Page 48 of Trusting Blake
“I did,” I answer, then weave my fingers through his messy hair. “I hope you didn’t just give yourself a concussion.”
Blake laughs and tilts his head back to kiss my hand. He jumps up from the floor, shirtless but still in his jean shorts from last night, the waistband of his white Calvin Klein boxers visible. The silver chain he never takes off is dangling around his neck, and I have to remind myself that his dad is in the room to keep my mind clear of thoughts verging on the edge of dirty.
I’m wearing an oversized Champion T-shirt that reaches my knees, and I pull my hair back into a ponytail as I follow Blake to the breakfast bar. Jason has filled plates with bacon, eggs over easy, and crispy hash browns, and it looks greasy, high-calorie, and delicious – something my parents wouldneverlet me eat for breakfast.
“Dig in, kids!” Jason waves at the plates, urging us to eat. I look at the feast but search in vain for some silverware. For some reason I feel shy about asking, but luckily Blake beats me to it and starts opening drawers around the kitchen table.
“Dad, where do you keep the knives and forks?” he asks.
Jason looks a bit self-conscious and shuffles over to the kitchen sink. “Let me just clean some off for you. Sorry, I’m not really used to looking after anyone but myself,” he answers with a half-embarrassed smile.
Something about this rather innocent statement seems to shift the atmosphere. Blake and Jason suddenly both seem uncomfortable, and though I have not known either of them for very long, or know much about their relationship, it is clear to me that there are many things unsaid between them. No, Jason is not used to looking after anyone but himself, and he hasn’t been the father that Blake needed.
The awkward moment breaks when Jason busies himself with cleaning and Blake dries off the silverware then settles in with me at the breakfast bar.
“You’re sounding really great, by the way,” Jason compliments Blake as he carries his plate over to the couch so that we aren’t all crammed around the breakfast bar. He lies back, boots propped up on the arm of the couch, and again is much more at ease discussing music than anything else. “Still no luck getting yourself a gig?”
Blake stabs his fork into a strip of bacon. “They all say I’m too young,” he grumbles.
“But you’reamazing!” I tell him.
“Mila is right. You are,” Jason says. His plate rests on his stomach, and he shovels a mouthful of crispy hash brown into his mouth as he thinks. “I have some connections in Nashville again. I’ll talk to them. Try to get you a slot. Once they see how good you are, you’ll be on their weekly lineup.”
“Really?” Blake asks, his voice rising with elation. “That’d be amazing.”
“I’ll make some calls tonight,” Jason promises with an easy smile.
Blake looks at me, overjoyed, and I squeeze his hand in support. I know how badly he wants to perform, not just to his friends around a bonfire, but to a real crowd of strangers. It’s the ultimate test of one’s talent. Friends can be biased, but strangers won’t hesitate to tell you if you suck.
We all wolf down our breakfast, leaving behind empty plates, and Blake carries the dishes over to the sink. His dad joins him.
“Thanks again for letting us spend the night,” I tell Jason.
“Yeah,” adds Blake. “It’s been real nice to see you. Maybe I could visit more often, or maybe I could just. . .” The gears in his mind churn, and he looks at his dad out the corner of his eye with apprehension. “Stay here. With you.”
“What?” I say, straightening my shoulders. Blake glances over to me, uncertain, but his eyes don’t linger. Instead, they divert back to his dad, anxiously waiting for an answer.
As Jason dunks a frying pan into the sink, his hands freeze beneath the soapy water. He turns his head toward his son, his expression pensive. “You can’t stay here, Blake.”
“Why not? I’ve stayed here before when I’ve visited.”
“Sleeping on the couch is only okay for a couple nights. Not permanently,” Jason says, then gestures around the apartment with a wet hand covered in soap suds. “It’s a studio apartment, Blake. Not even a one-bedroom. Don’t be an idiot.”
“But we could jam out together every night! Imagine how awesome it would be. Just you and me and our guitars!” Blake says, bordering on manic. “Every night could be like last night.”
“Blake. . . your life is in Fairview,” I point out.
“It’s not about that, Mila,” he says dismissively, and my feelings are instantly hurt, like my opinion doesn’t matter. Where is this coming from? Out of nowhere, or so it seems to me, Blake is suddenly desperate to stay in Memphis with his father who he barely keeps in touch with?
“Blake, I’m serious,” Jason states, abruptly turning to face Blake head-on. It’s weird seeing him so earnest after how easygoing he’s been. He seems more like a parental figure rather than Blake’s cool rock-star buddy. “You’re going home to your mom. That’s where you need to be. You can’t get carried away just because we jammed together last night. Don’t be stupid, son.”
At that, Blake slams a plate down hard on the countertop, gritting his teeth as hurt flashes across his dark eyes. “Why don’t you want me?” he growls, but his voice cracks with a pain I’ve never heard before. “Why have youneverwanted me? I don’t care that you never fought to have me in your life, but I’m telling you now that Iwantto stay with you, and yet—”
“Look, now is not the time or place to get into all that. I know your mom is hard on you. She was hard on me too,” Jason interrupts calmly, and I realize that he’s deliberately keeping his voice steady and empathetic. “But it comes from a good place. She wants the best for you, and she’s a much better influence on you than I’ll ever be.”
“You’re wrong,” Blake says, refusing to be appeased and shaking his head fast in disagreement. “I look up toyou. You understand what music means to me. Mom won’t even sign my early-decision application for Vanderbilt! She’s a bitch.”
“Hey!” Jason snarls, pressing his finger into Blake’s bare chest. “Don’t you dare talk about your mom that way.”
