Page 62 of The Making of Mila and Blake
“See! There’s something wrong.”
“Or,” says Dad, “she’s in a business meeting in Nashville and can’t answer right now.” He places his hand over my knee to keep it from bouncing and fixes me with a calming look. “Stop freaking out, Mila. You can call Blake from LA. Your relationship isn’t going to end just because you didn’t see him before you boarded a flight.”
“But—”
“No, Mila,” he cuts in. He backs out of Jason’s driveway. “We need to go home.”
The entire ride back to the ranch, I stare down at my phone clenched tight in my hand. I pray for it to ring, for Blake’s name to flash across my screen. Dad doesn’t understand. The last time we left, Blake and I didn’t say goodbye. He didn’twantto say goodbye. That’s why this time it is so important that we do, that we have that moment of reassurance that the two thousand miles between us, however temporary, won’t change anything. I already know he’ll be here in Tennessee, waiting for me, but I need to hear himsayit.
And he promised. He promised he wouldn’t let me leave without saying goodbye, and I don’t want Blake to be the kind of guy who breaks his promises to me.
But my phone never rings.
26
The only thing I hate more than catching a flight is catching a flight with Dad. Traveling with him is never effortless; it always ends in uproar and there is always extra planning and strict measures in place, but tonight I don’t careabout a smooth transition through Nashville International Airport.
My eyes are puffy and bloodshot from crying way too hard for the entire drive here and no matter how many reassurances Mom threw at me over her shoulder from the passenger seat, I couldn’t believe a single one. I’m not ready to leave yet; I want to stay. I’m furious at Blake for not showing up, furious at my parents for forcing me to get on this flight.
We dropped off the rental car and lugged our suitcases into the terminal, to the Delta priority check-in desk. The airline assistant runs her eyes over us more than once. She holds Dad’s ID in her hand, and he smiles stiffly back at her as he lifts his sunglasses to reveal his eyes for only a brief moment. He helps place our luggage on the belt to be tagged, then crosses his arms impatiently, clearly eager to move on.
It’s a Tuesday evening and the terminal is quiet as people check in for the final flights of the night, but this is a disadvantage for Dad. Less of a crowd to blend into only makes his presence all that more noticeable. I catch the eye of a passenger in the regular check-in line next to us, an exhausted mother of two, who suddenly seems to get a burst of energy and whispers into her husband’s ear. He looks at us.No, no, no.I don’t have the emotional capacity to throw on a hardened expression and act unaware of the eyes following every step we take.
“Here are your boarding passes, Mr. Harding,” the airline assistant says. She hands Dad back our IDs along with our boarding passes, then leans in close over the counter to discreetly discuss security options. She picks up the desk phone, calls someone. We wait.
Mom realizes we have been spotted. She fumbles in her purse for her own sunglasses and slaps them on, letting her hair fall forward to shield her face. She shouldn’t be traveling with Dad– they are in the process of a divorce. This is how rumors begin. Pictures of my parents together in Nashville International Airport will circle on social media, the tabloids will latch onto any tidbit of gossip they can, and tomorrow’s headlines will be:Are Everett and Marnie back together?
Unfortunately, my sunglasses are in my suitcase that I’ve just watched be whisked away. Goddamn it. And I’m the one who needs them the most! I step closer to Mom, using her as a barrier, and desperately wipe my eyes. They sting.
The airport assigns us two security personnel to escort us through the terminal. One walks in front, one behind, like a brick wall that’s impossible to penetrate while Dad, Mom and I are kept in a safe little bubble between them. It causes too much chaos within the airport, having an A-lister travel. People have missed flights before because they have been too caught up in stealthily following Dad around. It’s kind of weird, the obsession with celebrities. People do all sorts of crazy things around them.
“Everett! Can I have a photo, please?” a young woman asks as we approach the security checkpoint, wagging a phone at us as she tries to barge past one of the security personnel. Her raised voice draws further attention.
The passengers in line, unbuckling their belts and tossing loose change into trays, all pause. I can see in the flicker of excitement on their faces that this boring hour before their flight boards has just become interesting.
“No,” Dad tells the woman as security directs her away. He never says no, ever, but he is clearly stressed. He is still reeling from Popeye’s death, and he owes these strangers nothing at this time. How could he possibly pose for photographs right now? He just wants to go home.
Mom squeezes my hand and pulls me forward, her head bowed. We are brought to the priority security screening and the TSA agents force my parents to remove their sunglasses. We are seasoned travelers, we know the drill, and we empty our pockets at speed. Passengers peer at us. Someone tries to snap a photo while in line and is promptly scolded by a TSA agent.
I step through the metal detector and it immediately beeps. It always does. I should have expected it– it’s this damn Cartier bracelet of mine– yet it still makes me jolt. A female TSA agent steps forward to wand me down and I burst into tears. I have been holding them back since we dropped off the rental car, teetering dangerously on the cusp of an emotional meltdown, but I didn’t think it would bethisthat would push me over the edge.
“It doesn’t come off,” I sniff, shaking the gold bracelet on my wrist. “You need a screwdriver.”
The TSA agent clears me, and my parents throw their sunglasses back on and grab our belongings from the end of the screening belt. The security personnel block two teenagers from invading our personal space as they hastily lead us through into departures. We are heading for the Delta executive lounge, for privacy. No one tends to bother us in the lounges.
“Mila, c’mon,” Dad hisses in my ear, his hand on my arm to speed me along. It’s tough to walk this fast with this stupid boot hindering me. “Pull yourself together.”
But I can’t. My stomach twists and turns, leaving me nauseous and disoriented, the floor beneath me blurring as we hurry along. I knew leaving would be hard, but I never knew I could love someone so much I’d never want to say goodbye.
“Mila. . .” Mom says, abruptly halting. She grasps my shoulder. “Look up.”
I lift my gaze from the floor, but all I see is her and Dad and the security guards packed tightly around me. I stretch up and peer over the bulky shoulder of one of them. The line of people at the Chick-fil-A counter all stare at us. Some guy is filming us on his cell phone. I see nothing besides all of the unwanted attention. . .
And then my gaze lands on him.
I gasp, my breath hitching.
Right there, standing in the very middle of the concourse, is. . . Blake. I blink hard to clear my fuzzy vision. It’s really him.MyBlake.
