Page 1 of Trusting Blake
1
There isn’t enough adrenaline in this world to power my legs much farther. No amount of rage can fill my lungs with breath. No amount of pain can fuel my body to take another step.
The concrete beneath my feet sprawls out before me, but the streets are a blur through my burning tears, the passing cars nothing more than smudges of color, and the lack of clear vision has my head throbbing as though a million and one needles are jabbing into my skull.
Wheezing, I collapse against the nearest mailbox. My throat burns as I fight for air, but my chest heaves so violently it’s near impossible. Sweat pours down my face and neck, as the sun shines relentless above.
I don’t know how far I’ve run. I don’t know if I’ve even gone in the right direction.
My knees buckle and I sink to the scorching sidewalk. I don’t know where in Fairview I am, and I definitely don’t know how far the Harding Estate is from here. And even if I did, I have already exhausted my cardio capacity. My heartbeat must surely be at its absolute maximum right now – one beat faster and it may just explode.
Sobbing, panting, I grab my phone from my pocket. A swarm of notifications fills my screen, but I swipe them away and navigate straight to my contacts, blinking fast and drawing my phone up close in an attempt to find Sheri’s name. I call the number, pressing the phone to my ear, my other hand clasped over my face in an effort to hide from the world. I can tell that I’m on a residential street, and I don’t imagine these folks are all that used to peering out their windows to find a sobbing teenager slumped against the post of a mailbox. I am too hurt right now to even begin to process any feeling of embarrassment.
“Mila—” Sheri answers.
“Do you know?” I splutter, gripping my phone harder. “Have you seen the headlines?”
Sheri doesn’t respond. There’s a long pause, and if it weren’t for her shallow breaths, I’d think she’d hung up. Finally, in a low voice, she asks, “Where are you?”
There’s no surprise or confusion. NoWhat headlines?, so there’s my question answered: Sherihasseen the news.
“I don’t – don’t know,” I sniff, surveying my surroundings once more in hope of some clarity, but my eyes sting too much to do anything more than flutter. “Can you come get me? Please?”
“Of course, Mila. Send me a pin of your location. I’m grabbing the van keys right this second, okay, honey?” Sheri says. I hear the clang of keys and the sound of a door falling shut. “I’ll be right there. I’m coming.”
I hastily end the call and ping Sheri my current location, praying that she drives fast. I don’t want to be alone right now, but I don’t want to be with anyone else other than family who understands the gravity of the situation. Mostly, I want my mom.
Oh, Mom. . .
I close my eyes and try to picture the scene back home in Thousand Oaks right now. Has Mom only found out the truth at the same time as the rest of the world? Is my parents’ marriage unraveling in our home right now while Ruben strings together an emergency contingency plan to twist this story into something less damning?
Is this story evenreal?
I suck in a deep breath and think.
The tabloids do nothingbutturn innocent photos and videos into something they’re not. That’s where they get their views from, their revenue – from big, shocking stories that create waves of scandal and delighted outrage. That photograph. . . the one of Dad and Laurel Peyton locking lips in that restaurant. . . it can’t be real. It must be a mistake, a misunderstanding. Dad wouldn’t hurt Mom like this. He wouldn’t hurtme.
But he hurt LeAnne Avery before, and as she said. . .
Oncea cheater, always a cheater.
I’m going to throw up.
This time, I really wish itwasbecause of too much expensive champagne and not from the shattering of everything I knew about my father.
“Are you alright, sweetheart?” a concerned voice calls from across the street.
The distraction suppresses the bile rising in my throat and my watery gaze locates the sound: an elderly woman watching me from her lawn with her rosy cheeks pinched together with worry.
“NO!” I yell back. “My dad is a liar! Everett Harding is a fraud!”
I’m not thinking straight. Ican’tthink straight.
And will my phone just stop vibrating forone damn second?
“You’re Everett Harding’s daughter?” the woman asks, and despite the fuzziness in my head, I know that I shouldn’t have screamed out my emotions like that.
“No,” I lie like a total lunatic, then scramble to my feet, wipe my tear-soaked cheeks, and trek a little down the street until I’m out of sight from her.
