"Your driving is much better now," I note, adding shading to my drawing. It's not my best but Blake seems to like it. We're winding through the busy streets of Toronto on our way to Blake's house.

We were supposed to have breakfast at his house but got a little distracted at my aunt's place. There had been two distractions to be exact, who go by Theo and Mary. They insisted we played with them, a game which consisted of Blake chasing us around the apartment.

"Well, I do have precious cargo with me," he throws back with a wink. A cheesy line but my heart still skips a beat.

"Don't make this weird, Cookie Monster." Rolling my eyes, I try to focus on my drawing but fail in doing so. Being like this with Blake is exhilarating. My fingers twitch to reach out to him.

I don't have to because he wraps his hand around mine. A fire spreads from my hand to my arm. "You're so adorable. And what are you talking about. My driving has always been great." He glances at me and then grins.

The car swerves slightly and someone honks their horn at us as I brace for impact, pulling my hand away from Blake. "Eyes on the road," I say, trying to ignore the fact that we almost crashed.

"Kind of hard to do when you're sitting next to me." He coughs and my entire body feels as if it's hurdling through space.

Blake can be smooth but also super corny. Suddenly the car feels too small. Our proximity causes my head to spin and for the first time in my life, I'm afraid of myself.

I sit on my hands and stare out the window. Blake turns up the radio and we both go quiet. For these brief moments, all I experience is bliss and it's easy to forget about everything.

We park and ride the elevator up to the fourth floor, sneaking in a few kisses. The door to Blake's apartment is opened by his sister who is elated to see us.

Just like the first day we met, she encircles her arms around my legs. "I'm so happy to meet you," she explains, pulling me to a coffee table where there is plastic playset neatly laid out. No one has ever been so excited to see me and the eagerness warms my heart.

She sits and pulls me down with her. "I'm making cake. Do you want to help me?" Emma holds out dark colored playdough, giving me a toothy grin. Unlike her brother, her hair is brown and her features are softer. The greatest resemblance would have to be their eyes, a gorgeous deep brown.

"I would love to help!" I let out an exaggerated gasp. "Can we make chocolate? That's my favorite!"

"Really?" She cocks her head, sitting up on her knees. "That's my favorite too!"

"You're going to leave your brother hanging?" Blake asks, still at the door wearing a baffled expression. He steps out of his shoes as Emma barrels into him.

She soon returns to me and practically screams when I hand over the drawing. It's of a unicorn galloping through space. Blake told me that his sister loves these two things unconditionally, probably more than him.

Emma throws her arms around me and, rushing to show her brother and then her grandma. "She's really excited to meet you," Blake says, dropping onto the couch.

"She's adorable and has the same eyes as you." Bringing my knees up to my chin, I look around. Though the apartment is small, there is a coziness and homely feel to it. Walls are plastered with pictures of Blake and Emma. Mismatched furniture is scattered across the living room, resembling an auction of sorts. But it's home for Emma and Blake.

He's on his phone now, his face pinched in concentration. Emma runs out of her grandma's room and plops down beside me.

"Grandma says she loves it!" She turns to face her brother. "She wants to speak with you."

Blake ruffles Emma's hair and disappears into his grandma's room. Whispers are exchanged behind a closed door, while Emma carefully cuts her cake in half. We pretend to eat it and follow it up with warm orange juice.

She peers at me over her cup. "You're so pretty." There's a slight lisp in her speech so it sounds more like pwetty. "I want to be just like you when I grow up."

"Ahh. Such sweet words from a beautiful girl," I say, tapping her nose. She giggles as Blake returns to the living room, frowning at the juice.

"Never drink the juice she offers you. Never!"

"What's wrong with the juice?" I ask, studying the think liquid. It's a little warm but tastes fine. Blake doesn't expand on his ominous statement, choosing rather to smirk and leave the apartment.

He returns about half an hour later with a bag of groceries. This is also when Blake's grandma comes out from her room and greets us with a smile. She's short and wide around the waist, has graying hairs and a cane in one hand.

Her eyes are sharp and trained. After a quick onceover, she pulls me into a hug. "So lovely to meet Blake's friend." She giggles as if she knows something I don't.

Grandma Helen (she insisted I call her that) asks Blake and me to help with lunch. We work alongside each other to prepare the meal, cutting, seasoning and tasting as we go. Blake does most of the tasting and earns a few slaps from his grandma for his sneakiness.

"Does no work but expects to reap all the rewards!" she exclaims at one point, smacking Blake's hand with a spoon. "You will get no dessert if you keep this up, young man."

This stops Blake in his tracks and he excuses himself. "He really loves his cookies, doesn't he?" I laugh, shaking my head.

"His mother used to make cookies for him when he was younger. I'm sure it reminds him of her." I try to imagine a much younger Blake running around the kitchen, trying to swipe a few cookies from his mom. "Now where did I put the knife?" Grandma Helen looks around the kitchen, scratching her head thoughtfully.

I lift the cutting board and she attempts a laugh but there is a hollow sound to it. "Ah. Growing old is not fun. Never let anyone tell you otherwise."

We finish up on the pasta and Blake helps set up the table. As I'm shredding some cheese, Helen and Blake exchange whispered angry words outside the kitchen. I only catch a few sentences, including "tell her what you did" and "she has a right to know".

I pause, confused at the sudden change in atmosphere. Blake let's out a groan and declares that he's going to take a shower. Everyone is silent, including Emma who had been humming a song from Frozen earlier.

My hand slips and I cut myself on the shredder. Gasping, I pull away and suck my finger. Grandma Helen limps back into the kitchen, angry and a woman on a mission.

"What's wrong? What happened?" She scans the kitchen, holding her cane against her chest like a shield.

"Nothing. Just cut myself." Grandma Helen takes my hand in hers and then instructs me to ask Emma for a band aid.

The little girl stares up at me with wide eyes when I show her the cut. She immediately gets to work, towing me into a room and then ordering me to take a seat on the bed. Emma rushes out the door, leaving me alone in the room.

Suddenly, it occurs to me that I'm in Blake's room. The guitar and tightly drawn dark curtains make this clear. Sweat builds up under my armpits and my heart rate picks up as I wait nervously for Emma's return.

She finally returns with a dripping paper towel and settles down in front of me. With practiced ease, she wipes my cut with the wet towel and then rummages around the side table for a band aid. Something tells me that her brother has done the same for her on several occasions.

As she's digging around in the drawer, something catches my eye. With my free hand I reach towards the thick paper, dreading that my suspicions might be well warranted.

Blake has three of my tattoo drawings tucked in his drawer. It's beyond me when he ripped these out from my sketch book. Perhaps during his breaks at work he's been doing more than strumming his guitar at the back.

Dread seeps through me when I come across a news article detailing the events of that day. Some words are highlighted in yellow and there are notes scrawled at the side.

Helen's words come rushing back to me and I shoot up from the bed, startling poor Emma. It also occurs to me that I've never seen Blake's bare arm before.

Burning hot betrayal, followed by an overwhelming sense of sadness and guilt spreads through me. A scratchy feeling builds at the back of my throat and tears well up in my eyes.

"I need some air," I mumble. "Tell Blake I need some air." Dropping the papers to the ground, I race out the door, ignoring Helen's protests.

A voice at the back of my head is whispering how unreasonable I'm being, that sitting put and talking to Blake is the right thing to do. It could all be a big misunderstanding.

But what if it isn't and Blake is the reason my whole world exploded. What if Blake is the one who killed my mom? A truth like that would shatter me beyond repair, so I flee in hopes of delaying the confrontation.