Page 59 of Becoming Mila
That evening, I really feel like I can’t stay at the ranch any longer. It’s unbearable being alone in my room with a million different worries building up around me, and every time I go downstairs to fetch a drink, I can’t even glance at Popeye without my chest heaving. Sheri is awfully muted, too.
I need fresh air, so I slip on my Nikes, pull a cap over my hair, then head out of the gate. I turn right and stride down the country road in the heat, southbound in the direction of downtown Fairview. It’s an odd feeling, not quite knowing if you want to be alone or are desperate for someone to talk to. Not a single car passes me until thirty minutes later when I’m trudging through the overgrowth at the side of the main road. The people who do drive by all give me a friendly wave, but I don’t return the gesture. I am not in the mood for small-town pleasantries.
Further down the road, it dawns on me that Idon’twant to be alone. I kind of want my mom. I want her to hop on the first flight to Nashville to come here, right now, and hug me. Her reassurances would mean the world, even though I don’t know where my emotions sit in regard to her part in all of this. The way LeAnne phrased it, it seems like Mom knew Dad already had a fiancée when she started seeing him, which makes her entangled in the betrayal. . . Sure, Dad may have told LeAnne the truth eventually, but why did Mom continue seeing him until then? It just seems so massively. . . disrespectful. And if Dad doesn’t know about Popeye, then neither does she.
I pause beneath a tree to catch some shade from the relentless sun, and then pull out my phone. With an exhausted sigh, I call a number – that of the first person I think of – and wait patiently as the dial tone echoes across the line.
“Mila, hey,” comes an answer, just before the call is about to go to voicemail.
“Blake,” I stutter. “Uh-huh. Hi.”
“Are you okay?” he asks, concern evident in his voice.
“Yeah, I’m just. . . I needed to get out of the house,” I say, rubbing at my eyes and sinking back against the tree. I feel so. . .Tired.Tired of all these secrets. “Are you home?”
“Sure am.”
I pause for a beat. “Your mom?”
“In the city,” answers Blake. “Are you coming over? Do you want me to pick you up?”
“I’m walking. Can you text me your location? I don’t really know where I am.”
“Damn. Okay.” Blake laughs. “Don’t get lost.”
I hang up and stare at my screen, waiting for Blake’s message to arrive. A few seconds later and there’s a text containing his live location. I pull up the directions, see that it’s only two miles from here, and get back on the move.
It’s not that late; just after six thirty. It’s also the first time I’ve really taken the time to look at Fairview. I’ve explored a bit of the downtown area with Savannah and Tori, and I’ve seen all these quiet streets when driving through, but I’ve never justwalked. It’s so peaceful and the air feels fresh, so much cleaner here than back home. It also feels crazy to walk for thirty minutes without ever brushing shoulders with another person. Here in Fairview, with its quiet streets and mass of clear space, there is no pressure.
I cross over Fairview Boulevard, the only street around here that shows signs of civilization, with traffic and some pedestrians, and I continue south into residential neighborhoods. My phone guides me all the way to Blake’s home. The stars and stripes above the porch blows in the breeze and his truck looks glossy and freshly waxed under the dusk sun. Although Blake already told me his mom is in Nashville, it’s still a relief to see that her Tesla is gone. If she were here, I think I would back away right now.
Putting my phone away, I head around the side of the house and as soon as I brush my hand against the gate, the yelps of an excited Bailey fill the air. He catapults across the lawn and tangles himself around my legs the second I step foot in the yard, so pleased to see another human being that he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself.
“You made it,” says Blake.
I glance up from ruffling Bailey’s golden fur and a smile spreads over my face at the sight of Blake walking over. It could be because I’m happy to see him again, but it could also be because he’s wearing gray sweatpants. . .Onlysweatpants.
Blake is shirtless. It’s not the first time I’ve seen his body – I could barely get a word out that day at the Bennetts’ pool – but right now, as he strolls toward me in the hazy glow of the sunset, he looks even more perfectly sculpted. His tanned, toned skin shimmers with trickles of sweat and there’s a very prominent V-line that disappears under the hem of his boxers. A silver chain around his neck catches the sunlight as he walks, and he pushes his damp hair back out of his eyes.
“What have you been. . . doing?” I manage to force out.
“Oh, just some bar pull-ups in between jamming,” he says with a laugh, then changes direction toward the house instead. “I’ll grab a shirt. Back in a sec.”
“No!” I blurt, then instantly want todie. Blake stops and looks back at me with a raised eyebrow, his eyes flashing and a smirk forming. “I can’t believe I just said that.”
Blake chuckles and swaggers his chest a little at me, then continues into the house.
“Oh, Bailey. . .” I mumble, shaking my head at myself, mortified. Bailey gazes up at me with shining eyes, his head tilted fully to the side. “When will I ever act coolin front of him?”
With Bailey on my heels, I cross the yard to Blake’s cabin. The glass doors are propped open wide and there’s music playing at a muted volume from a speaker beneath the TV. Some weighted plates are scattered on the ground next to the gym equipment, not yet packed away. On the couch, Blake’s Gibson Hummingbird sits surrounded by notebooks with scrawled handwriting covering the paper. Despite my curiosity, I refrain from being intrusive and tear my eyes away from his words.
“Let me move that,” Blake says, appearing behind me. He’s wearing a baby blue T-shirt now that matches surprisingly well with his dark hair and eyes, and I smell the fresh spritz of deodorant.
Blake gathers up his notebooks at speed and stuffs them away into the drawer of a side table, then picks up his guitar and gestures for me to take its place on the couch instead. I do.
“Don’t put it away,” I say, when he moves to put his guitar back in its case.
Blake pauses, his guitar hovering mid-air. “No?”
