The evening is dedicated to homework and worrying. I keep looking at the clock, watching the hour hand inch closer to seven as I wonder what trouble Blake is up to. To distract myself, I end up reorganizing the whole of my closet and then re-reading my speech for the fiftieth time. Mom calls me to down to dinner at six – it's pasta tonight – and I take my place opposite her and Dad at the table before picking up my spoon.

Dad spends a few minutes telling us how great the syllabus has been this year and how he can't wait for me to start college next year. Although I'm undecided about where I want to go, he's convinced I'll attend Archbury University, the same as he did and his father before him. I play along, asking about the professors and the syllabus, and all the while, I'm checking my watch and praying that when I get to Blake's house, he won't turn me away.

It's Mom's turn next. She tells us about her plans for Archbury and the upcoming town fair. How she wants to establish a better sense of community among the residents. We nod and smile, congratulating her on her hard work and perseverance, and then it's my turn.

"I'll be going to Angela's tonight," I say. "We're going to look over my speech for Wednesday – I might be home a little late."

"Of course," Mom says before sipping her wine. "She seems like a great campaign captain – better than Chase would have been."

She says it to make me feel better, and it does. "Thanks, Mom."

"You know, you should invite her over here sometime."

My heart stops. I don't say anything for a moment as I take another bite of pasta. "Yeah," I say, "next time."

This seems to satisfy her, but not for long. The pair of them quiz me about how school is going, piano, and whether I'm still keeping up with my projects outside the campaign. By the time I have finished my pasta, I'm exhausted. I head upstairs to change into something a little more comfortable and then take a few minutes to sit on my bed and breathe. As much as I love my parents, sometimes they're a little overbearing.

Not a little, a lot.

By the time I get to Blake's house, I've convinced myself to turn back around at least four times. It's hard to tell what I'm about to walk into, whether Blake will have gotten over his anger from this morning or whether our argument was enough to drive him to quit. I gnaw on my nails as I park upfront – a nasty old habit – and debate what's worth more: my pride or becoming class president.

Eventually, when it becomes apparent I'm not going to leave, I get out of the car and walk around the house to the basement's door. Never admit wrongdoing, my mother's words whisper. They'll use it against you. She'd been talking to my father about insurance after a car accident he was in, and she'd turned to me, serious, and said, That goes for life too, Rose. I've remembered it ever since.

Shoulders back, I knock on the door and prepare to argue my case. The door swings open. Blake stands before me, arms folded, eyes dark, his usual defensive stance. Behind him, the air is hazy with smoke.

For about a second, he doesn't look like he's going to let me in, but then he steps aside to give me room, which I take as a good sign. I walk to the counter and turn around to face him, needing to put several feet between us.

"You here for your campaign, or are you here to play detective?" he asks. "It's hard to tell with you."

"You left those things in plain view on the table," I say. "I can't be held responsible for having eyes."

"That's your excuse?" he asks. "You can't help having eyes?"

The longer he stares, the harder my heart pounds. Maybe it's not an airtight excuse, but everything I'd planned to say on the car ride here disappeared from my head. "Yes."

He shakes his head in disbelief, a short, abrupt laugh escaping his lips – the humorless kind. "You know what your problem is, Matthews? You don't know when to keep your nose out of other people's business."

My eyes narrow. It's not like I care what Blake thinks of me, but his accusations hurt all the same. "I was trying to help you," I say. "God knows why, but I was. I'm sorry if that makes me such a terrible person."

He steps closer. The muscles in his jaw contract. "I never asked for your help."

"People don't have to ask," I say. "That's just what you do when you ca–" I freeze. I was about to say something unfathomable, like care about someone. But how can I care about someone I actively dislike? Someone I know nothing about? Someone I have nothing in common with? I don't.

"When you what?" he asks.

"Forget it." I push past him and head to the door. I don't need to be told who I am by Blake O'Hare, but as my hand reaches the handle, I stop. Guilt tugs away at my stomach. Despite the shrill sound of my pride screaming no, I turn back around. Blake's eyes find their way back to mine – maybe they never left. "I'm sorry." My voice is so low that I question if he heard it. "I shouldn't have looked at your things – it was none of my business." He doesn't speak, but he's still watching me. I step forward, compelled by guilt, and try not to let his unreadable expression deter me. "I come from a family of fixers. When there's a problem, we either solve it or throw money at it until it solves itself. I should have realized if you'd wanted me to know, you'd have told me."

When he still doesn't speak, I turn back to the door, defeated. I don't want to leave, I realize. Not because of the speech, but because of something I don't understand. I like being here in the shadows of his basement. It's easy and quiet, and there aren't expectations. No need to be perfect. Down here is a freedom to be – or not be – whoever I want.

"Okay," I say to the door, "I'm going now." Some part of me hopes that he'll ask me to stay, but he doesn't. Of course he doesn't. I'm about to open the door, and then –

"Pass me your speech."

I turn back around, smiling. Blake sinks into the sofa and extends an arm toward me. I sit beside him, close enough that the hairs on his arms gently tickle my skin, and everything feels right again. After reaching into my pocket, I pull out the speech and hand it to him.

