Page 33 of Trusting Blake
Myles straightens his shoulders, and his jaw goes slack as he stares across the yard at us, flicking his mop of blond hair out of his eyes. “You didwhat?”
“He was being pushy. It was a fierce right hook, but. . .” Blake groans. “I didn’t mean to.”
“What if they press charges?”
“Oh, Blake doesn’t have to worry about that,” Barney interrupts with a chuckle. “Mommy Mayor will make them disappear.”
I steal a cautious glance at Blake. He clenches his jaw, takes a deep breath as though to keep himself calm, and then reaches for my hand and leads me back toward the gate.
“We’ll be washing my truck,” he calls over his shoulder. “Don’t destroy anything. And watch Bails for me.”
We head out onto the driveway together, and Blake leans into his truck, turns on the radio, and blasts the music at full volume. Country pop, duh. He slams the door shut and smiles at me as the opening melodic beat travels all the way down the street.
“Your neighbors don’t mind?” I ask, leaning against the white picket fence.
“They’re used to it,” Blake says. He plunges his hand into one of the buckets and retrieves a sponge, wringing the water out of it. He arches an eyebrow at me. “So do you wanna help me, or would you rather admire my truck-washing skills?”
Relaxing in the sun and watching the movement of Blake’s muscles as he cleans his paintwork does seem like the perfect way to spend a chilled afternoon, but getting involved could be fun. Especially because. . . “I’ve never, um, washed a car before.”
Blake stops wringing out the sponge and lifts his head. “You’ve never washed a car before?”
“Hey, I’m sixteen, remember? I didn’t have a permitora car up until a couple months ago.”
“And you haven’t washed it yet?”
“Well.” I pull my shoulders in, a little shamefaced. “A detailer comes around every week.”
“Okay, Hollywood,” Blake says, rolling his eyes. “Time to learn a key life skill like a normal person.” He tosses the damp sponge straight at me, and I catch it just in time before it hits me in the face.
“Blake!” I whine, pouting.
Blake holds up his hands and innocently widens his eyes. “Accident, I swear.”
“This better not become that whole cliché thing where you soak me with that,” I warn, nodding at the hose hooked up to the outdoor faucet behind him.
“Nope.”
Keeping my eyes suspiciously locked on him, I grab a bucket and move around to the rear of the truck. Moments later, he joins me with the other bucket and sponge, and with the music still blaring from inside the vehicle, we get to work.
“So how are things with your mom?” I ask, covering the tailgate with suds.
I sense Blake shrug next to me. “Bumping into your dad at church really threw her off, so she’s been in the worst mood all week, but when have you ever seen her crack a smile?”
I shouldn’t snicker, but I can’t help it. I don’t think I’veeverseen LeAnne with a genuine smile on her face. I know I’m not exactly her favorite person, but it’s kind of. . . sad, in a way, that she’s always so stressed and uptight. Still, she has no right to take it out on others.
“Plus, I was the idiot who tried to discuss college with her the other night,” Blake continues, “and as you can imagine, she didn’t want to hear it.”
“But you’ll need to start working on your applications soon, right?”
“I’ve already started,” he says. “I’m applying for an early decision for Vanderbilt, so my application needs to be in by November. I’m working on my personal essay just now, but there’s a major problem in that my mom is refusing to sign the agreement when the time comes. I’m set on Music at Vanderbilt – seriously, it’s theonlyplan I’ve ever had – but Mom is adamant that I need to have options, options that include non-creative degrees. I’m getting nowhere with her.”
Blake sets to scrubbing the truck a bit more aggressively, rubbing soapy circles into the paintwork at supersonic speed. I gently place my hand over his, forcing him to hold his sponge steady, and he exhales. We continue washing, easier now, moving our way around the truck.
“So you have three months to convince her?” I ask, quietly wondering to myself what kind of person holds their kid back from their dreams. But then I think of Dad and Popeye. . . Popeye isn’t a bad person. He loves Dad, but I think he was scared. Scared that his son wouldn’t make it, that his dream wouldn’t work out and he’d be left with no backup plan. The creative artsarea risky career path to take, and Daddidn’thave a plan B. I don’t think Blake does either.
“Yeah, but I’ve already been trying all year,” Blake explains with a hopeless sigh of defeat, like he sees no option but to give up. “The acceptance rate for early-decision applicants is already as low as twenty percent, but do you know the rate for regular-decision applicants? Eight percent.Eight!If she doesn’t sign it and I have to go down the regular decision route, then she’s cutting my chances by over half.” He dunks his sponge forcefully into the bucket, sending water droplets flying. “I’m already worried I won’t get in, let alone with a damn eight percent chance.”
“You’ll get in,” I tell him, pausing my scrubbing to turn toward him with the most reassuring smile I can muster. It’s not fake. I’ve not heard these plans before, but I do believe in him. One hundred percent. “You’re an amazing performer. I don’t really know anything about music, but you definitely nail the guitar. You know that from the bonfires – everyone’s transfixed by you. And when you sing. . .Your voice.”
