Float

Original Edition: Chapter Sixteen

Isabel snores.

And not those soft, almost kitten-like murmurs that you'd find adorable. No, Isabel sounds more like one of those heavy-duty lawn mowers they sell at Home Depot. A broken lawn mower, at that. It's hard to believe thirty pounds of fat and mucus can generate that type of noise.

Aside from the horrific electric gardening tool impersonation she was doing, Isabel looked angelic when I set her down in her crib. Her white blond curls were like a halo of light around her head in contrast to the hot pink pillow beneath her. 

With the toddler safely delivered, I went back downstairs into the living room, where I collapsed on the long, eggplant couch and stared up at the white chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Now that I was finally alone, I noticed that the throbbing pain in the back of my head hadn't disappeared. Not to mention, my cheek was pretty tender where I'd been jabbed by that unidentified elbow.

I closed my eyes and groaned.

"That was the worst idea ever," I mumbled to myself.

At that moment, I promised myself that I was never going to follow along with one of Blake Hamilton's ludicrous plans ever again.

Speaking of which, where the heck was he?

I kicked my legs over the side of the couch and hopped up, then crossed the room to stand by the purple-curtain-framed window that had a decent view of the Hamilton's front yard and the houses across the street. I pressed my cheek against the glass and craned my neck in an attempt to see if Rachel's neon green Volkswagen was back in her driveway.

It wasn't.

Fucking Blake Hamilton.

Where was Lena when you wanted to chop someone's balls off?

I stomped back across the room and into the kitchen, because when the going gets tough, the tough grab a snack. I raided the Hamiltons' cupboards, eventually finding a large box of Ritz. With the package of crackers tucked under my arm, I headed back out to the living room. But before I could plop back down on the couch and eat my feelings, I heard the distinct clanging of house keys against the front door.

Someone was home.

For a moment, I thought Chloe and George were back. Which wasn't good, considering their son hadn't gotten home yet and was probably still trying to strangle Ethan. I knew I was about to be in a lot of trouble, so I braced my arms around my box of Ritz crackers and held it up in front of me like a shield as the front door swung open.

And there stood Blake Hamilton.

Looking like he'd just been hit by a bus.

"Holy shit!" I cried. "What the hell happened to your face?"

Blake's dark eyebrows pulled together and he blinked at me from where he stood, halfway in the living room and halfway out on the porch. There was a dark, shadowy spot that had appeared on the right side of his jaw, and an angry red scrape over his right eyebrow. And maybe it was just me, but I thought I saw a bit of dried blood on his cheek.

He blinked at me.

"What happened to your face?" he retorted.

Of all the immature things to say, he chose that?

"I'm serious—" I began, tossing my box of Ritz onto the eggplant couch.

"So am I," Blake interrupted, stepping into the living room and kicking the door closed behind him. He walked up to me, bending his head down slightly and narrowing his eyes as he looked over my face. "What happened? Did you run into a wall or something?"