did such a stupid thing, and his eyes that night told me everything I needed to know. This is bad. Very bad.

It’s funny to consider yourself an overthinker
, 
yet, when the situation calls for it, you end up not thinking at all.

That’s how I got into this mess, by 
not thinking
. By focusing on all the wrong things. By prioritizing my relationship incorrectly, and not having enough faith in the boyfriend who bares it all for me, including his flaws. Why did I not take that into consideration?

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

How could I not remember going to Wisconsin when Gio asked me about Milan?

That was Blake’s breaking point. He was already on the brink, but it was the fact I didn’t consider our trip that had him running away.

I knew that trip meant the world to him, and I never would’ve chosen anything over it, but the fact that the question of going to Milan came, regardless, broke him.

See how not thinking can get you into as much trouble as overthinking?

As my body tries to find a calm after the run, I can hear my throbbing heart echoing in my ears.

I miss him. I need to tell him he’s everything to me. I want to tell him I can’t wait to meet his mom, and . . . wait, does Blake have other family?

My face falls into my hands. How do I not know the answer to that question? I’m a terrible girlfriend.

I drag my body against the bus stop wall, my forehead squeaking over the plastic of the wall until I’m shimmying under the overhang.

That’s when my eyes begin to join in with the burn of my throat, heart, and lungs.

I blink furiously, the reflexive tears telling me that whatever I’m trying to get a better focus on is probably not good.

When my eyes collide with the terrible omen before me, I let my lungs pull in the huge gulps of oxygen they’re begging for.

My eyes are drawn to the ones I wish so desperately I could lay my eyes on, except these are nothing but a mirage, a hallucination of my wishful thinking as I step up to the poster advertisement on the wall of the bus stop.

I keep blinking, wondering if this is a cruel joke.

Modeling never felt like a tangible thing, really. It always felt like playtime. At least in front of Gio it did. It wasn’t until the night of Gio’s gallery opening, or this moment right now, that it suddenly feels more real. I extend my hand to touch the poster, and it falls onto the plastic over Blake’s ridiculously nice-looking bare arm.

It’s the jeans ad that started all of this that stares back at me, the one I stumbled into when meeting Giovanni Vigilucci for the first and how he somehow convinced me to partake in.

I had only ever seen my face 
au naturel
 on the large canvas of Gio’s opening, and I thought that was shocking. This might trump that, but in a very different way.

There’s something to be said for seeing yourself in a glossy ad with a logo scribbled fashionably across the bottom. I squint, staring at myself, finding it hard to believe that’s me. I look almost 
fierce
, yet demure, and I don’t know how I did it, but there I am.

My naked torso is hidden behind Blake’s, his bare chest facing the camera as his left hand reaches out behind him, his fingers brushing against my skin at the edge of my jeans, with my chin lightly resting on his shoulder.

The part that kills me the most is that although my steely blue eyes are staring straight at the camera, Blake’s are playfully on me, behind him. I see the admiration even then.

The advertisement almost feels personal. Maybe because all of the feelings of that day flood me, I suddenly feel exposed to the public. However, no one would know the anxiety I was feeling during this photo shoot. No one knows of the reassuring kiss Blake gave me moments before, or the fact I could see Gio plotting behind his camera, or how exhilarated I felt with every click of the camera.

I shake out my limbs, turning away from the poster.

This run doesn’t do anything to release all my pent-up guilt, sadness, and anger, no matter how hard I pushed myself.

All I want to do is make this right.

That’s when I run back home.

***

I’m relieved to see that at least my driveway is empty of photographers. Maybe they finally realized I’m not so newsworthy, or that Blake wasn’t going to be coming home anytime soon.

My relief is short-lived as I make it to the front door. I stumble up the steps when I see a few envelopes sticking out of our mailbox. I know immediately what they are, and my heart is nearing combustion. I can’t open those. So much of my future feels so fuzzy. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go.

I grab both envelopes. They have the emblems of the last two, most important universities I’m waiting to hear back from. For being flimsy pieces of paper, they feel like anvils. I nearly sink the moment I pull them free. I heave in a breath, practically running inside and upstairs to my bedroom, clutching the envelopes close. I pull my phone from my armband and dial Blake’s number.

Still nothing.

Dammit.

I toss the two envelopes onto my dresser, and then toss my phone on top of them as I let out a grunt of frustration. Three items I don’t want to have anything to do with right now.

Gio has called me twice today, too. I ignored both calls, letting them go to voice mail. He’s left two. I’m not ready to deal with him yet, but I will once I figure things out.

I grumble as I turn toward my stairs, racking my brain for a solution. This is when my years working at getting a science degree are a burden and blessing. My brain is exhausting itself picking at and dissecting each bit of minutia of the situation. Maybe it’s because the combination of everything is terrifying. None of it seems good, and I can’t seem to cope.

