twisted and in walked a tall, blond man with striking eyes and a fist full of flowers. He was wearing jeans and a tight black shirt. His fingers had ink stains blotting them, and his left shoe was untied. He looked casually careless and put together all at once.
“Blakely?” he asked, his eyes widening to a broad grin. “Oh gosh, it’s so good to meet you finally!”
Setting my backpack to the side, I stood up and smoothed out my dress, not knowing if I should shake his hand or hug him. What did people usually do in these situations? “Gosh, we look alike,” he said before stalking over, holding a bouquet out to me. I guess he was right. We had the same bright eyes. The same shade of hair. He was taller than me, naturally. And his skin was tanned like he’d just gotten back from the beach. Although his nose was sharper, we still shared a lot of features. It was jarring. “I, uh, got you these. Would you believe I googled ‘what to get your long lost sister’ ?”
I laughed. Lance was quirky and warm, like sunshine. Once he was in front of me, he seemed to mirror the same indecision as I, but ultimately decided a side hug would do. When his arm circled my shoulder, I half expected to breathe in the smell of our mama. She always smelled like cigarette smoke and roses. But instead, he smelled like paint and warm paper.
When he pulled away, I tucked my blonde hair behind my ear nervously before looking back at Decker, my breath stalling when I noticed how his eyes were on mine, inquisitive and firm. He made me feel like a question he wanted the answer to.
Decker ran his hands down his thighs before standing up too. For some reason, I found myself wanting to keep staring at him. That thought had me tearing my eyes back to Lance, who was taking in the sight of me. “It’s nice to meet you, Blakely,” Lance said with a genuine smile.
“It’s nice to meet you, too.”
2
Blakely
Lance and I spent thirty minutes dancing around our awkwardness with clumsy questions about the humidity and our favorite meals. I decided right away that he was naturally charismatic. Even though he sensed my unease, he navigated my short answers with simple questions, foregoing the hard topics in the process. I appreciated that about him. It almost reminded me of Mama. She was good at working a crowd and had that natural beauty about her that just drew people near. Too bad she often attracted the wrong kind of people.
While Lance and I spoke, Decker stared at us with his dark eyes in contemplative silence, following our back and forth with a tilt of his head. He only acknowledged our conversation with an occasional nod or to interrupt with a curt question. My eyes kept drifting back to him against my better judgment.
“How was the drive?” Lance asked. “I thought for sure you’d be here yesterday.” I blushed, too embarrassed to admit that my nerves had gotten the best of me. My slow drive had nothing to do with my old, beat-down car and everything to do with the fact that I was scared to come here. But neither he nor Decker needed to know that.
“I had a little trouble in Oklahoma. My car overheated so I had to take it easy,” I lied before forcing a light chuckle. “Ol’ Roxy needs a little TLC from time to time.”
“Roxy?” Decker asked with an eye roll, pretentious disapproval dripping from every syllable. “You named your car after a stripper?”
It was on the tip of my tongue to explain that Mama named our car after her best friend—who just so happened to be a stripper on the weekends. I hadn’t seen Roxy’s namesake since she stole four hundred dollars from our hidden cookie jar in the kitchen, but her name stuck. Maybe that’s why the car was cursed. The rotten piece of machinery wouldn’t die but kept breaking down.
“She has stage presence,” I replied instead. It was much easier to joke.
Lance then proceeded to make an offhand comment about finding me a more suitable form of transportation, which made Decker bristle. It was a generous offer, but I ignored it and changed the subject to something that didn’t make my stomach twist. I didn’t like it when people made empty promises. My distrust was one of the perks of having a dysfunctional childhood.