Crank Read online

  Shit. I’d totally forgotten. “Right. Sure. I’ll be there.”

  “And Blake?”

  My gaze snapped over to the roses he’d left for me. Again, I wondered if it was unfair to keep him from his own home . . . it wasn’t home to me without him anyway. I swallowed. “No. Just me.”

  “Okay.” She sounded confused, but didn’t ask, and I was grateful.

  We chatted a while longer, making me feel somewhat normal. My sister and I had definitely had our moments growing up, but she was one of my closest friends now. Even then, I couldn’t find it within myself to tell her about the divorce. Not yet.

  We hung up after I swore to be there for Thanksgiving dinner and I sat staring at the phone in my hand. What was I going to do? I made a living, but Blake was the breadwinner. I’d have to ask Dr. McCollum about going full-time, I guessed. If I was going to be on my own, I’d need the extra money.

  After a few minutes of self-pity, I stood and bypassed breakfast to go shower. I suddenly wasn’t feeling very well anyway.

  I slogged through the next few days, busying myself with work and trying not to obsess about what Blake was doing, where he was, and why he hadn’t called. If he was waiting for me to make the first move, he could wait ‘til the cows came home. Not this time. I’d done all the conceding, all the bending and compromising these last ten years. Sorry, I’d learned my lesson.

  At home, I fed our cat, Chevy—okay, it was Blake’s cat and pretty much only tolerated me—read, watched sappy movies on the Hallmark Channel, and painted my toenails. Basically, I moped. Eventually, Thursday rolled around, and when I couldn’t avoid it anymore, I forced myself to get ready to go to my parents’.

  I’d pretty much become a yoga pants and T-shirt kinda girl, but I kept a couple pairs of slacks, a dress, and some nice blouses for the occasional visit to my parents’. . . like armor. Blake had always thought it was ridiculous—why dress up for them?—but he hadn’t been raised under their crazy, strict rules. It was all about appearances for them, always had been, probably always would be. It just was. And, especially on big occasions, we were expected to wear something nice, mind our manners . . . basically fake it like I had my whole life.

  All set in my khakis and cashmere sweater, I brushed out my hair, dabbed on some perfume, and headed out. As I spied Chevy lounging on the sofa, looking out the window miserably, I realized he must miss Blake as much as I did. Maybe more, since apparently my husband was the only one who could do the stupid laser pointer right.

  Was I making all of us miserable? What else could I do?

  Blake’s white roses were the last thing I saw as I slammed the door. Flowers or no flowers, love him or not, I’d made my decision. He couldn’t stop this, and . . .

  Oh, God.

  I wilted right there on the porch steps when I saw the white rose tucked into my car’s windshield wiper.

  Blake was not playing fair.

  Shoring up my reserve, I stood and stomped over to my car. I yanked the rose out of the window and sunk into my seat, tossing the flower next to me, determined to ignore it. I cranked up my radio and drove to my parents’ with a single-minded purpose. To survive.

  Danielle met me at the door, looking adorable in dark blue jeans, her sorority sweatshirt, her dark hair twisted up into a messy bundle. Guess she got a pass on the dressing up thing since she was in school.

  “Hi!” She grabbed me into a bear hug.

  “Hey.” I released her and stepped inside my old home, overwhelmed by the familiar scents of polishing wax and lilacs. I glanced around. Not a speck of dust anywhere, as usual. If my mom saw my house today, she’d probably have a coronary.

  My sister tugged my purse and jacket from me then linked our arms to head to the dining room. “So, where’s Blake today? Working?”

  I stifled the pain. It was an innocent question. “Uh . . .”

  “Delilah.” Our mother waltzed in, saving me from answering. She gave me a cursory glance up and down, then apparently satisfied with my appearance, she smiled stiffly. “Sit, why don’t you? Dinner will be served in a moment.”

  And nice to see you, too.

  “Dad had the chef from that fancy place downtown cook for us tonight,” Danielle whispered as she plopped down next to me, both of us in our usual seats like obedient little ducklings. I suppressed the crazy urge to sit across from my father just to see how he’d react.