Last night, I couldn’t bear staying the night in his bed again, getting the sinking feeling I was going to end up just like the night before. Alone.

Hoping every night he’d just forgive me and sneak into bed next to me only ended up with me being hurt. I retreated to my own bed, and it felt just as empty but didn’t smell half as good.

All of this because I lied by omission, only to have it all reveal itself in a massively explosive way, obliterating Blake’s trust in me.

What’s worse is that I’ve been there. I remember that feeling, and how awful it is. I can’t deny that painful churn of nerves when I questioned Blake’s trust just months ago, when I thought he’d gotten back together with his ex-girlfriend. It can be crippling.

I wish he’d talk this out with me.

Or maybe he thinks we’ve talked enough.

Or that it never did us any good in the first place.

The last thought is the one that hurts the most, because if it’s true, I worry that we won’t make it this time.

I hear rustling downstairs, and, needing a distraction, I sprint down to the living room. I’m stunned by what I see, even though I shouldn’t be.

Josh and Vanessa are on the couch, her legs flung over his lap, and Josh’s arm slung around her as they watch TV. They normally keep their couple habits at her apartment. Never once has Josh had her over here to snuggle in the morning. Or at least, I’ve never seen it.

My feet stop for a beat, processing it, and then I move on toward the kitchen.

Josh sees me and rises, releasing Vanessa. Is it awkward for him, too? I guess it puts my relationship in perspective. That’s if I’m still in one.

Oh, God. Is it too early for booze? I haven’t tried that remedy yet.

His eyes are sympathetic when he reaches the kitchen, and I realize he’s here because he already knows what’s happened, and he didn’t hear it from me. The fact that Blake would call my brother and not me, or come home, or reply to a text, frustrates and hurts me.

My throat goes dry as I lick my lips, needing a glass of water, and I wish that whatever Josh might have to say could wait. I wonder if I look like a sobbing mess.

“Hey, Sprout.”

I fill a cup with water and look at him. “Hey.”

“Are you okay?”

I snort, but it’s more of a maniacal snort than anything. “Uh, I’ve been better.”

“Blake finished filming yesterday, and he’s been staying at Kyle’s house. I figured you should know where he is so you don’t worry yourself over it.”

I hate that he’s so to the point. He’s not dancing around the moment, or trying to be a compassionate brother. What’s worse is, I’m actually glad to hear it all anyway.

“Oh, okay.”

Josh sighs. “I know this is shitty, but why lie, Skyler?” My shoulders go rigid at such a direct accusation. I succeed in blinking back the water that wants to pool in my eyes. He continues, “You should’ve told Blake about everything. I don’t like being pulled into this. It’s getting complicated now. When Blake calls me to explain why he’s not coming home, and how it affects his work schedule, it becomes a conflict of interest. This is what I was afraid of. He broke down what happened between the two of you.” He pauses, eyeing me shakily, lips pressed into a hard line, before he adds, “What is it with you and Gio? Modeling, really? I can’t say I approve. What about school? What’s going on?”

I shake my head. This is ridiculous. Is he here to help, or is he scolding me?

His blasé attitude teeters on patronizing. Does he care about my heart or my grades? I can’t tell.

“What are you talking about? It was never about that. Gio is a friend, that’s it. What it comes down to is that, you’re right, I lied.” I pause, gritting my teeth, because saying that out loud for the first time stings every corner of my being, but I try to recover by continuing with the heartfelt truth. “I know I was an idiot. Modeling is my choice and can be a topic for another time.” I sigh, placing the cup on the counter, crossing my arms over my chest as I huff, “I hate that Blake called you and not me.”

He shrugs me off, and the tenseness around his eyes tells me he wants to ask me more about school and modeling, but he holds back, and miraculously he keeps on an even keel as he says, “I’m here for you, but you gotta make this right. Whatever that means. Either fix it or end it. You two can’t be in limbo like this. Both of you have pride, but that’s not what it’s about anymore. Be honest.”

I’m trying . . . now.

We migrate to the living room. Josh resumes his seat next to Vanessa, who’s smiling the same dopey smile as him when they’re near each other, and I want to hate it.

“You know, Skye,” Vanessa says, adding herself to the conversation, “You and Blake are so intense and firecracker-y. This was bound to blow up with everything you were holding back, but he’s not just going to drop everything. Not after what you two went through to be together. I know it’s been a few days, but he’ll come around.”

I ignore the quiet, disagreeable chuff from Josh. My anxious frustration is still on the rise. “It would be easier to solve if he would answer my phone calls.”

They both shake their heads, admonishing me, and it’s my brother whose words come out as exasperated as I feel. “It’s not that easy. Give it time, but uh, don’t give it too much time, either. You want the length of time to be just right.”

Brother of the year, everyone.