Page 30 of Trusting Blake
“Don’t be so melodramatic,” says Mom.
“But it’s true! You – all of you – are controlling every move I make!” It’s spilling out now, all the frustration, and with burning eyes I look at each of them individually. “Not allowed to spend the summer at home, not allowed to leave this ranch, not allowed to have my phone, not allowed to see the guy I like. Blake is the only person who understands the monumental mess thatyoumade.” My glower settles on Dad.
“Mila, this is for your own good,” he tries, and by his side I see Ruben growing increasingly exasperated, waiting for the right moment to jump in.
“No,” I snap back, “this is all because you’re so goddamnSELFISH!”
Dad, Mom, and Ruben share a hopeless look as I break away from them, propelled by fury. It’s like I am a total stranger to them, but how am I ever supposed to figure out who I really am if they’re always controlling my life? Ruben might do most of the groundwork, but I’d be naive to believe my parents don’t expect me to fall into their plans without question. The more I grow up and make my own decisions – and mistakes – the more they have me believing I’m stepping out of line.
But I’m not.
I’m just becoming Mila.
12
As it turns out, being grounded reallydoesmean grounded.
Who knows quite what I’ve done to deserve this level of punishment, but for the past four days, I have had no phone access, no contact with the outside world, and absolutely no sanity whatsoever. And the only thing worse than being grounded at a family ranch? Being grounded at a family ranch where every member of that family loathes one another.
Mealtimes are unbearable. Any attempt at conversation is a disaster. The rift between Dad and Popeye is worse than ever, despite our attempt at a united front at church last week, and Mom and Dad are working through issues together behind closed doors. Ruben spends most of his time criticizing everything while keeping a close eye on my whereabouts and checking the security cameras more often than necessary, thanks to his bullying Sheri into telling him how I escaped the ranch.
It’s truly been a miserable few days, and I haven’t been afraid to sulk about it.
“I know you’re angry, Mila,” Dad said last night when he caught me slamming my bedroom door too aggressively. “But things have the potential to get out of control right now. I know, I know – it’s not fair. But it’s not safe for you to be running around town with Blake with all the paparazzi swarming around.”
Which only angered me even more and resulted in a second door slam.
“Sheri?” I say as I slide the heavy saddle off Fredo’s back. “I want to ask you something, but I don’t want to be. . . well, rude.”
Sheri and I are in the stables after our afternoon canter around the fields with some of the horses, a part of our new daily routine to get some fresh air away from the heavy weight of tension bearing down on us inside the house. She guides her horse back into his stall and clicks the wooden door shut.
“Nothing you say will ever be as rude as what comes out of Ruben’s mouth,” Sheri jokes with an easy smile. She grabs a bucket of straw and hooks it over her arm, turning solemn. “What would you like to ask me, Mila?”
“You were really upset on Sunday,” I say, swallowing the lump in my throat. I can’t look her in the eye out of fear that I’m about to offend her, so I carry my saddle down the length of the stables to the far wall where all the riding equipment is neatly stored. “Do you wish your life was different? With kids and stuff?” I pause and wait with my back still turned.
“Mila,” Sheri breathes softly. She appears next to me, setting the iron bucket down with aclink. We glance at each other. “I’d have loved kids, but things haven’t worked out that way. That doesn’t mean I’m not happy.”
“But is this what you wanted?” I press her. “Doing nearly all the work around the ranch and looking after Popeye by yourself?”
“No,” Sheri admits, angling toward me, and I return the courtesy. I’m surprised to see that there’s a hint of a smile returning to her face. “But there’s still time to figure things out. I’m working on it. And what about you, honey? How’s the situation with theboyfriend?”
My eyes roll in embarrassment, and I head back to Fredo, combing my fingers through his thick mane as he emits a soft neighof satisfaction. “I haven’t spoken to him since church. And that was only for two seconds. Dad took my phone, remember? So Blake is probably wondering why I’m not texting him back.” I grimace into Fredo’s glistening black eyes and pat his elegant neck.
I’d be lying to myself if I pretended Blake hasn’t been on my mind every damn hour. With each day that passes without being able to check in with him, the more my anxiety builds. I probably have a thousand missed calls from him. So many unread texts. I even tried to sneak onto Sheri’s desktop computer in the middle of the night to connect with Blake on social media. Hunt him down on Facebook, find his Instagram. But Ruben changed all my passwords, so I couldn’t even gain access to my accounts in the first place. I don’t know when my parents plan to stop holding me and my freedom hostage, so who knows how much longer I’ll have to wait to see him again, let alone talk to him? I’ve been cut off from the outside world completely. I wish I hadn’t warned him not to call the landline.
Sheri approaches and places a hand against Fredo’s neck. She strokes him for a moment as she zones out, her gaze hovering just beyond my shoulder, like she’s contemplating an important decision. Then her eyes shift to meet mine.
“Here,” she says. “Call your boyfriend.”
I stare at the cellphone she holds out for me as though it’s something rare and unusual. “But I don’t know his number.”
“Hmm. Well, I have Patsy Bennett’s number,” Sheri says, forcing her phone into my hand with a mischievous smirk. “Start there. C’mon, Fredo.”
As Sheri guides Fredo off to his stall to get him settled, I flip an empty bucket around and sit down, cradling the phone in my hands like a prized possession. The stables are a haven of privacy – neither Mom, Dad, nor Ruben have ventured out here in the time they’ve been at the ranch. Horses are too “country” for them, which is why Sheri and I escape out here so frequently. It’s the only place on the ranch where we feel like we can breathe.
First, I call Patsy Bennett’s cell number, and ask her to pass me over to her daughter, Savannah – who is very relieved to hear from me after days of radio silence – and who then very kindly provides me with Blake’s number. I nervously drum my fingers against the side of the bucket as I listen to the phone ring.
“Hey. Blake Avery here,” he answers.
