Page 59 of Trusting Blake
“Dad,” I say in a quiet voice, and everyone looks at me, but I lock eyes with only my father. There are questions in my head. “What do you mean you won’t need a manager for what you’re going to do next?”
Dad presses his lips together. He regards me carefully, then lets out a sigh. “It’s probably time that I told you,” he says in a low voice, nerves laced around each word. He sits down on my bed and interlocks his hands between his knees.
“Should we leave?” Sheri asks, already taking Popeye’s hand.
“No, we should all hear this!” Popeye protests, moving forward to avoid being dragged out of the room by Sheri. He is back to his usual self now that he’s mostly recovered from his fall. He is clearly relieved we have all stopped pestering him so much, though sometimes I still bring him a glass of sweet tea in the mornings and help him remove the wrapper from a Jolly Rancher every once in a while. He doesn’t seem to mind help so much so long as it comes from me.
“Yes, both of you. Stay,” Dad says. His dark eyes are gentle as they glance between his father and sister. “I need to share this with you too.”
My heartbeat picks up speed and my stomach knots. Dad never gets nervous. Even before red carpet events, he’s as relaxed as ever. This is something big, and I have no idea what’s coming, except that it feels like impending doom. “What is it?” I urge, voice cracked.
Dad exchanges a look with Mom, and she nods encouragingly as she places a hand on his shoulder. He reaches up to place his hand over hers, then he swallows the lump in his throat and announces, “I’ve decided to step back from acting.”
There’s a long moment of silence as this news travels around my bedroom.
“But you can’t stop acting, Dad!” I tell him, scrunching up my face in confusion. “You love what you do!”
“I don’t intend to leave the industry,” he says. “I’d like to try my hand at producing, and eventually maybe directing. It’s been on my mind for a while now, and I have deliberately been turning down new offers of work so that I’m off the hook as soon as the remaining promotion for the Flash Point movies are done. I’ve kept Ruben in the dark about all of this. He thinks I’m just holding out for better offers.”
Mom shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “Mila, when your dad first discussed this with me, I wasn’t ready to listen,” she admits. “I wasn’t sure this would be the right route for him to take, so I wasn’t what anyone would call supportive.”
“And I made the mistake of letting the stress get to me,” Dad says as he lowers his eyes to the floor, shamefaced. “There’s no excuse for what I’ve done, but Mila, though your mom and I still have work to do, we honestly believe that we are going to be okay, and things are going to be different when we go home. Better.”
“He’s right,” Mom agrees with a nod.
I glance between the pair of them, dubious. This seems like too much of a united front, as if all their issues have been neatly ironed out. Are they just feeding me a spiel of what I want to hear? But I sense a glimmer of truth in there somewhere that I grasp onto.
After an awkward moment of silence, Sheri chews her lower lip and says, “I’m glad to hear that, but you’re really giving it up, Everett?”
“It’s not the life I want anymore,” Dad says. “Not when it’s having such an impact on everyone around me, and I’ve gotten far too wrapped up in it all. Whereas producing won’t have me in the public eye so much.” He anxiously catches Popeye’s gaze. “So maybe we could visit more often without causing such a ridiculous stir.”
Popeye is skeptical. He rubs his hand over the bandage on his head as he contemplates Dad’s offer, then grunts in what I think just may be acceptance. “Well,Everett Harding, director and producersounds a lot better thanEverett Harding, actor.”
Dad wipes his forehead. “We still need to work on your criticism of the creative arts.”
Popeye scowls, but there’s a good-natured glint in his eye. “C’mon Sheri, let’s show that Ruben fool where the door is.”
Sheri follows Popeye out of the room, placing a hand on Dad’s arm and offering him a smile – which has a hint of forgiveness in it – as she passes. It’s like some much-needed oxygen has been injected into the air, because the atmosphere suddenly isn’t so pressurized. A weight has been lifted. I get the sense that redemption may be possible for not only Dad, but all of us.Maybe. If we can learn to trust one another again, however long that may take.
Mom takes my hand and pulls me down onto the edge of my bed with her, stroking my cheek. “Are you sure you’re okay, honey?” she asks, doubtfully eyeing my arms again. But the sting of Ruben’s touch has faded.
“I’m fine,” I reassure her once more.
Dad crouches down in front of Mom and me so that he’s level with us. He pulls his wallet out and scans through his cards, raising a stern eyebrow when he realizes his driver’s license is, in fact, gone. “What really happened to our IDs, Mila?”
“Well, I don’t know exactly,” I lie, biting my lip as a smile threatens to expose me, “but I have this feeling that they might show up on Tuesday.”
“Tuesday? Why Tuesday?”
“Okay, just hear me out,” I plead, pressing my hands together in a begging gesture. “Blake has his first ever gig in Nashville on Monday night, and Ihaveto be there. Please, please,pleasecan we just stay here for a few more days? I promise I’ll come home after that.”
“Mila. . .” Mom says, frowning.
“Please.”
I hold my breath as I watch my parents silently check in with one another, wondering which of them will give in first. Surprisingly, it’s Dad.
“Tuesday,” he says firmly. “Not a day longer.”
