Pressure Point (Point #2) (10 page)

Instinctively, my hands clench. Over the summer, Speck signed the arena that Blake’s father owns. I wanted to mention it to him, but other activities have consumed both of our attention.

“You will assume the Chicago Center. If all goes well with their next integration, you’ll have Colin’s job.”

“I-I…” How uncool of me to stammer in front the head of all account management. “That’s exactly the opportunity that I was looking for. I won’t disappoint you, Katya.”

A stiff smile appears and she lays her hands primly on the tabletop. “See that you don’t. Hiring a new manager in the accounts team would be a nightmare.”

What a crappy vote of confidence. I fight to school my features when I stand and thank her again. Katya dismisses me with the normal level of ambivalence. It’s not until I make it back to my desk that I let the inner cheerleader out and shout. It sucks that Colin is gone because we got along well, but this is a tremendous opportunity for me.

The rest of the week is dedicated to immersing myself in the Chicago Center’s integration. Speck’s technology accounts for employee scheduling, but the operations staff wants more features. My job will be to manage the implementation of integrating the Speck’s application with the human resources tool responsible for time-off requests of food staff at athletic games, concerts, and conventions. That’s the tip of the iceberg. If all goes well with this step, we’ll expand their feature set even further. The tasks are daunting and overwhelming, giving me little time to do anything but work.

Eventually, quitting time rolls around on Friday afternoon. Bubbles of nervous energy build up inside of me, threatening to burst at any moment as I pack my purse. Most weekends, I spend time with my parents, horde of cousins, aunts, uncles, and hanging around the restaurant with Baccino’s regulars.

Tonight will be different.

Most of my co-workers have left by the time I’m collecting my cell phone and purse. I allow myself a moment of vanity, heading to the bathroom to check my appearance in the mirror. My clear blue eyes reflect wariness. Yeah, I’m scared of going to Blake’s. Shrugging into my heavy black puffer coat, I consider the evening ahead of me. Blake texted me earlier in the day to let me know that Zoe’s therapist was making headway with her. They were engaging in bi-weekly sessions in his office; she was finally willing to leave the house without coaxing.

I wrap a scarf around my neck, pull my hair out, and allow the thick strands to lay free around my shoulders. Once the zipper’s pulled up in place and my winter messenger bag is settled on my hip, I head outside in the brutal December chill. Getting to Blake’s house means two busses—one headed north on Michigan Avenue and one west on Grand. That will give plenty of time for the cold to bite my fingertips and tingle the tip of my uncovered nose.

The trip to Blake’s brownstone is a contemplative one. Knowing if Zoe pushes me away that I’ll accept it sends my stomach rolling unhappily. It’s against my nature to watch someone who I love suffer.

Violet has a point
, I admit to myself reluctantly. My desire to help does not outweigh Zoe’s need to fight off the demons without me. It’s time to accept her wishes, even if that means not seeing her for a while.

And not seeing Blake.

I wince at the thought. Can you miss someone who you hardly spend time with? The answer is clearly yes because I think of his easy smile, soothing presence, and even his wicked arrogance all too often.

There’s not enough time to pass through a fit of self-loathing as the bus comes to a creaky halt at my stop. I push open the back doors and step into a pile of sludge.
Gross.
Snow came early this year, causing ugly brown snow to litter the December streets. A few short blocks, taken quicker because I hate being outside in the subzero temperatures, and I’m in front of Blake’s gate. I don’t have to press the call button; it buzzes the moment that I arrive like he’s watching me from inside.

