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8
Blake
I could still taste her on my lips. Hear her in my ears.
I turned onto the dirt drive that I had called home. The lights were off in the boat barn.
I didn’t know if they’d ever be back on. I kept my head down as I passed the double doors that led inside where my dad used to work. I never went in there anymore. Cole had tried. My uncle had tried, but I kept the doors locked.
They kept reminding me how valuable the tools and the wood were inside, but I didn’t give a shit about the price of juniper boards—nor did I care about the two boats I kept hostage in there. I kept it sealed like a tomb.
I stumbled into the house, throwing my keys onto the table. I should pack up and head back to Orlando. There was enough to do for the team. I had rookies to study. Routes to plan with my receivers. I could meet with Coach. Work on my knee. I didn’t need this shit.
I wasn’t in the mood for a trip down memory lane. And yet, I was fucking driving down it a hundred miles an hour on auto pilot. Hell.
And Sierra was a brick wall I was going to crash into head first, sending me through the windshield with no seatbelt. I slammed my fist on the table.
There was only one way to get her out of my system.
One way to put the past behind me.
One way to drown out the memories.
One way to wipe her from my thoughts.
I pulled the top off a bottle of bourbon and took a swig. It burned my throat, but I didn’t care. I swallowed again. Before I knew it, the bottle was
empty.
The glass hit the floor with a thud as I fell forward onto the couch. I didn’t know what time it was when I finally passed out, but the last thing I saw was Sierra’s lips. There wasn’t enough alcohol on this island to drink her out of my mind.
I reached for my head when the sun hit me in the face. Fuck. I walked to the kitchen and poured a glass of orange juice and ransacked the cabinets looking for aspirin.
I popped the tablets in my mouth and chugged them down. The old phone my parents had nailed to the wall was still attached. I couldn’t forget the number to Sierra’s aunt’s house if I wanted to. I tapped the digits onto the keypad and waited for her to answer.
“Hello?” She sounded sleepy. It was barely sunrise.
“Hey. It’s Blake.”
“Oh.”
“Look, about last night.” I ran my hand over my neck. The hangover stemmed from somewhere in the lower part of my skull.
“It shouldn’t have gone like that. I think we need a do-over.”
“A what?” she squeaked.
I couldn’t believe I was saying this shit. “A do-over. I’ll pick you up at seven thirty.”
“For what?” she questioned.
That was the question. Was I trying to prove to myself I was over her? Or that I could take her? Use her like she had used me? Prove that I could fuck her over and no longer needed her? Could I drive off this island like she had and not give a fuck about her?
“Come on, Sierra. It’s a date. I’ll pick you up and we’ll just pretend last night never happened.”
“I don’t understand. Last night wasn’t the best reunion. We haven’t talked in years and now it’s a date?”
“We’re older now, aren’t we?” Did she still know me so well that she could read through my bullshit reasons?
