Float

Original Edition: Chapter Thirty

We sat in Alissa's car for a long time.

At first, we just talked—quietly, candidly.

But after a while, someone handed Jesse the auxiliary cord so he could plug in his phone and introduce us to a Spotify playlist made up exclusively of pop songs by Norwegian girl bands. The rest of us gave him some shit for it, but Alissa just sat forward in the driver's seat and smiled to herself while she swayed to the drumbeat.

Blake's hand wandered into my lap to wrap around mine.

I knit our fingers together and bumped my shoulder against his.

It was an all-around nice time.

Eventually, when the wind was battering the side of the car with palm fronds and rain so hard that I began to wonder if it was possible for the storm to tip over a massive Range Rover weighed down with five people, we decided it was time to head home.

It was only when we started driving that we realized how bad the storm had gotten.

Entire blocks had flooded, curb to curb.

Alissa grew increasingly frustrated when she had to drive in loops and retrace our steps to avoid stretches of the road that were littered with debris and rainwater.

I was a bit relieved when we finally pulled onto our street, but beside me, Blake tensed. It didn't take a genius to figure out his sudden shift—we could all see the Hamilton's silver sedan parked in their driveway, sitting there as ominously as a 2004 Honda Accord could.

Chloe was home.

"Look, Blake! She's—" Jesse began, just as Lena said, "I'll fight her for you—" and Alissa chimed in with, "Who fucking cares if—" and I cried, "This is good!"

Blake sighed as we started to talk over each other, supplying words of encouragement and advice that he hadn't asked for.

"Guys," he finally said.

We all shut up.

"I'm fine."

This statement was almost as unassuming as his family's car, but equally ominous given the context.

Alissa, Lena, Jesse and I all exchanged looks, eyebrows raised and eyes wide, each of us trying to work out if anyone knew Blake well enough to predict what he was going to do.

He seemed calm.

I couldn't figure out if that was a good or bad thing.

Alissa pulled into the driveway behind the Hamilton's sedan and parked. Jesse unplugged his phone, cutting off the music mid bongo drum solo, and we all slipped out into the rain and made a mad dash for the porch.

We found Chloe and George in the dining room.

They sat in seats next to each other on one side of the circular table, their chairs pushed together and their heads bent as they talked in hushed voices. George had his arm slung over the back of Chloe's chair, his hand tracing shapes on her back, as she fiddled nervously with the handle of a hard-to-mistake white bag resting on the table.

I hated to intrude on what looked like such a private moment, but as soon as Jesse slammed the front door shut behind himself, there was no hiding.

Chloe jumped to her feet.

"Kids," George said in greeting.

His eyebrows furrowed as he took in his son and me. We had to be quite the sight—Blake in his sweatshirt and sweatpants combo, me in mud-smeared pajama pants and a cherry red Disney World poncho, both of us still decently soaked from our little stroll.