  “They got him to cook for us on Thanksgiving?” My stomach suddenly rumbled and I realized I hadn’t eaten all day after bypassing breakfast again. I just hadn’t quite felt up to it. But now I was ravenous.

  Danielle snorted a laugh. “When has father not been able to get what he wants?”

  True.

  As if on cue, my father came in, his graying hair combed impeccably, his pants perfectly ironed. “Hello, Delilah. Glad you could join us.”

  I smiled and nodded. “Of course. It’s Thanksgiving. And your anniversary.” I shot a ‘thank you’ look to my sister.

  He pulled out my mother’s chair then sat at the head of the table and unfolded his napkin. “So, where is that husband of yours, Delilah?”

  The way he said ‘husband’ left a sour taste in my mouth. It always had. And, now, it was even worse because I’d have to admit he’d been right all along. “Um, I’m not sure.”

  “Not sure?” my mom echoed.

  “No.” I welcomed the interruption of our dinner being served and dived into my salad as the turkey was carved.

  Danielle nudged me under the table and I slid her a glance. Her furrowed brows communicated her concern. I shook my head gently to let her know it wasn’t anything to worry about.

  As we ate, my parents made small talk, obviously not caring about whatever had kept Blake away. We discussed what was new for Dad as the Justice of the Peace, my mom’s plans to retire in the next couple of years, Danielle’s pre-law courses. Basically, everything but the big, fat elephant in the room. Well, or my career. Or lack thereof, as far as my parents were concerned.

  After dinner and dessert, which I gorged on two slices of pumpkin pie, we moved to the living room with our coffee. Mom settled into the recliner next to me and Dad wandered over to the desk in the corner. Once Danielle was back from a trip to the bathroom, Dad got down on one knee in front of our mom and presented a black velvet box from behind his back.

  “I love you, Margaret. Thank you for the best twenty-five years of my life.”

  She gasped, bringing a hand to her lips. “Oh, Ray.” Her eyes flew to me and my sister. “Did you know about this?”

  We shook our heads, as shocked as she was. I had never seen my parents do anything even remotely romantic.

  With trembling hands, she took the box from our father and flipped it open. Danielle and I both leaned over to peek, then looked at each other in disbelief. Snuggled inside the satin, was a very large, slightly ostentatious, emerald necklace. Mom’s favorite.

  Tears were leaking down her cheeks as Dad helped her put it on. “Oh, honey,” she murmured, pressing her lips to his. “It’s lovely. Thank you.”

  I couldn’t compute this. Apparently, my sister couldn’t either, if the dazed expression on her face meant anything.

  When the surprise wore off, we oohed and aahed over the necklace for a while, until my sister called it a night. “I’m turning in early. I need to get back tomorrow to work on a paper.” She stood and hugged everyone. “Call me?” she whispered in my ear.

  I nodded and wished her well in school. Unsure what to do now, I stood. “Well, I guess I’d better be going, too—”

  “What’s going on, Delilah?” my father interrupted.

  My gaze snapped to his. My mom was sitting demurely, her hand clasped in his. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, you’ve never come home for any occasion without your husband. Though I can’t say I miss him, it’s obvious something’s wrong. Did he—?”

  “No!” I nearly shouted, so tired of my father berating Blake. Yes, he ma
y have made some big mistakes, and no, he wasn’t perfect. But, he was . . . I stopped the thought before I got to ‘mine.’

  He wasn’t. Not anymore.

  I got myself together and took a big breath. “No. He didn’t do anything. We just . . .” I glanced over to our last family photo before I graduated. Fake smiles. It made me sick. “I filed for divorce, okay?”

  My mom’s mouth dropped open. “You what?”

  My dad didn’t say a word, his gaze dropping to his gray pants as he smoothed an imaginary wrinkle.

  I kept my eyes pinned to the top of my father’s head, noticing how much more white hair he had than the last time I looked. “You were right.” I choked on the words. “It was never going to work.”

  My dad peered up, his face devoid of emotion. What sliced me open, more than anything, was there was no ‘I’m sorry’ or ‘That’s horrible.’ And there never would be.

