Page 33 of The Making of Mila and Blake
“Maybe. I mean, if I don’t tell Blake soon how I feel, things might get more serious between him and Olivia—”
“I’m not talking about you and Blake,” she cuts in, her tone sharp. She heaves a deep sigh and visibly relaxes her tense shoulders. “Never mind. I don’t know what I’m thinking,” she says with a laugh, but it’s forced. “C’mon, let’s put these horses back.”
Spirit whinnies again, directly into Tori’s face this time.
“Spirit would like to remind you that he has a name,” I tease, but she doesn’t hit me with a witty counter remark. That’s how I know there’s something heavy on her mind. “Hey. What’s up?”
These weekly strolls aren’t therapy sessions just for me. They are for the three of us to get things off our chest, to talk about anything that’s bothering us rather than bottling it all up. It’s healthy to check in with each other frequently, but it hasn’t gone unnoticed that Tori doesn’t often share her feelings.
“Nothing,” she says.
I tilt my chin sharply. “Tori. We’re your friends. If there’s something bothering you, you can talk to us.”
“I just told you,” she snaps. “There’s nothing I want to talk about.” She angles Spirit away from me and stalks across the pasture toward the stables, muttering something about having to head home to get ready for her shift at Jefferson’s, but being on time for work is absolutely not the reason for her desperate need to leave.
Frustrated by her apparent lack of trust in Savannah and me, I take Fredo for a whirl around the field, urging him on faster and faster as my hair blows across my eyes. Riding is way more fun now that I actually own the correct attire which Sheri took me shopping for. Snug jodhpurs tucked into long boots, a luxury polo shirt, and a hat fitted specifically for me–somuch better than riding around with jean shorts and flip flops, and it makes me feel the part, like I really belong on the Harding Estate.
Along the fence, I slow to a stop and shield my eyes with a hand to block out the sun, observing the construction work in the neighboring field. The local radio station booms from a speaker somewhere as the afternoon news is read out and deep, gravelly voices yell instructions from high up on the scaffold. In front of me, two men walk by, balancing a steel beam on their shoulders between them. One of them is Jason.
“Don’t you have forklifts for that?” I ask.
“Not when we’re this strong!” the other worker jokes, and Jason catches my eye as they pass. I watch them carry the beam over to a stockpile of other materials before Jason wipes his hands on his pants and makes his way back to me.
“How are you, Mila?” he asks, resting his hands on the old wooden fence that stands between us.
“I’m good. How are you?”
“Not bad. It’s hot out today.” Jason squints up at the blinding sun, but I’m convinced he just wants to avoid meeting my eyes after Monday’s showdown. We tip-toe around the subject.
Still, I can’t help but go there. “So, you’re feeling better?”
“Totally sober, if that’s what you’re really asking,” he says, looking contrite. “Orange juice for breakfast today.”
“Nice choice.”
Jason leans forward to scratch Fredo’s nose in a bid to ignore the strain in the atmosphere. After a minute, he clears his throat and looks up at me from beneath his hard hat. “I want to apologize, Mila. That day you found me outside that Mexican place downtown. . . You shouldn’t have seen me that way, and I shouldn’t have embarrassed Blake like that. I know he hates that you of all people saw me in that state, and I wish I could be the same person you met in Memphis all that time ago. I’m not a bad guy, you know.”
Fredo nuzzles Jason’s palm. When he’s sober, Jasonisa cool guy. So chilled, so laid-back. I try to remind myself that this is who he really is, not the other person he becomes when the darkness and the alcohol overcome him.
“You can be that person again,” I tell him, and my optimism is sincere. “It’s what Blake wants.”
“You look out for him, don’t you? Better than I do,” Jason says with a sorrowful frown. He pats Fredo goodbye and turns away from the fence. “Oh, and Mila? Apologize to your dad for me too, okay? I was being a tool.”
I smile. “Yeah. You were.”
And as Jason joins the rest of the construction workers again, I take Fredo for one final lap in the afternoon sunshine.
13
Sheri peeks around my bedroom door that night. “Mila, someone is here to talk to you.”
I lift my head so fast from painting my nails, I accidentally smudge the sky-blue polish. “What? Who?”
“I think you should come downstairs and see for yourself,” Sheri says with a warm, teasing smile. “I’ve already let him in the gate.”
She leaves my door open as she leaves, and I hastily dab at the nail polish on my skin with a cotton ball before jumping up from my dresser stool. I slide my feet into a pair of fluffy slippers, tie my silk robe around my waist, and gather my soft hair to one side. Friday is pamper night. Hair deep conditioned, legs shaved and moisturized, and nails freshly painted. Tori is working, and Savannah is grounded this weekend along with Myles after their parents inevitably found out about the pool party they threw in their absence.
I dash downstairs. Dad is out in Nashville again tonight, so the house feels large and quiet. It makes me wonder how Sheri and Popeye cope in this big old house when it’s just the two of them. Sheri waits at the foot of the creaky staircase, her arm propped up on the banister and that smile of hers gradually easing into a smirk. As I pass her, I tug nervously at my robe. I think I already know who’s here. Ithasto be him.
