Page 7 of Trusting Blake
“Mila,” Mom whispers as I reach them, and she pushes her sunglasses up. There are tears in her eyes at the sight of me, but she looks. . . ashamed, guilty, broken. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t you dare!” I practically growl at her, then almost put her in a chokehold as I throw myself into her arms and squeeze her the tightest I ever have in my entire life. I haven’t seen her in a month, and this wasn’t how I imagined it would be when I saw her again. Hugs? Sure. Tears? No. “You have nothing to be sorry about, Mom. This is Dad’s fault!”
“I’ll take your luggage inside, Marnie,” Sheri says and takes off back up the road toward the house with Mom’s suitcase rolling behind her.
“This is amess!” Mom groans as we reluctantly let go of one another. She steps back and places her hands on my shoulders.
For once, she isn’t the glamorous wife of a movie star. She is bare-faced without a single smidge of makeup, though her lash extensions are still prominent. I seem to have forgotten how hazel her eyes actually are. Her dark hair is down, but it’s lying flat and lifeless against her high cheekbones, unstyled. She’s wearing jeans and a tank top – an outfit usually reserved for inside our home – and I can tell just by how unfamiliar she seems that Mom is deeply hurt and struggling to function.
“You look. . . different,” I say. “You look like you.” Younger, natural,normal.But I don’t say that.
“And you have all these freckles!” Mom pinches my cheek, and I don’t even try to stop her – I’m just so relieved that she is here.
“Oh, Mom.” I pull her back in for another hug. “I can’t believe this is really happening.”
“I know, honey.” Mom sighs, stroking my hair, and I don’t quite know whether she’s doing it to comfort me or herself. “But we’ll figure this out.”
“Marnie!” Popeye’s deep, gravelly voice calls from the porch, interrupting our hug. He waves his hand, beckoning us to join him and Sheri inside.
Mom takes my hand in hers and together we make our way toward the house. I know how nervous she is from how tightly she’s grasping my fingers. This will be immensely uncomfortable for her, I imagine, staying here at Dad’s family home. She last visited years ago, and these are hardly ideal circumstances for her return.
“Good afternoon, Wesley,” she greets as she slowly drags herself up the porch steps. It’s unlike Mom to carry herself without style and elegance, but right now, she doesn’t need to be perfect. She’s safe here.
“That arrogant, selfish jerk,” Popeye grumbles, fiercely shaking his head and unable to keep his thoughts to himself for a second longer. “He’s never happy, is he? How are you doing?”
“I’m wrapping my head around it,” Mom admits, then gives a pointed glance in my direction. “But remember this is Mila’s father we’re talking about, so maybe let’s keep the name-calling to a minimum.”
“Oh, Marnie, the poor girl isn’t blind!” Popeye huffs, and I stare at him in amazement, wondering where my sweet-tea-drinking, sunset-gazing grandfather has disappeared to. He is always so. . . gentle. . . around me. But with Sheri? And Mom? He’s just full of anger and aggravation with no filter.
Mom turns to me. “Mila, I am so glad to see you, sweetheart, but can you give us a minute to talk?”
“You don’t need to keep me out of the family discussions anymore,” I say firmly, locking my eyes on hers. “I’m sixteen. I can handle it.”
“Oh,” says Mom. She studies the unflinching expression on my face for what feels like forever, perhaps wondering just how much I’ve grown up over this past month.
Back in California, I didn’t question anything. I did whatever Ruben insisted, I followed the rules, I believed our family was happy. But after a month in Tennessee uncovering secrets, I’m not oblivious anymore, and Mom appears disarmed at this thought.
“Marnie, would you like me to show you upstairs?” Sheri asks as she appears behind Popeye, returning from delivering Mom’s luggage up to her room. There are plenty spare bedrooms in this place, and Sheri and I already established that Mom should stay in the room next door to me.
“Actually,” Mom says, “I think I’d rather sit down and talk first. Let’s get the worst part out of the way, right?” She attempts a chuckle, but it only sounds like the saddest, most anxious sigh in the world.
“Good plan,” says Popeye. “I have questions.”
This isn’t going to be easy; I know that. Mom is already holding up as best she can, and I’m amazed she’s managing to be this composed to begin with. I try to catch her eye as we all move indoors, but she won’t look my way. She barely even checks out the house, just keeps her head down, gaze trained on the wooden floor.
In the living room, Popeye takes up residence in his worn armchair. Sheri doesn’t sit down; instead, she fiddles around with the random knick-knacks on the coffee table, pretending to tidy but only making things worse, and then excuses herself to the kitchen to fetch water for us all. Mom and I sit down together on the couch opposite Popeye, and I wring my hands together, idly wondering who will speak first.
“First of all,” Mom begins, “thank you for letting me stay here. I know things are – complicated. I do really appreciate this. It’s so much better for Mila.” She glances sideways at me, her expression guilt-stricken, then touches my hand. “Things were already getting pretty crazy back home.”
“You are welcome, naturally,” Popeye murmurs as he rubs hard at his thick brows, then his tone turns louder and gruffer. “But what the heck has been going on over there? Because yet again it appears that Everett has only thought of himself and not what his actions will mean to the people around him. How many times is he going to make the same mistake?”
“Dad!” Sheri gives him a stern look as she returns with a pitcher of water and some tumblers. “A little sympathy, maybe?”
“It’s okay,” Mom says, holding a hand up to Sheri. “I understand how you feel about him right now, Wes, but Mila is in the room.”
“Didn’t we already establish that Mila is old enough to be here?” Popeye counters.
“Yes,” I jump in quickly, squeezing Mom’s hand and giving her a nod. I’m not a kid who needs to be protected. I don’t want to be banished upstairs to my room, pressing my ear to the door, trying my best to eavesdrop. I want to be part of this conversation. I deserve to hear the truth for myself, not some watered-down, sugar-coated version. And, like Popeye, I have questions of my own. “How did you find out, Mom?”
