Page 21 of The Making of Mila and Blake
Blake’s frown deepens and remorse flickers in his eyes. “Mila, you know I didn’t mean that.”
“Then why say it?”
Blake takes back the clipboard and studies the insurance form, clearly buying himself time to align his thoughts. I give him all the time he needs, remaining silent by his side as the tick of the clock echoes above us, until finally he looks up. “Because you were telling me all the things I already know. Everything I already regret. I’m angry, yeah. But not at you. I’m just angry about how things turned out between us, and seeing you again. . . It gets me heated.”
“Blake. . .” I chew nervously on my lower lip. “Why didn’t you ever return any of my calls?”
“The weeks after you left were rough,” he says, his voice hoarse, and he breaks our eye contact once more to begin filling out the paperwork, keeping his hands busy. As he writes in block capitals, his hand quivers. “I was so pissed at you, Mila.Sopissed you have no idea. That gig meant everything to me, and I couldn’t believe you’d invite your dad. I really thought you had no faith in me.”
“But I did!”
“I know,” he says, sharply cutting me off. He curses under his breath as he misspells his address and aggressively scribbles out his mistake. He dumps the clipboard to the side and leans back against the bench, weaving his hands through his damp hair. “I cooled off after a few weeks, but I was in Memphis with my dad, and he was acting like a douchebag again.”
The door of the treatment room swings open and the young vet tech approaches. “Hi, guys. Just an update on your boy,” she says. “The stick has punctured the roof of his mouth. Luckily, it avoided his throat, but there’s still some splinters there that we need to remove. We’ve sedated him for now, so he’ll be here for the rest of the day. You should head home. We’ll call you when it’s time to pick him up.”
Blake’s body deflates with relief. “So he’s going to be okay?”
“He’ll be just fine.”
“Thank you,” he says, and the vet tech makes her way back into the treatment room. Blake and I exchange a look of solace and he manages a hint of a smile. “That dog is never playing with sticks everagain. I think I was five seconds away from a heart attack.”
“Finish filling out those papers,” I say. “Then I’ll take you home.”
Blake works through the insurance form and passes it back to the receptionist before we make our way outside to Sheri’s abandoned van. Surprisingly, the backseat is spotless. Blake throws his destroyed T-shirt into the trash and then hops into the passenger seat, still shirtless, but at least reasonably clean.
“In case it wasn’t obvious,” Blake says after we’ve been driving for a while, “I am shit out of luck right now. Thanks again for helping me out with my dad on Sunday, and thanks for driving Bailey and me downtown so fast. I don’t deserve your help.”
I take my eyes off the road a little too long to read his expression and nearly mount the curb but snap the wheel around just in time. My gaze remains unwavering after that, though my attention is all on Blake while I overthink every little word he says. If he thinks he doesn’t deserve my help, that means hedoesagree he messed up too.
“I still don’t know why you never talked to me,” I say as a gentle reminder of the conversation we were having back at the clinic. “You said you cooled down after a few weeks, so what was it? Why didn’t you try to talk things through with me? I gave you somany chances.”
He looks over at me with a soft lift of his shoulders. “I didn’t play for a few months after that gig,” he admits. “I was on the verge of throwing in the towel. Dad was slowly losing himself again. Mom was still refusing to hear me out about Vanderbilt. And then I got rejected, anyway.” He glares up at the sky through the panoramic sunroof.
“You could have turned to me, you know,” I say, feeling deeply hurt once more. Blake could always be his most vulnerable self around me. No matter how bad our break-up, I thought he would have known I’d always be there for him.
“Because, Mila,” he growls in aggravation, “you were this super amazing girl from Hollywood with opportunities all around you, and I was a Vanderbilt reject with an alcoholic father and a wildly ambitious mom with wildly ambitious expectations.”
“So?” I say dismissively, because I have no idea what his point is. I knew LeAnne was highly strung and Jason had a drinking problem long before Blake asked me to be his girlfriend. I took it all as part of the package, a part of Blake’s story. As I pull up outside his house still without a reply from him, I take the bull by the horns and ask, “Can I come in so we can continue this?”
Immediately Blake becomes disconnected from me, withdrawn, and his tone sounds unnatural and stilted as he says, “Olivia is coming by today.” There is no offer of an alternative, and rejection squeezes me tight in its clutches.
“Okay,” I say, hiding my hurt in the only way I know how– by pulling out those inherited acting skills of mine and plastering an indifferent smile across my face. “Tell Bailey I’m thinking of him.”
Blake nods and gets out. I watch him walk to his front door, his back perfectly sculpted and his tricep muscles defined beneath the sunshine.
I have no choice left but to drive back to the ranch, feeling as though I only have more questions now than I did before.
9
“Will there be alcohol?” Dad questions with a stern tilt of his head.
Standing close against my dresser, I pout and apply a second coat of lip gloss while catching Dad’s eye in the mirror’s reflection. He’s hunkered by my door, arms folded. “I don’t know,” I say.
“Mila.”
“Seriously, I don’t.” I seal my gloss and toss it into my purse, spinning around to face him. “There’ll be college freshmen there, so. . . maybe?”
“Just stay clear of any champagne!” he warns, and I roll my eyes at him.
