Page 56 of Trusting Blake
“No. Tennessee down in Knoxville, and LeAnne will ensure that Blake applies there too.” Her smile is back, more composed than ever, while I have my jaw clenched rigid in an effort to control myself.
“Do you know how twisted that is? For you and his mom to manipulate him like this?” I shake my head in disbelief, unable to comprehend how underhanded they both are. “He doesn’t want the University of Tennessee. He wants to study music at Vanderbilt. Why don’t you and LeAnne get that?”
“Mila.” Mom clears her throat from behind me and I snap out of it, instantly feeling a surge of shame for venting my jealousy. I can’t let Lacey manipulate me too. Mom narrows her eyes at me, bewildered, and then leans across me to grab the bag of Jolly Ranchers. She drops them into the basket on the floor, then swoops down to pick it up. “Let’s go,” she says.
Lacey dares to wave goodbye, but I don’t give her the satisfaction of letting her turn me irate again. I don’t think I’m an aggressive person. Most arguments have me crying in two seconds flat. I can’tbearanimosity, but there’s something about Lacey that pushes my buttons. Or maybe it’s something about Blake that brings out a territorial streak in me. Whatever it is, I don’t like that I’m capable of getting so riled up.
“Who was that?” Mom demands to know as soon as we’ve turned the corner toward the checkouts. “Andwhywere you talking to her like that?”
“Blake’s ex-girlfriend,” I mumble. “She likes to remind me of thehistorybetween them.”
Mom begins unloading the basket’s contents onto the conveyor belt, but not without looking at me in disapproval from beneath her thick, false lashes. “Mila, if there’s one thing in life you need to bear in mind, it’s that you should always remain calm when confronted. You never win by fighting fire with fire.” Then her tone softens a little in sympathy. “Truly, however sly she might be, don’t let her get the better of you.”
I sigh and take the bags, then we head outside into the parking lot. I might have had a run-in with Lacey, but I’m honestly rather amazed we made it through an entire Walmart shopping spree without anyone bothering Mom or interrogating us about Dad.
“By the way,” says Mom as we stroll toward the SUV, “we were thinking of going home on Friday.”
My feet stop moving. “ThisFriday?”
“Yes, this Friday. As in two days from now.”
Even though their IDs are safely hidden, there’s a seed of anxiety that somehow my parents and Ruben will still manage to get me on a flight. I need to at least appeal to Mom. Maybe if I explain just how badly I want to stay until the summer is over, they’ll let me stay put, even if that means they go home without me.
“Mom—”
A Tesla pulling into the lot catches my eye. As it draws closer, my first thought is proven to be true – it is, indeed, LeAnne Avery’s car. What was supposed to be a quick trip to Walmart for hair products has turned into the worst outing possible. First Lacey, now LeAnne. Small towns really are a curse when you’re trying to keep a low profile.
“Uh, Mom, you should get in the car,” I say as I speed-walk over to the SUV where Mom is throwing the bags into the trunk. “Like,now.LeAnne Avery just pulled in.”
Mom slams the trunk shut with way more power than necessary, and lifts her head to scan our surroundings. “Where?”
“That Tesla,” I hiss, subtly pointing as LeAnne’s car makes its way down the same row we’re already parked in. “C’mon. Let’s go.”
But Mom doesn’t budge. She locks her eyes on the Tesla as it comes to a standstill in a parking spot, then LeAnne steps out. Even doing the grocery run, Mayor Avery is elegant and classy, like a total boss who isn’t afraid to let the world know she is in charge. Her impeccable outfit highlights her gym-toned figure, and her heels click with authority against the asphalt as she walks.
“LeAnne,” Mom says loudly, and my jaw falls open as I gape at her. We had a clear getaway – LeAnne hadn’t noticed us yet.Whywould Mom want to get her attention?
LeAnne halts and looks back in search of the voice that’s called her name, and I see her shoulders stiffen when she spots Mom and me. However, she maintains her composure and confidently approaches.
“Marnie,” she says in a clipped voice. “Mila.”
“Everett already told you,” Mom says, immediately confrontational, rooted to the spot in her refusal to get in the car, “but I’d like to remind you one more time. You had no right to share our history with Mila, and if you ever,everambush my daughter like that again—”
“Mom, let’s just go,” I plead, trying to fish the car keys out from her enclosed fist, but her fingers are sealed tightly around them.
LeAnne rests her hand on the strap of her purse, her cool expression as dauntless and intimidating as ever. “That sounds like you have more secrets to hide, Marnie.”
Is there anything trashier than calling each other out in the Walmart parking lot? Sure, I’ve just had a less than edifying encounter with Lacey inside, but Mom knows better than this. Hell, so does LeAnne. But despite their high-profile public images, they’re both women who wanted to be with the same man twenty years ago. Two decades – and a distance of two thousand miles – don’t seem to have leveled out the tension between them. The atmosphere is off the scale with friction. And when I catch sight of the wrath barely concealed within LeAnne’s steady gaze, I wonder if perhaps she hates Mom more than she hates Dad. After all, MomknewDad was engaged, yet she got involved anyway. She owed LeAnne nothing, but still her behavior feels shabby, treacherous.
I think of Lacey leaning so coolly against the shelves and the rage that coursed through me, and for a terrifying split second, I understand LeAnne. I get it. The anger is irrational, uncontrollable. LeAnne has every right to be hostile.
“You haven’t changed,” Mom openly sneers, and again I recoil at the venom in her voice.
“Neither have you,” LeAnne fires, then narrows her eyes as she looks Mom up and down, scrutinizing the huge hoodie she’s wearing. “Except maybe your fashion sense. Isoversizedhow they dress in Hollywood these days?”
Mom purses her lips and takes great, callous pleasure in announcing, “Oh, this old thing? It’s Everett’s. Boyfriend style at its best, I guess.”
“Mom!” I hiss, mortified.