I glance at the front door immediately, but there’s no sign of Blake at the front window. How does he know that I’m here? By the time I have carefully climbed the icy steps and shoved my gloves into jacket pockets, the front door waits open patiently. Blake fills the gap between the chilly outdoors and the warmly lit foyer. Neither of us speaks as he backs up to allow me entrance. In a pair of thunder blue chinos and a slim-fit red, navy, and green flannel, he reminds me of a Ralph Lauren model. Not one strand of his whiskey-colored hair falls out of place. His broad shoulders strain against the confines of his tailored shirt. The thought of his powerful body sends my mind back to the night that he held Zoe and me in his arms. Of course, his embrace wasn’t romantic; Zoe was bawling her eyes out, after all. Nevertheless, I felt connected to him in a way that’s almost indescribable. His thumb stroking back and forth against my bicep was perhaps to calm me, but I had the strangest feeling that he was gaining strength from
my
presence.

The door shuts with a distinct click of a lock snapping into place.

“Hi.”

“Stella.” His eyes lock with mine, some intense, unnamed emotion shooting toward me. I’m too breathless to respond with anything coherent. How does he always do this to me? Rendering me speechless with only brief eye contact…Blake hooks his pointer finger and thumb around the zipper on my coat, dragging it down unceremoniously.

This is a new development. Blake never touches me unless it is absolutely necessary, or we’re comforting his sister together. I keep quiet, wondering what will happen next—the sun exploding? Pigs flying?

Once the zipper’s undone, he gently places his hands underneath the collar and pushes the puffer coat off my shoulders, revealing the chunky sweater and skinny jeans that I’m wearing. When his fingers graze across my wool-covered skin, I noticeably shiver. He drapes the coat over his forearm but doesn’t move. Unreadable brown eyes pierce me, searching for something.

What do you want? I’ll give you anything,
I tell him silently. He’s my dream guy. He’s been my dream guy since I was twenty years old. For six years, I’ve wanted to be his and for him to be mine. Stupid or not, he’s the one I want. My tongue slips out to wet my suddenly dry lips on its own accord. I’ve forgotten why I’m here.

The appearance of my tongue snaps Blake out of his silent reverie. He clears his throat roughly and spins around to hang my coat in the hallway closet. “Thank you for coming.”

You’re here to check on your friend,
I remind myself with disgust,
not fantasize about her brother’s strong, capable hands.

Leaning down, I tug off my winter boots and place them neatly out of the way. I wiggle my wool-covered toes, fidgeting with nervousness. “Does she want to see me?” I ask hopefully.

Blake doesn’t bother to hide his regret, shaking his head swiftly. “She doesn’t know that I asked you to come.”

“Figured as much. She in her room?”

Blake frowns. “Yeah. Let me know if you—I don’t know, need something.” He cups the back of his neck with his palm, his disquiet blaring. “You know, she started seeing Dr. Greene regularly. I’m hoping that he’s convinced her to let you back in. Zoe needs a friend like you now more than ever.”

“Me, too,” I mutter. “I’ll see myself up.”

Blake doesn’t move from his spot, doesn’t speak a word, as I cross the foyer toward the wide staircase. I can feel his eyes drilling into me while I walk away. Whatever’s on his mind, it’s impossible to decipher. He’s the master of smothering his emotions. He must be a fantastic poker player.

On the second floor, across the width of the house, sits Zoe’s room from her childhood. I walk a long hardwood hallway lined with photos of the siblings and Blake’s famous friends. If it weren’t for the pit of anxiety settled in my stomach, I’d admire the hominess. Even though only the two of them live in this house, it feels like a family resides here. There’s love in these walls, warmth seeping from every corner.

Using my knuckle, I knock on Zoe’s bedroom door. She calls out to enter and I push it open.

What I find troubles me down to my toes. The normally vibrant girl is pale, and it has nothing to do with winter. She’s lost the color in her life. From the deadness in her normally vibrant eyes to the defeated slump of her shoulders, Zoe is a shadow of the young woman I once knew. That damn Clinton Smith stole her security, ambitions, and fight. If I had the chance, I’d love to take a crack at him, but right now, a psychiatric hospital has him locked up tight.

“Stella.” Even Zoe’s voice has lost its enthusiasm. She sounds scratchy, like she doesn’t use her words often enough anymore. Zoe’s not surprised to see me. She’s wearing a resigned expression.