He looks at the speech and does a double take. "You handwrote it?"

"Yes."

It's that look again – the one that tells me I'm categorically insane, but something else seems to linger behind it. Something I like. "Why?"

"Writing it down helps me to think better," I say. "Besides, I refuse to let the art of handwriting die out."

"You're right," he says, "Rose Matthews hand writing her speech will singlehandedly restore the art of penmanship."

I roll my eyes and tell him to get on with it. He leans back like he's getting comfortable and stretches out his legs. He takes what feels like forever to read it. I bite my nails, trying to read his reaction, but his face gives nothing away. Even though I will read this speech in front of hundreds at school, this feels more nerve-wracking.

"Okay," I say, my patience running dry, "tell me. What's wrong with it?"

He looks up from the paper in his hands. "Nothing."

"There's got to be something," I say.

"There isn't. It's a good speech."

"But?"

His lips curl. He puts the speech down to turn to me properly. "You need to work on your confidence."

"I don't lack confidence," I say. "I just know that you always have something to say."

"Not this time."

I lean a little closer, trying to determine whether or not he's playing with me, but it's hard to tell. It's always hard to tell.

As though he knows it, the corner of his mouth lifts. "Listen, Rose, you're a lot of things – obsessive, overbearing–"

"Get to the point."

"–but you're not careless. You nailed it."

My heart jumps. I shouldn't care what Blake thinks either way, but I can't stop my smile from forming. He hands me the speech back, and I allow my eyes to roam over the words as he turns on the tv. After putting it back in my bag, I look up to see him relaxed as he flicks through the channels. Now that my speech is essentially done, there's no reason for me to be here, but it's only seven-thirty, and I don't want to leave.

Silence fills the space between us. I expect him to look over and ask me to leave, but he doesn't. Maybe he's forgotten I'm here. I'm sitting so still that a part of me wonders if I've turned into stone. This isn't just working on the campaign anymore; this is hanging out.

Blake gets up and moves to the fridge to grab himself a beer. Looking over his shoulder, he says, "You want one?"

"Um, no thanks," I say.

He smirks like he'd expected as much and sits down again, sinking into the sofa beside me. After resting his legs on the coffee table, he nods at the tv. "Choose something–" he briefly looks over, "–not romance."

I don't speak right away. My brain is still trying to compute how this happened: how we went from arguing to watching tv like friends. But then he looks over, eyebrow raised, and I force myself to look at the screen.

"What about Real Housewives?" I ask.

"Pass."

"Ginny and Georgia? Never Have I Ever? One Of Us Is Lying?" He says no to everything until I grow impatient. "What do you like, Blake?"

That lopsided smile returns. "Horror mostly."

"Of course you do," I say. "Why? Do you like seeing blood? People getting beheaded and disemboweled? Eaten alive?"

"What kind of horrors have you been watching?"

I don't admit I've never watched horror – I'm too much of a baby. "Seriously," I say. "Why do you like it?"

He's silent for a moment as he puts down his beer. Slowly, he says, "Wes Craven once said that horror films don't create fear; they release it." He looks over now, something dark in his expression. Briefly, his gaze drops to my lips and back up in a moment of indiscretion. "That's why."

I hold my breath as he turns to the tv. Then, for some stupid reason that goes beyond logic, say, "I like horror too."

"Yeah?"

I realize that's what I was after. That hitch of his eyebrow. That air of surprise in his voice. For reasons unknown, surprising Blake O'Hare excites me. "Yeah. Almost as much as romance."

He smirks. I'm certain he's about to put on a horror film, so I brace myself for an evening of fear and torture, but to my surprise, he hands the clicker over. "Pick what you want. It doesn't have to be horror."

Relieved, I settle on a movie labeled as a drama and get out my phone. "One second," I say, "I just need to check something."

"Check what?"

I pause. "The ending."

"The ending?" He leans into my shoulder to look at my phone. "Please tell me you're joking."

I can't help it. I'm the type of person who gets upset for weeks about a sudden sad ending, so I check the end of every movie to make sure it's not depressing. I don't mind the spoilers, and it means I can avoid an unpleasant next few days. Blake, it's clear, will not understand this, but I try anyway.

"I hate sad endings," I say. "I like to avoid them. I do the same with books."

"Rose." He doesn't say anything else. Running a hand along his jaw, he drags his gaze down my face. "What am I going to do with you?"

A surge of heat rushes through me. My mind imagines the worst – me straddling him on this sofa, his hands on my thighs, mouth near my ear. What am I doing to do with you? I swallow hard and turn away.

What is wrong with me?

Blake reaches over, making me jump, and takes my phone before choosing some film. "I'm not watching a sad film," I warn. "Just let me check."

"I've seen this one before," he says, turning toward me. His face is close, and I watch as the vein in his neck does this quick pulsate. "You'll like it."

"How do I know you haven't purposely picked a sad one?" I force myself to meet his gaze, and the heat in my stomach makes its way to my thighs.

"You don't," he says, his voice low, "you'll just have to trust me."

❤️