Page 14 of The Making of Mila and Blake
“Oh, Melissa, you’re still here.” He turns on the charm and flashes me a killer grin. “You don’t happen to have a couple bucks I can borrow, huh? I just need a soda– I have a little extra something-something I can add.” He taps the hip flask attached to the waistband of his jeans, then winks.
“It’s Mila,” I correct, then fold my arms across my chest in disapproval. I know I wanted to help, but he is really starting to get on my nerves now. “And no, I don’t. Blake is on his way.”
“Blake?” Jason says as his face falls. “My son?”
“Yes, your son. He’s coming to get you, and then he’ll take you. . .” I pause. Last I knew, Jason lived in Memphis, three hours away. “Wait. What are you even doing here in Fairview?”
“I live here.”
Jason is seriously drunk. Trying not to let my irritation show, I force a neutral expression and guide him to sit on the curb at the sidewalk near the entrance to the parking lot. It’s safer here, I guess. He dumps his jacket next to him, then fishes out his hip flask from his jeans.
“Um, no,” I say, snatching it from him before he can unscrew the lid.
“Hey, missy!” Jason growls. “Give it here!”
For a second, the threat in Jason’s harsh tone and the rage in his dark, desperate eyes scares me. I nearly pass the flask back just to appease him. It’s not my place to stop him, but all I can think is that this man is Blake’s damn father, and I know Blake would want me to stop him from drinking anything more. If the roles were reversed, it’s the kind of thing I’d want him to do for me.
“Are you still performing?” I ask in a bid to distract Jason from the hip flask I’m now hiding behind my back. “I loved watching you perform in Memphis that summer Blake and I came to visit.”
Jason snorts. “Screw performing. I wasn’t made for music.”
“But you were great! Why’d you stop?”
“Blake.” Jason lifts his head and sets his eyes on me, but this time he holds my stare. He remains steady. “Because of Blake.”
This takes me aback. Blake? Why the hell would he stop playing music because of Blake? Blake, more than anyone, was his dad’s biggest fan when it came to performing. BlakewantedJason to stay sober and pursue his love of music. What happened? Where did things go wrong?
Speaking of Blake, his truck barrels into the parking lot at breakneck speed. It screeches to a halt alongside us, and the engine isn’t even dead before the door is thrown open.
“Get in the truck, Dad,” Blake orders, his voice fierce as he storms around the truck toward us.
Seeing Blake this furious hits me with awful flashbacks to that night of his gig at Honky Tonk Central. That hardened expression and cutting tone.
They are the last memories I have him of him before he walked away from me. And now it feels so real again, the force of that resentment he felt for me then. A lump rises in my throat and I stand back.
Jason rolls his eyes as he gets to his feet, clasping Blake’s shoulder. “And here he is now! You know, Blake, I like it better when school’s in session and you aren’t around to have something to say about every single thing I do.”
But Blake has no patience for Jason’s snide remark, which, admittedly, is a little harsh. He shrugs off his dad’s hand and snatches his jacket from the sidewalk. “I’m serious. Get in the trucknow,” he hisses, yanking open the door to the backseat. “You’re making a fool out of yourself.”
“I can enjoy a damn beer on the weekends, Blake,” Jason snaps.
“You aren’t allowed a drink at all. I don’t care if it’s the weekend.” Blake throws Jason’s jacket into the backseat and then jabs a finger toward his dad’s chest. “Move.Mom would killyou if she knew you were out here wasted.”
“Oh, of course she would, because it must be so embarrassing that she married me once. . .” Jason mutters as he reluctantly climbs into the backseat. Over his shoulder, he says, “And Melissa, tell your boyfriend over here to lighten up.”
Blake slams the door in Jason’s face.
He shoves his hands into his hair and lifts his head to the sky. He is enraged, fired up, his face tinted red with humiliation.
“I’m sorry I called you,” I say, “but once I knew it was your dad, I couldn’t just leave him wandering around like that.”
“No.” Blake lowers his head. “Thank you, Mila.”
We lock eyes and the thousands of unspoken words between us linger in the air. There is so much to be said, so many questions to ask and so many answers needed. The longer Blake looks at me, the more his expression relaxes. The fire in his eyes extinguishes.
“Do you need a ride anywhere?” he asks, and he sounds much more like himself now.
I told Dad I would walk home, but. . . Blake is offering me a ride. And that feels like an olive branch. We both know getting in his truck means we will have to talk.