  But it didn’t matter. I was a big girl. I’d made my bed, I could lie in it. I gulped down the knot of emotion clogging my throat and sucked it up. “Mom. Dad. Can I move home?”

  Blake

  I wondered all Thanksgiving week what Delilah thought of my roses. Were they stupid? Did she have dinner with her family . . . while I wallowed alone, unable to face my friends and ruin their holiday? This shit sucked.

  I’d been trying to give her a little breathing room to remember why we were good together, but, God, how I wanted to be there when she saw them. Hold her. Apologize for everything these past years. As I envisioned what our holidays used to be and all they never would be again . . . the babies we’d lost . . . the damn vacation to Lake Tahoe I never took her on . . . it ate me up.

  I had to see her.

  Beg if I had to.

  This giving her space stuff suddenly seemed like bullshit. Before I could change my mind, I jumped off the office sofa that had become my bed and moved toward the bathroom. I’d been borrowing Micah’s shower, but otherwise, the garage suited me just fine. I washed up in the sink and changed into clean clothes as I stared into my own tired brown eyes. I ran a hand over the stubble on my head, wondering if I should shave it bald again or let it grow. Delilah had always liked it long . . .

  Cursing, I shoved out and started my Camaro. I still drove the same one Dee had crashed into in high school, though it had a few upgrades now. Nostalgia, I guess. Plus it was a badass car.

  I knew I only had a little while before she left for work since Tuesdays were her early days, so I pushed the gas a little harder than usual.

  I drove into our quiet neighborhood and a pang hit me when I saw Mrs. Holder’s holiday decorations. She’d had them up since before Halloween, always the first one on the block. It made her kid, Jake, happy. And since his cancer diagnosis, she’d do just about anything to make him happy.

  Frowning, I pulled up into my driveway. Why weren’t there any lights on? Dee’s Vette was there, but it didn’t look like she was up.

  I loped to the door, my keys in hand, and froze. Should I just let myself in like I had when I dropped off the roses? Should I knock?

  God, this divorce etiquette was a bitch.

  On a surge of righteous indignation, I shoved my key in the lock and opened the door. I closed it quietly behind me just as a dark furball bumped my legs.

  I knelt down and ran a hand through my cat’s silky fur. “Hey, Chevy. How’s my boy?”

  He meowed and purred and wrapped himself around my shins in tight figure eights. He must’ve missed me. As my eyes adjusted to the darkened room, I realized there were boxes piled up in the entryway. One was marked ‘Bedroom,’ another ‘Fragile.’ I lifted the lid on the one labeled ‘Bathroom’ and my heart thudded painfully.

  Dee’s girly bathroom things were stacked neatly inside. Her lotions, her weird spongy things, her hairdryer.

  I rose and stalked to the bedroom, noting several more empty boxes against a wall. What the hell was going on here? I pressed open the door and peeked inside. Her scent hit me like a freight train. I always said berries and sunshine, but I think it was just her. The small form in the bed sighed and shifted, making me yearn to hold her again.

  More boxes and a suitcase sat open at the foot of the bed. I bent and lifted one of her shirts, dropping it as my heart broke again.

  “Blake?” her sleepy voice whispered. “Is that you?”

  “You expecting someone else?” I asked, unable to help the bitterness creeping into my voice.

  She moved and sat up, snapping on the small bedside lamp. “What time is it?”

  Man, just the sight of her, all rumpled and sexy with sleep, had me ready to crumble. “It’s nearly seven. Did you oversleep?”

  She squinted and glanced at the clock. “No.” Then her gaze moved back to me hesitantly. “Uh, I took the day off.”

  I cocked my hip against the dresser. The empty dresser. “Why?”

  “I . . .” Unconsciously, she lifted the sheet to cover her breasts. Like she had to protect herself from me. “I’m packing and moving out.”

  “Moving out?”

  She nodded, apparently oblivious to my shattering heart. What the fuck?

  I ran a hand down my face. “Why?” I asked again.

  She was silent a moment, her big blue eyes not wavering from mine. “This is your house, Blake. It’s not fair to keep you from it just because I . . . because I’ve filed for divorce. You should have it.”

