When Faults Collide (Faultlines #1) (11 page)

He immediately responded.

I responded just as fast.

I set my phone down and walked over to my computer, playing roulette with my playlist and hitting “shuffle play.”

Coldplay’s
Sparks
started playing softly through the speakers.

My phone dinged.

I swayed to the song playing and texted back.

He didn’t waste any time.

I grinned. This guy. Was that a butterfly in my stomach? What the heck was happening to me?

My playlist switched to Hawthorne Heights and I started dancing around.

I smiled even wider, set my phone down to charge, and enjoyed the blissful feeling in my soul as I danced, waiting to see my guy.

Chapter Eleven

Blake sat across from me at dinner, holding one hand while we talked.

He had brought me to Addis, an amazing Ethiopian place in The Bottom. I ripped apart some of the injera so I could pick up my lamb stew. Similarly to most South Asian foods, you don’t use silverware when eating Ethiopian
(and many other African)
cuisine.

During our dinner I had learned that Blake was twenty-five and had graduated with his MBA,
and
an undergrad minor in music, from the University of Virginia just last year. His foster parents had given him the money that he needed to start Shine, and he had moved back to Richmond just a few months earlier.

He learned about my time at VCU, my love for all things art, and how graphic design had been a natural choice for me as a major because of my love for yearbook in high school.

We talked about our families. He was fascinated with my dad and his business and also with Marcy and how she fell into the
family and her role as stepmom so well.

I learned that Amy was a stay-at-home mom and Dave was a chef at one of the larger country clubs outside of town. I was fascinated to hear about them.

“I think they sound awesome. You know, foster parents aren’t painted with the best light in media. Do you think they are rare or do you think that foster parents get a bad rep?” I asked, genuinely curious.

He swallowed the lentils and injera that he had just put in his mouth and then replied, “The media doesn’t report all of the good foster homes because it wouldn’t make good news. The truth is, there are way more good families than bad. Before coming to Amy and Dave I had been in eight homes, and only one of those eight was a bad home. Most foster parents are nice families who are either hoping to build their family or just have a heart for serving. Many times it’s combination of both.”

I nodded, genuinely intrigued. “I think it’s awesome. How many kids have they adopted?”

“They adopted four of my younger siblings when they were babies, before I came along, and then adopted another two kids after I graduated high school but still lived at home. There’s a lot of us that they didn’t adopt but that are still a part of their family. Five, actually.”

I mentally did the math. “So they’ve adopted six kids, but fostered five more?”

He chuckled. “No, they claim five of us as their kids...we call it being a permanent connection. They’ve fostered over fifty kids total. Some for a few days, some for longer.”

My mouth dropped. “Fifty kids? Wow. That is...well, that’s amazing.”

He nodded. “They are pretty amazing. They aren’t fostering anymore, but Amy’s a CASA now — a “Court Appointed Special Advocate” for kids, — and Dave sits on the board for a non-profit that provides resources for kids who sign themselves out of foster care after turning eighteen.”

I sighed in awe, and then stuffed a piece of injera dipped in spicy cabbage in my mouth.

“I’d love for you to meet them. They’d love you,” he said, grinning.

I coughed, almost choking on my food. “Meet them? Um... okay,” I squeaked.

He laughed and then kissed the top of my hand. “Believe me, you have nothing to worry about.”

I smiled, amazed by his faith in me.

“You should meet my dad too... and Marcy. They would love you.

He nodded and grinned, dimple flashing.

“I’d love to,” he said before kissing my hand again.

“Actually, I’m going up there on Sunday. Do you want to come?” I asked without thinking.

His eyes widened some, but in a good way; like he was surprised. “Sure. I’d love to.”

I smiled, feeling like this was right. Which, subconsciously, scared the crap out of me. “All things right” was not something I was used to.

We finished dinner and drove home, hand in hand.

It was still early, so when we made our way up the stairs I asked if he wanted to hang out for a while. He went inside his house to grab some beers and change and I went inside to change into more comfy clothes too.

I checked my phone on my way to my room and saw a text from Lily.

I smiled, and then opened the door to my room to grab something to wear. I slipped on some leggings and an oversized tee before slipping back outside.

Blake sat on the porch swing that sat next to my front door, on “my” side of the porch. I joined him, swinging my legs over to sit on top of his while I took a beer and cracked it open. His hands rested on my knees and we both sipped our beers and talked for a while.

We talked about books, mostly classic lit. Then we talked about movies and TV, discovering that we did have a lot of similar tastes.

Then we talked about music, again discovering similarities and as Lily called it “all over the place” genres. One thing we did not, however, agree on, was what Blake referred to as “girl garbage.”

“There’s no way you could ever change my mind on this. Lady Gaga, Britney Spears, Katy Perry...there’s no talent there. It’s pure garbage,” he said firmly, but teasingly.

