You Drive Me Crazy (The Blackwells of Crystal Lake 2)

“That question was just out of curiosity, by the way.” Carly giggled. “But go, NASCAR.” She settled back in her chair and sighed dramatically. “All kidding aside, sounds like a relationship to me.”

Regan sipped her now-cold coffee, because she needed to do something with her hands. Her morning pedicure was giving her a lot to think about.

“What’s up with tomorrow, by the way? Jarret said we were heading to the old arena for noon.”

“I’m not sure. Wyatt asked me to meet him there.”

“You’re not going with him?”

“No. He’s in Detroit and not back until late morning.” She frowned. “He’s been busy all week doing God knows what. Being real evasive about it all too.”

“Guess we’ll find out what all the fuss is about tomorrow.” Carly winked. “What in the world are you going to do with yourself without the king of orgasms around?”

Regan made a face. “I did have a life before he came back to town, you know. I’m sure I’ll come up with something.”

“Netflix and wine?” Carly chuckled.

“Is there anything else?”

“Anyway, whatever this is he’s got planned tomorrow sounds mysterious.”

“Agreed.”

For the next hour, Regan listened to Carly chat about Jarret, the new job offer, and the mysterious gathering at the old arena. Only with half an ear, because the other half of her brain was focused on something else entirely.

She couldn’t shake that one word from her head.

Relationship.

It carried a lot of weight and meant a lot of different things to many people. She just had to figure out what it meant to her. And hope that Wyatt was on the same page.

Chapter 23

There had been a general consensus among the folks in Crystal Lake that in spite of the tragedy suffered when they were young, the Blackwell children had managed to carve out a charmed life. To an outsider, they had money, prestige, a home on the lake that had been featured in several architectural magazines, and the toys that went along with such an estate. They had a father who provided for them, and a caregiver, Darlene, who was as sweet as could be. They were charismatic, well-liked among their peers (especially the girls), and each of the boys had that certain something that set them apart from the crowd.

Hudson, the oldest, was a born leader. Wyatt, the middle child, had a devil-may-care attitude and a recklessness some couldn’t help but admire. And Travis, the youngest, was the most diligent, focused, and gifted athlete the town had ever seen. They were the kind of boys anyone would be proud to call their own. And they certainly did right by their mother, who’d been killed so tragically.

But life isn’t a fairy tale, and in most cases, things aren’t always what they seem.

Hudson was a leader because he had to be. As the oldest, his brothers looked to him for guidance, and he answered the call when he could.

Wyatt, on the other hand, took chances when others didn’t. He lived life on the edge, and it was a good thing that his brother was there to pull him back. At least most of the time.

And then there was Travis. As the youngest, the effects of that terrible day weren’t apparent until later. He turned to sports, a love he’d shared with his mother, and the ice rink became his second home. In some ways, it fulfilled a need in him he didn’t quite understand. The need to be needed. The need to be important and part of something.

The Blackwell boys proved that it wasn’t only parents and teachers who shaped a child. It wasn’t just community. It was life. It was love and laughter, anguish, and tears. It was pain and heartache and failure.

John Blackwell felt the sting of failure every day of his life. It hung on him like a shroud. Sucked at his soul. And now that he was in the twilight of his life, he found it hard to breathe on account of the regret that choked him. It made him more determined than ever to right the many wrongs he’d committed. Because he was running out of time.

The only problem? You can’t force forgiveness.

But John Blackwell could hope. He could hope that somewhere, buried deep inside each of his boys, a shred of compassion still lived—a piece of their mother, his darling Angel—and it would bring them back to him.

It was that hope that brought him home from the hospital all those months back. That hope that railed at him when he couldn’t find the right words—when he stared into the eyes of his son and said the wrong things.

And it was that hope that kept him alive. Sometimes, in the quiet of early dawn, when he looked out his window at a world he no longer recognized, he felt as if it were the only thing he had.

The funny thing about hope was that one could carry it inside without knowing. Without realizing it had been there all along. And when a person least expected it, that hope would bloom. It would expand and get so big, you couldn’t ignore it. It would fill your heart and your head until there was nothing left to do but act on it.