Page 53 of Trusting Blake
“Thank you,” I say in disbelief, my gratitude sincere.
I get up and move toward my parents, squeezing Mom in a tight hug. Dad watches me closely, nervously, and I hug him too. He kisses my cheek, and for the first time all summer, I feel like things might turn out okay.
20
None of us go to church that weekend. Popeye has been instructed by his nurses to take it easy for a few days, and he’s sporting a giant bandage around his forehead from where he bumped it. He’s in good spirits otherwise, and I can tell because he’s grumbling constantly about being treated like a wounded soldier and insisting he’s perfectly fine.
“I survived the Vietnam War and you lot think I can’t handle tripping down a couple stairs? I can make myself my own damn coffee!” he snapped at Dad at one point for daring to offer to make his early-morning coffee for him. He’s so incredibly stubborn, and as bad-tempered as an old dog that just wants to be left in peace, though not really with me. I’m pleased that there’s still always a twinkle in his eye when I’m around.
Early Tuesday morning, while Mom bickers with Popeye over why it’s a terrible idea for him to go digging up weeds in the fields, my phone rings with an incoming video call. At the sight of Blake’s name on my screen, I excuse myself from the living room and sneak off to my bedroom for some privacy. All my parents told me on the weekend was that I’m officially, seriously-we-mean-it-this-time, grounded.
So I may not have seen Blake in a few days, but that doesn’t mean we haven’t been video calling each other late at night. Something about keeping my voice low as I hide beneath my comforter and speak with him feels intimate and personal, bringing us closer than ever, but Blake’s dismissive words in Memphis are niggling at me. We know time is running out and that we need to havethattalk soon, but it’s almost too scary to broach the subject again. Our optionsarelimited.
“Hi, Blake,” I answer as I collapse onto my bed, holding my phone above me as I flash him a cheeky smile.
“Guess what?” He grins, but doesn’t even give me the chance to reply before he says, “My dad came through! He got me a gig!”
I bolt upright, beaming at the excitement vibrating from him, his features lit up. This is the opportunity that Blake has been waiting for. “Amazing! Where?”
“Honky Tonk Central!” he blurts in a frenzy, and is so high on adrenaline that he can’t stop pacing. “Can you believe it? He got me a gig at my favorite honky tonk! It’s next week. Monday. I need to figure out what I’m gonna play.”
My smile instantly fades. “Next week?”
“Yeah! You’ll be there, right? I expect you front and center, cheering the loudest.”
Oh no. My heart sinks to the pit of my stomach. Blake doesn’t know yet that I may not still be here next week – I can’t stand the idea of our last week together being tainted by arguments.
“Of course I’ll be there,” I lie, feeling my chest constrict, like my head is telling me to just be honest with him. But my heart is telling me not to ruin his moment of euphoria, so I force my smile to return. “I’ll be your best groupie. Well,” I try to flirt, “your only groupie.” I get a sudden, very unwelcome flash of the annoying Lacey in my mind. All my instincts tell me she has her eyes firmly on Blake, no matter how good she is at hiding it.
“I’d love that,” Blake says, then leans back against the wall and groans. “When can I see you? Bailey misses you too.”
“My mom may have hinted yesterday that if I don’t put a foot out of line this week that theymightjust let me make plans for the weekend.” I don’t tell him the “if we’re still here” part of Mom’s conditions.
“Great. I’ll think of something. Keep Saturday night free, and expect to spend it with me.”
Butterflies, butterflies. . . goddamn butterflies.
“Then I guess I’ll see you on Saturday,” I say in a hushed tone, smiling to myself alone in my room.
Blake’s dimpled smirk beams at me. “I’m counting the seconds,” he says, and then hangs up.
Tossing my phone –carefully –behind me onto my bed, I blow out a breath of air and weave my hands into my hair. I need to hang on around here for just a little longer. At least until Monday. I need to be there for Blake at his first proper gig in his favorite music bar. There’s no way I can miss it.
And I know it’s a stupid idea, but I sneak next door to the bedroom my parents have been sharing – though one of them has obviously been sleeping on the old couch beneath the window that’s made up with spare blankets – and spot Mom’s purse on the dresser next to Dad’s wallet. Heart thumping, I grab both their IDs and tuck them into the back pocket of my jean shorts, then I skulk back downstairs and peek into the living room.
Popeye has resigned himself to repairing a loose handle on one of the coffee-table drawers, his toolbox open next to him, while Mom watches in defeat from the couch. She notices me at the door and shakes her head hopelessly, and I stifle a laugh. Popeye just doesn’t listen. “Relaxing” isn’t in his vocabulary.
I head out the front door into the fresh morning air and freeze in my tracks as Dad and Ruben both turn to look at me. Ruben rocks back and forth on the old wooden chair that resides in the corner of the porch, and Dad leans against the porch railing with his arms folded stiffly across his chest. I get the impression that my arrival has immediately silenced their conversation.
“Good morning, Mila,” Dad says, his hard expression morphing into a smile.
“Morning.”
“Where are you going?”
“To see the horses,” I say, and Ruben snorts. I ignore him and continue down the porch steps, leaving them to get back to business, though I do glance at them over my shoulder as I walk away and notice Dad’s hands moving irritably.
I haven’t encountered Sheri this morning yet, which means there’s only one place she can be, so I head for the stables in search of her. It’s another glorious day here in Tennessee, as always, and I’m growing to love roaming the fields under the clear blue skies in peaceful serenity. It’s like my daily detox from the real world, a breath of fresh air in the midst of all the crazy. The thought of returning back to Thousand Oaks, where there’s no respite from city life, feels suffocating.
