Blurred Lines (Love Unexpectedly #1)(48)

“Exactly,” Sandra says kindly, seeing the second I put the pieces together. “Your friendship with Parker won’t fade, per say, but it will change. I want her to have that perfect guy for whom she’ll always be number one. The one who will drop everything for her. Who will die for her.”

I open my mouth, but for the life of me, I don’t know what to say. I don’t even know what I feel.

“Oh God,” she says, putting a hand over her mouth and letting out a little laugh. A gesture that makes her look just like her daughter. “Sorry. Sorry, Ben. I don’t mean to get…I bet you’re thinking I sound like a fuddy-duddy old person.”

I force a smile.

“It’s a mom thing,” she says, patting my arm in apology. “We fret. I don’t mean for a single second to imply that you’ve been anything but a wonderful friend to my daughter and that you won’t always be that friend for her.”

I pick up my beer again, tilting it back as I wait for my thoughts to sort themselves out into something that I can at least half-comprehend.

They don’t.

She claps her hands together. “Now, what did I do with those oven mitts? I think those baked potatoes are just about done, don’t you?”

The back door opens, and Parker steps through holding a foil-covered plate. “Steaks are ready, girls!”

She grins at me, but her smile slips just slightly when she sees me, and she tilts her head as though to say You okay?

I mentally shake myself and force a grin in response. I’m good.

Except I’m not good. Not at all.

I can’t help but think about that moment that Mrs. Blanton is talking about.

The one where Parker and I have found people more important to us than each other.

And I don’t like it at all.





Chapter 21


Parker


Whatever weirdness crawled up Ben’s butt while I was out on the deck with my dad has disappeared by the time we get to dessert: a delicious, locally made marionberry pie with vanilla ice cream, of which I have two pieces and don’t feel even remotely guilty about it.

By the time we finish the dishes and my parents have headed to bed, I’m feeling the most content I have in a long time.

“Want to start a puzzle?” I ask.

Ben groans. “You and your puzzles. How about a walk on the beach?”

I glance outside skeptically. “You mean, walk on a pitch-black beach next to the angry Pacific Ocean in forty-degree weather in the rain?” I ask.

He grins. “Yes. Exactly.”

“I’m in.”

Five minutes later, we’re covered head to toe, me in the big college sweatshirt I’ve confiscated from him, and Ben in his black fleece pullover. We make the short walk to the beach, and thankfully the rain seems to have tapered off to little more than a faint mist.

It’s not as cold as I expected, and since nothing makes me crankier than sand in my shoes, I take off my socks and tennis shoes next to the steps, setting them on a large, unmistakable rock, so I’ll be able to find them again.

Ben follows suit, and we both roll our jeans up to mid-calf.

The sand is cold under my feet, but deliciously so.

I’ve always loved all my family’s trips to Cannon Beach.

It’s one of the prettiest places in the world, all rough waves and smooth sand and the famous Haystack Rock looming over the beach.

But despite the fact that summer is its high season, with bonfires and ice cream cones and sunshine, I’ve always loved it best in winter.

Nothing beats curling up with a good book and a blanket while it storms outside, or roasting marshmallows in the fireplace. And, of course, the puzzles.

But the best part is having the beach all to yourself.

Well. You and your best friend.

Ben seems to feel the same way, because he breathes deep and I practically feel him relax as he walks beside me.

It’s low tide, which makes the sandy expanse feel endless. In silent agreement we turn left, although it doesn’t really matter which way we go. We’re not in it for the destination.

We walk in silence for several moments before I speak. “So, what did you and my mom talk about that had you ready to poop your pants?” I ask.

He’s quiet for a minute, almost as though debating whether or not to tell me. Or how much to tell me.

“Your mom’s worried about you,” he says finally.

I whip my head around in surprise. “Seriously? Am I giving off damaged vibes that I don’t know about?”

Ben doesn’t crack a joke in response like I think he’s going to. Instead, he shoves his hands into his pockets, tilting his head back to the sky for a moment. “She thinks you’re not dealing with your breakup with Lance.”

I open my mouth, then shut it.

Well, this is a twist I didn’t see coming.

Most of the time I feel like my mom and I are on the same page, but this catches me off guard. “She said that?”

He shrugs. “Something about pent-up emotions, blah blah blah.”

I shove my hands into my own pockets as I think on this.

In all truthfulness, I haven’t done much thinking about Lance. Or the breakup. But if I’m all the way truthful…I haven’t really let myself think about it.

Whenever something reminds me of Lance, I immediately go to how awful I felt when I realized he was breaking up with me, and my brain sort of skips away from that thought because it’s too painful.