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"Yeah."
She scoffs. "I have enough pressure in my life."
"Don't be dramatic."
"I'm not," she shouts.
"You have a safe roof over your head, no bills, and food in your stomach. What is possibly creating pressure in your life?" I question.
"You! You're the pressure in my life!" she cries out, her eyes blazing and cheeks flushing.
I jerk my head back. Tension rapidly builds between us.
She realizes what she said and tries to backtrack. She lowers her voice. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"
"Don't lie to me, pet. Just put it all on the table," I seethe.
She shuts her eyes. "Riggs..." She opens her lids, and they're wet.
My pulse beats hard between my ears. I keep my voice as neutral as possible and state, "You have two months. And I wouldn't go to Ears if I didn't think you were ready...if I didn't believe in your talent. One thing I thought you'd know about me by now is that I don't put my reputation on the line unless I'm convinced it's a sure thing."
She swallows hard.
I add, "But you're only a sure thing if you want to be. And it doesn't matter if I believe in you or not. You have to believe in yourself. Make a choice, pet. You either want to make it happen, or you don't." I walk out of the house, slam the door, and take off to my apartment in the city. If Blakely thinks I'm her root of pressure, then I'll eliminate it for her.
It's probably best for us anyway. She's confusing our relationship with her girlfriend comment. And I need to stop being such a pussy when it comes to her.
21
Blakely
Three Weeks Later
Riggs has been punishing me. No matter what I do, he won't come home. It's been almost three weeks. I've texted and called him, but he hardly responds. A few times, I've gotten a returned text, always with the same message.
Riggs: Do your work, Blakely.
I've begged him to come home, but he doesn't.
It's not doing anything for my writer's block. I still can't put any lyrics together to save my life. I sit at the piano most of the day, hitting the keys, but nothing comes.
I shouldn't have told Riggs he's the pressure in my life, but I did, and he won't let me take it back. Nor should I have said I was his girlfriend. And I'd do anything to have him back, but he won't come home.
Another day passes, turning to darkness. I wait up until midnight, then take a shower. I dry off and slide into his bed, trying to inhale the remaining scent of him on the pillowcase, but it's fading.
I send him a text message.
Me: Will you please come home? I miss you.
I stare at the screen, but a message never comes. I finally fall asleep with the window open, listening to the waves crash on the shore, wondering if Riggs has surfed somewhere else or not.
At some point in the night, I open my eyes and wonder if I'm dreaming.
Riggs sits on the armchair in the corner, staring at me, holding a crystal tumbler of scotch.
I sit up in bed. My voice cracks as I ask, "Why aren't you in bed?"
He remains silent, his eyes pinned on me.
