Page 52 of Trusting Blake
“Handling it?” Ruben snorts. “She keeps running off!”
“True,” Dad says, glancing at me for a moment. Then he broadens his shoulders and overshadows Ruben as he reaches over him to fetch a glass from the cupboard. “But Marnie and I will handle it from here. We need to get through this as a family. And that means we as her parents will deal with any situations that arise. Not you.”
Clearly aggravated, Ruben nudges Dad away as he straightens up and slams his root beer down on the counter. “Quit it with the holy act, Everett. A month ago, you were the one having me send her out here.Youwere the one who didn’t trust her to leave this place.”
“Yes, I know. That was a mistake,” Dad says. He remains calm and oddly quiet, like his voice is fragile and he doesn’t want to risk raising it. He pours himself a glass of sweet tea and then sits at the table right next to Mom. “I know I’ve been selfish, Mila, and that I’ve let you and your mom down, but I’m trying to work things out.”
Ruben indignantly rolls his eyes, then takes his root beer as he strides past us all. “Everett, I’ll be upstairs when you remember what you pay me for.”
“That’s another relationship I have to fix,” Dad says with a sigh once Ruben is gone. He glances between Mom and me, abashed. “I can’t blame Ruben for everything that’s gone wrong, but I know I don’t appreciate that style of management anymore.”
“I think that’s a wise thought,” Mom says.
But I only stare blankly at the two of them, wondering why I no longer feel that tension that’s enveloped them for the past week. “Why are you guys being so weird? What did I miss while I was gone?”
Mom wipes the smile from her face and turns serious. She glimpses at Dad, seeking validation, and he nods. Beneath the table, I catch his hand moving to her leg.
“We were thinking it might be time for us all to head home soon,” Mom says carefully.
“Like, together?”
“Together,” Dad confirms.
Whoa. It takes a minute for this information to really sink in, mostly because I’m in two minds. Half of me is overwhelmed with relief that my parents’ marriage seems to be salvageable, but the other half of me doesn’t want to go home yet. It’s inevitable, I know that, but I guess I thought I had more time.
“When?” I ask, biting the inside of my cheek.
“Next week,” says Mom, glancing quickly at Dad. “I need to get back to work, and I think life will be better for us all if we’re in our own home while we try to sort things out.”
“But don’t you still need to clear the air properly with Popeye too, Dad?” I ask. I know the purpose of Dad’s visit was to save our family, but our family is more than just him, Mom, and me. There are wider cracks that need fixing. “Talking about Popeye. . . where is he? And Sheri?” I glance around the kitchen as if expecting them to magically appear.
Dad’s expression turns grave. “Your grandpa took a fall yesterday.”
Oh my God, what else have I missed while in Memphis? I jump from my chair in a blind panic, wondering why a fall yesterday means that he’s not herenow.What if he broke a hip? Old people always break hips when they fall.
“Don’t worry, Mila,” Dad reassures me. “It wasn’t too serious. He tripped on the porch steps, but they kept him in overnight for observation and rest. They think the clumsiness may be connected to his ongoing health issues. Something degenerative, but he’s still insisting there’s nothing really the matter. Sheri is bringing him home later.”
I lower myself back into my chair, my mind racing. This is all too much for a girl who slept on a couch last night. It’s like I’ve returned to a parallel universe whereeverythinghas changed. Popeye being in hospital somehow casts my delinquent behavior in a different perspective.
“Poor Popeye,” I mumble, anxiously fiddling with my hands in my lap, imagining him bundled up in a hospital bed, confused and grouchy, hoping that Sheri is by his side to reassure him. “Maybe we can make him his favorite dinner when he comes home? He loves a pot roast.”
“That’s a great idea,” Mom says. “We can all make it together. It’s been a long time since any of us cooked anything more than an egg.”
Dad clicks his tongue with atsk. “Oh, and before I forget, Mila. . .”
I glance up. “Yeah?”
“Here,” he says. He stuffs a hand into the pocket of his jeans, pulling out his phone and sliding it across the table. Except it’s not his phone, unless Dad has traded his black iPhone for a lilac version.
With apprehension, I pick up the phone and examine it in my hand. It’s brand new – I know because there’s not a single scratch on it yet. I raise an eyebrow at my parents. “Why are you giving me a new phone?”
“You asked for one,” Mom reminds me.
“Ruben transferred everything over for you already. He has his uses sometimes,” Dad says.
“Yeah, but. . .” I quickly lay the phone back down on the table, half expecting it to zap me with an electric shock. This seems like a prank, some sick punishment. “Usually when someone breaks all the rules, their parents don’t buy them new phones.”
“That’s true,” Mom agrees. “But your dad and I discussed it, and we realized yesterday that we would have much preferred if you’d had a phone with you when you took off so that we could have at least known you were safe. So, grounded or not, we wanted to give you your phone back. But you wrecked your old one pretty bad, so. . .”