  “I don’t want it!” I belted, suddenly overcome. “I don’t want it,” I said again, quieter, but still firm. “I bought this house for you. You don’t have to leave.”

  She tilted her head, a trace of sadness crossing her face. “Yes, I do.”

  I approached her and she sunk back in the bed. Away from me. “No, baby. You don’t. Please—”

  “Where have you been staying?” she asked, interrupting my plea.

  I sat next to her, ignoring her distance. “At the garage. Why?”

  “Not with Candace?”

  “What? No! Why would you even ask that?”

  She tilted her head.

  “God, Dee, I told you . . . I don’t know how she ended up there that night, but I did not cheat on you. I’d never. You have to believe me!”

  I watched the disbelief cross her face, followed by reluctant hope. I grasped onto that. “Please, baby. I’ll do anything you want. Anything. Just don’t do this.”

  She shocked me by reaching out and gripping my hand. “Blake.”

  “Yes, honey?” I squeezed her warm little fingers.

  “I love you—”

  “I love you, too,” I said, relief rushing through me like a tidal wave.

  “—but this isn’t going to work.”

  “What are you talking about? We can fix this. We can fix anything.”

  “No. I’m moving on and giving you back your house. I’m going back to my parents’ until I get on my feet with work and everything, then I’ll get my own place.” She pulled her hand from mine. “It’s for the best, Blake. Please let me go.”

  “No.” No, no, no, I wanted to scream, but I held back.

  She didn’t say another word. Wouldn’t look at me. She just sat there like a statue until I finally got up and walked away, gutted.

  Thank God we were swamped at the garage that day. It kept my hands busy when I just wanted to smash a hole in the damn wall.

  Her parents?

  Really?

  How could my girl leave me and go back to Daddy Dearest . . . after all we’d done to establish a life away from him? She must really want away from me to subject herself to living under his thumb again.

  I ignored the little voice in my head that said she was just trying to be fair about the house. There was nothing fair about this whole fucked up situation. Nothing.

  I gave Micah money for lunch, and over sub sandwiches, he and Trace laid it down.

  “Dude,” Trace said. “Why are you being such a grumpy prick today?”

  Micah bit his sandwich, but I knew by the way his gaze c
aught mine that he agreed.

  “I’m not . . .” I stopped, unable and unwilling to lie. I had been a prick, gritting out replies, storming around and slamming tools.

  Trace lifted a brow.

  “Fine. Sorry.” I shoved my meatball melt into my mouth to avoid saying more.

  “What’s going on?” Micah asked.

  I shrugged, feeling like a pussy. I’d never brought my personal shit to work before. “Dee’s moving out . . . back to her folks.”

  My friends both stared at me. They knew how screwed up that was.

  “It’s really over, guys,” I said, flopping down my half-eaten sandwich. “She’s leaving me with the house and getting on with her life.” I bit my tongue before spouting off my feelings about it being at her dad’s.

  “So, that’s it?” Trace said, a hint of disbelief in his voice.

  Isn’t that what I’d just said? “Yup.”

  He exchanged a look with Micah, disgust written all over him. “You’re not going to fight for your wife? Your marriage? You’re going to let her daddy dictate how you feel about yourself, even after all this time?”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “It’s got everything to do with this, Blake. You’ve let how other people see you affect your whole life. But you’re better than that. Come on, man, you’re one of the best men I know. You’ve got a great wife, a great business. You deserve better. No matter what her father says . . . or your father.”

  I cringed as the truth of that bounced off my shell. I may be better than what her father thought of me, but not much. I was, and would forever be, Dean Travers’ son. The loser from south Baybridge. “What am I supposed to do? We all saw Candace leave here that day. She’s done with me, dude,” I gritted out.

  “Did you fuck her?”

  “Who?”

  “Candace!” Trace bellowed.

  I reared back. “No. Never.”

  “Well, then, why don’t you go tell your wife that and work this shit out?”

  I studied my friends, still reeling at how well they’d seen through me. “I did. Didn’t change anything. Why do you care anyway?”