I refuse to let her lack of emotion deter me. “How are you doing, honey?” Without invitation, I sit on the corner of her bed, offering what I hope is a welcoming smile.

Zoe hugs her knees to her chest, interlocks her fingers around them, building a physical fortress between us. I ignore the hurt that travels through me at her very visceral response. She won't hold my gaze, her eyes locking on my collarbone. My heart squeezes painfully as I study her tremulous expression. I know that she's hurting, but so am I. Watching my dear friend wilt from a vibrant young woman into a deflated flower makes me physically cringe. And the worst part is, there's nothing that I can do to fix this.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” she tells me sadly.

“Of course, I should. You’re my best friend and I want to support you.” I reach up to push a chunk of hair behind my ear. It’s an unconscious gesture, one that I utilize when I’m unsure of what else to do with my hands.

Zoe shakes her head back and forth slowly, refusing to make eye contact with me. She studies the bedspread, a photograph on her bedside table, anywhere but my direction. Then she delivers the knockout swipe. “No, Stella, you don’t get it.” Finally, she stares at me, and in her eyes, all I find is a vacant look in her hazel eyes. She is not the same friend I’ve known. This is someone else. This poor imitation of Zoe scares my heart into jumping a beat. “You can’t keep coming here. You can’t keep pushing me. I need space. Stop with the impromptu visits, stop showing up and thinking you can fix me. You. Can’t.”

My heart squeezes painfully, eyes growing glassy with unshed tears. “Is that what you really want?” I whisper, terrified of her answer. One word smashes what’s left of my heart, one word sears me painfully.

“Yes.”

Slowly, I move to my feet. This is what I promised Violet and myself; if Zoe doesn’t want me around, I can’t keep begging. I need to protect my emotions and listen to my friend. If this is what she truly wants, I can’t keep fighting.

“Zoe…” I heave a defeated sigh, and for a moment, I swear a flicker of remorse flashes in her eyes. “If that’s what you want, then okay. When you’re ready to talk to me again, I’ll be here. Don’t lose my number; don’t forget about me because I will always be your best friend.
Always.
I love you and I only want what’s best for you.”

A tear sneaks out of the corner of her right eye but then she shuts it down. No more follow and she turns her face from mine. “Goodbye, Stella.”

With a heavy, throbbing ache in my chest, I leave her bedroom and shut the door behind me silently. Adele blasts once the door clicks shut, music vibrating down the hallway.

At first, I stand there listening to the music, frozen. I don’t know how to respond to her rejection until suddenly the answer appears. Without thinking about the repercussions, I hurry down the hallway, descend the stairs, and begin to search the lower level.

For Blake.

Darkness cloaks most of the rooms in the house, winter causing the sun to disappear into the horizon by the time I leave work. Summer breaks spent mixing cocktails to sip on the deck, winter nights cuddled under blankets on the couch, and spring breaks around the kitchen bar have made me familiar with the layout of the house. Despite the lack of lighting in the house, I easily navigate the floor plan to the room I’m seeking.

Without knocking, I push Blake’s office door open. His carefully styled brown locks hardly move when he lazily rises his head from his cell phone to meet my gaze. There’s no surprise in his expression, like the man
knew
I would appear. Nothing seems to faze him. Except for the one day three months ago, Blake’s always been completely composed and completely unreadable. It’s unnerving, and right now, I’m not in the mood to be shaken by his presence. Behind the cherry-colored desk, he’s commanding and in control. There’s the cellphone that he’s texting on and another one laid on the desktop. A sleek silver laptop sits open in front of him. On the opposite wall near where I stand, a fire crackles under a stone mantle. The room is the epitome of masculinity, with dark walls and furnishings. I don’t have to glance around to know that there’s mostly modern art adorning the wall. Except for one. Above the licking flames, in a place of priority, hangs a photo of Blake, Zoe, and their mother.