Page 47 of Trusting Blake
“Absolutely!” Jason says, then in disbelief, he mumbles to himself, “Sleeping in the truck. Idiot.” As he walks past Blake, he playfully torments him by flicking him in the back of the head, then he grabs sodas from the refrigerator and gathers us around the couch, though he sits on the edge of the coffee table. “Blake, give the J-45 a whirl.”
Blake’s face lights up with pure delight as his dad nudges his guitar case toward him. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. Give me some Keith Urban.”
“I only know ‘Somebody Like You.’”
Jason smiles. “Then play ‘Somebody Like You.’”
Blake sets his phone on the coffee table and carefully removes his dad’s guitar from its case. He nestles it against his body, the curves unfamiliar to him, and spends a minute adjusting to the feel of a new guitar in his arms. With the utmost precision, he aligns his calloused fingers along the fretboard.
Jason tosses him a pick out of his pocket and then says to me, “Mila, you can chime in with some backup vocals.”
“No.” Blake’s eyes flash up from the guitar in mock-panic. “She can’t sing.”
I playfully swat his arm. “He’s right,” I say with a sheepish grin. “I really can’t.”
“Andshe’s new to the country scene,” Blake points out. “The Tin Roof was another step forward in her musical education.”
Jason furrows his eyebrows at me. “Mila, you don’t even know one of Keith Urban’s greatest hits?”
“No,” I admit, then sink back into the couch and tuck my knees to my chest, feeling my cheeks grow hot as I try to keep my laughter at bay. I see where Blake gets it from now, that ingrained notion that every person on the planetmustlove country music as much as they do. It’s too cute.
“Ah, you and me, Blake, always picking the wrong girls,” Jason teases with a wink, then he gives him the go-ahead nod. “Take it away.”
Blake inhales a deep breath, closes his eyes, positions the pick over the strings, then begins to play. The opening strums are fast-paced, and I notice Jason’s gaze shine with pride as he watches Blake’s fingers move flawlessly across the guitar, entranced. Blake’s eyes flicker open and he parts his lips, diving into the song’s lyrics, his voice deepening and his twang strengthening.
It’s an upbeat, happy song that builds nicely into its chorus, and that’s when Jason joins in.
His husky, low pitch laces around Blake’s smooth, deeper tone, and although their voices are both uniquely different, they blend together perfectly. The atmosphere around us intensifies as they carry on together, their voices in sync and their gazes latched onto each other, and it feels like something truly magical.
I sit cross-legged next to Blake on the couch, a glowing smile across my face as I watch the joy dance in his eyes. God, he looks so happy, so at peace with himself. It makes me want to yank the guitar out of his arms and throw myself into them instead, but I resist because this intimate little gig in front of only me is way too perfect.
Then the lighting up of Blake’s phone screen on the table next to me ruins this moment. It’s nosy, I know, but I can’t help myself – I squint at the screen and my smile falters when I see a new text from Lacey, of all people.
It reads:Hopeyou’re having fun in Memphis, but this tailgate blowswithout you here!
My head spins. Whyis she messaging him? I glance at Blake to see if he’s noticed, but he’s absorbed in his performance. Do they text often? I know he insists they’re nothing more than friends, but I also know he’s not told me about their dating history. I hate the churn of jealousy it triggers, but it feels super weird for Lacey to text him like this. Her message will probably seem innocent to Blake, but to me, it is so obviously flirtatious. Will he reply? Will he ignore her?
Will hetell me?
I try to focus back on Blake as he sings alongside his dad, lost in their shared world of music, but bitter nausea lingers in the pit of my stomach for the rest of the night.
18
I wake up to the smell of cooked bacon, the sizzle of a frying pan sounding around the apartment. Morning sunlight streams in through the open blinds and I peel open my eyes, adjusting to my unfamiliar surroundings. Sleeping on the couch has left my bones stiff and my neck rigid, but at least I didn’t volunteer to sleep on the floor like Blake did. I glance over the edge of the couch and find him asleep on his stomach, face pressed into a cushion. At some point during the night when I stirred, I thought about joining Blake on the floor and snuggling up against him beneath the blanket, but I promptly remembered Jason’s presence in the room when he let out a snore.
“Wakey wakey!” Jason yells, banging a pair of pans together. “Breakfast is served!”
Blake jolts awake and smacks his head off the edge of the coffee table. “Ugh! What the hell, Dad?” He sits up and rubs the back of his head, tired and disgruntled.
Jason sets out plates on the breakfast bar while shooting Blake a stern look of disapproval at his use of bad language again. “I have to be on site in thirty minutes. You think I wear these cargo shorts and steel-toed boots for the fun of it?” He motions at his work attire, that of a construction worker, then grabs the frying pan full of bacon from the stove. “Alexa, play Florida Georgia Line on shuffle.”
The device on the countertop lights up and begins to play some music on a low volume in the background as Jason plates up breakfast for the three of us.
“Morning,” Blake says, and I glance down at him, taken aback by just how attractive his raspy, quiet morning voice is. He yawns and runs a hand through his bedhead hair. “Did you sleep okay?”
I prop myself up on my elbows. It feels nice waking up next to him, even though I’m on the couch and he’s on the floor. There’s something so intimate about seeing a person in those first few moments after they’ve woken and haven’t quite come to life yet.
