Page 14 of Trusting Blake
“Yes,” I say.
The door creaks open to reveal him, one shoulder leaning against the frame, his hands stuffed into the pockets of a pair of board shorts. His hair is flat and damp from the shower. “Can we talk outside? It’s too nice to be indoors.”
“Okay.”
In silence, I follow him downstairs. As we pass the kitchen, I see Mom and Sheri at the table, and they promptly hush as they watch Dad and me walk by. God only knows where Ruben and Popeye are, but after last night, I suspect Popeye has locked himself away in a fit of rage. When Dad and Mom finally emerged from the living room after what felt like the longest talk ever – the rest of us still wide awake, tensions too high to sleep – Popeye exploded. His yelling was a blundering garble, but the gist was clear: how dare Dad show up here after what he’s done and expect to be welcomed in with open arms?
And after much battling back and forth, Popeye eventually stormed back upstairs. But only because of Sheri’s insistence that so much hostility isn’t good for his health. By two in the morning, everyone ran out of steam and retreated to our individual rooms; Sheri begrudgingly allowing Dad and Ruben the privilege of staying here at the ranch. I still don’t know how the conversation between my parents went down, but hopefully I’ll find out from Dad right now.
I expect us to sit on the porch, but no. Dad leads me all the way outside and into the fields, then drops down to the ground and stretches out his legs. I join him, crossing my legs and fiddling with dry blades of grass to keep my hands busy.
“It’s peaceful out here,” Dad starts gently to break the ice, tilting his head back to the clear skies above. “Except if you focus too much. Then, above the sound of birdsong, you can hear what’s going on outside the gate.”
I listen hard, and he’s right: if you put your mind to it, you can hear the collective buzz of voices in the distance from the journalists and paparazzi that have been out there since yesterday. I don’t doubt for a second that, by now, the throng has doubled in size as word has spread that Everett Harding is in town. It will only continue to grow the longer Dad stays inside the safety of the walls. The anticipation will build and build and build, as the hyenas circle, poised to snap the best shot of a shamed movie star trying to sneak away from this ranch.
“You brought them here,” I point out. My tone is unforgiving.
“I know, and I’m sorry.” Dad lowers his head and draws his knees up to his chest, hunching forward like a child in the long grass. The morning sun beams over us, and if Dad and I were basking in the warmth together under any other circumstances, I would love how nice this is. “Where should I start?”
“You can start with why you cheated on Mom.”
Dad flinches at the bluntness of my words. There is no point tiptoeing around the real issue here, but I don’t think Dad expects me to be this. . .hard and composed. “Mila—”
“Why, Dad?” I push, ripping a handful of grass straight out of the ground. “Didn’t you learn from your mistakes with LeAnne Avery?”
“LeAnne Avery has nothing to do with this,” he warns, fixing me with a cautioning look that I only scowl at in return. “This is different.”
“How is it different? Cheating is cheating.”
Dad’s dark eyes fixate on me, boring into me with the strangest of looks, as though for a second he doesn’t recognize me as his daughter. I would have never dared to talk to him this way a month ago, but I’m not so sure that I recognize him anymore either.
“Because I’m not in love with Laurel,” he finally says. “We’re just close friends, and there are things in our world that others don’t understand.Youwouldn’t understand. Your mom wouldn’t understand. But Laurel does, and we often vented to one another.”
Mom mentioned yesterday that she’d had her suspicions about Dad and Laurel before now. Is this what she meant? Was Dad heading out to meet with Laurel outside of their work commitments?
“But Laurel is single. You’remarried.Why couldn’t you vent to Mom?” I ask, my tone still cold. I refuse to feel sympathy for him. “What do you even have to complain about?”
“You’re too young to get it, Mila.”
“I’m not too young to know that you got caught kissing your co-star.”
“Right.” Dad scratches at the back of his neck, his cheeks flaring red. “It’s inexcusable, I know. Believe me, I’ve made mistakes in my life, a whole damn lot of them, but taking things too far with Laurel has been the worst.” There is a firmness to his words now and he solemnly looks me in the eye. “Ruben may have followed me out here, but please don’t think for a second that I’m only here to save face. I don’t care if I lose endorsement contracts. I don’t care if I never land another role in my life. I don’t care if the world turns against me. I’m here because I love your mom. I love you, Mila.”
I study his gaze, expecting him to break the eye contact, but he holds it. As much as I have questioned Dad recently, I don’t question whether or not he is lying to me at this exact moment. I want this to be the truth. It has to be the truth. I need to believe my dad.
Relaxing my shoulders only slightly, I ask, “WhyisRuben here then if this isn’t just yet another publicity crisis?”
“Because he’s Ruben,” Dad answers. “He is surgically attached to my hip, and I know he may be a bit of an overbearing nightmare, but he’s here to do what he believes is best for me.”
Silence falls between us. Dad stares off toward the gate again, most likely tuned into the sound of the waiting press, and I shred up more of the dry grass and pray that Popeye doesn’t get mad at me for it. To be honest, I think a few small bald patches in his fields are the least of his concerns right now.
“Ruben sees you as a saint,” I grumble. “I throw up on the sidewalk and I’m the worst daughter in the world.Youhave an affair with your co-star and he sees it as his job to corral the rest of us into playing happy family so that this will all be swept under the rug. But you’renota saint, so how can I ever trust you again?”
“I know this will take time. I know that. But I could lie to you, Mila. I could deny the accusations, but I’m not. I’m telling you the truth.”
“Truth or not, this is about so much more than just Laurel,” I say, my face set in a deep frown. “It’s everything else. It’s Popeye. It’s LeAnne Avery.”
Dad clenches his jaw at the sound of her name. He’s already warned me not to mention her again, and now his gaze narrows. “LeAnne,” he repeats, filling the word with contempt. “I never asked you how you found out. Did Sheri tell you?”