I pushed his leg with my foot and held my ground, “No, it’s not. Yeah, some of it is just fluff and meant for fun, and probably for ratings. But it’s not all garbage. Okay, Katy Perry, for example. On her
One of the Boys
album, she has a song called “Thinking of You.” You can listen to that song and feel the emotional pain through her voice. Even if she didn’t write the song, she sings it as if she’s speaking from a place of pain and longing. That’s art. Whether you
like it or not is irrelevant. Not everyone likes Jackson Pollock, but that doesn’t make him any less an artist.”

He frowned, as if thinking deeply. “Well...point well made.”

I smiled, feeling victorious.

His eyes glistened mischievously and suddenly his hands were over my stomach tickling me!

I kicked and thrashed and laughed, squealing.

“Oh—my—God—stop—it—Blake!” I screeched in between his torturous assaults.

He stopped and then pulled me up to lightly kiss my lips, before pulling back and winking.

“Not feeling so smug now, eh lady?” he teased.

I slapped his arm, grinning. “Jerk.”

He put his hands over his heart in fake offense. “Ouch. I’m wounded.”

He leaned down and kissed me again, more passionately, then pulled me up so I was sitting on his lap.

I wrapped my arms around his neck and leaned in, soaking in his wonderful scent.

“Mmm, you smell nice.”

“You smell like vanilla and orchids, so I think you win in the smells department, beautiful,” he said, winking.

I rested my head on his shoulder, enjoying the moment.

Of course, however, my insecurity got the best of me and I just had to ask. “Why me, Blake?”

He titled his head back to look at me. “Hmm? Why, what?”

I lowered my head, bringing my hands down to my lap and fiddling with a loose thread on my leggings.

“You are such a nice guy. Don’t you want someone less complicated? Someone with less issues? You’ve only seen the tip of
the iceberg of the level of messed up that exists in my brain. Don’t you want something simple?” I asked.

He sighed deeply before responding. “Asha, you haven’t even seen the tip of the issues that exist within me. I have to fight my own inner demons every single day. People like us... sure, we’re complex and complicated, but because of that we could never have someone
not
complex. Most people hear stories like ours and they pity us. You don’t pity me, and I don’t pity you. We understand each other. Beautiful girl, that’s such a rare gift to find. So if I have to walk through a thousand hells to hold onto this gift, to hold onto you, I will do it...gladly.”

“Okay, then.” I whispered, in total shock at his profession of feelings for me.

He pulled me in and kissed me passionately again, and I felt dampness on his cheek as a tear fell from my face onto his.

He pulled back and wiped away my tear, not questioning it, because he understood.

We stayed curled up on the swing late into the night, talking, sharing more kisses, and just enjoying each other.

I finally dozed off in his arms sometime late and he picked me up to carry me inside.

He had laid me into bed, covered me up, and kissed the top of my head when my eyes fluttered open slightly. I smiled realizing it was him in front of me and pulled him to me instinctively.

“Stay,” I whispered.

“Stay?” he asked.

“Stay” I affirmed.

He climbed into bed and held me close to him, my back against his chest. We drifted into sleep and I felt safer than I’d felt in a long time.

Chapter Twelve

I woke up, feeling safe and warm in Blake’s embrace. I sighed, enjoying the feeling, and snuggled in closer.

He kissed my cheek.

“Morning, beautiful,” he whispered in my ear.

“Mmm. Morning handsome,” I breathed back with a smile.

I turned around and rested my head on his chest. This was nice.

“Asha, I have to tell you something,” he said quietly.

Warning bells rang in my subconscious.
Oh shit
. This was it. This was the thing that was going to crush everything. The metaphorical bomb about to ruin what we had.

“Yeah?” I asked, trying not to let the fear seep through my voice.

“Okay. So this is really awkward, and I really don’t want it to be, but I just need to get it over with and out of the way, okay?”

Now I was confused.

“Um... okay?”

“I’m sure you’re wondering why I didn’t have sex with you last
night,” he stated, as if ashamed.

I pulled myself up, resting on my elbows and looking at him.

“Um...no?” I said, now really confused.

His eyes studied mine for a moment.

I probed, “Why? I mean...is that what people do? I was just enjoying you, and didn’t want you to go.”

I realized I just gave away my inexperience and internally cursed myself.

His eyes continued to study mine. “I’m not really sure. I just assumed it was.”

“How many women have you been with, like...dated, Blake?” I asked, trying to read him.

I saw his eyes shoot down before he answered, “I’ve never dated anyone before.”

“Oh shit, Blake...are you a virgin?” I asked, feeling horrified that someone as ruined and violated as me could have possibly wound up with a virgin. I then felt relief, because of my own inexperience. I was so confused.

He kept his eyes down and shook his head. “No. That’s the awkward part.”

A metaphorical light bulb went off in my head. I had been forced to go to enough survivors’ support groups to recognize the signs.