Page 81 of Where We Stay

On Blair’s birthday.

Definitely not a date.

Fuck

Sixteen

Blair

Ispend the rest of Sunday trying not to think about the fact that Dean Ashford invited me to spend my birthday with him and his daughter.

Technically, Aspen asked whether I was going.

Dean was the one who turned it into a plan. A plan that involves him picking me up at four.

Which sounds suspiciously date-adjacent.

On my way home, I stop at the grocery store and buy a small bouquet of sunflowers.

Shocking, I know.

They genuinely are my favorite, though. The fact that they’re Dean’s too makes my head spin because what are the fucking chances?

Once home, I arrange them in a vase on the kitchen counter, change into old clothes and spend the afternoon clearing the garden bed for spring. The work gives my hands something to do, even if it doesn’t stop my mind from circling back to Dean.

By the time the light begins to fade, the temperature has dropped enough to chase me inside.

I take a long shower, heat up some leftovers and settle onto the couch with a cup of chamomile tea and a book. I read the same page three times before admitting I haven’t absorbed a single word.

Apparently, wondering whether the Fall Festival counts as a date is more interesting than fictional people with fictional problems.

Eventually, I give up and head to bed.

I check the front door twice, the back door three times and every window once.

Everything is locked.

Everything is safe.

I repeat the words until I almost believe them.

* * *

The apartment is dark.

Too dark. I know something is wrong before I even see him.

The front door is open.

I locked it. I know I locked it.

My feet won’t move.

There’s someone sitting in the chair beside the window. Watching me.

“You really thought you could leave?”

My stomach drops.