Page 3 of Trusting Blake
“Yes! I am!”
“No, you’re not,” she says firmly, then, with a sniff, she adds, “I’m coming to you.”
“What?”
“I’ll be with you tomorrow. I promise, Mila. Please, I need to speak with Sheri.”
Mom is coming to Fairview? That makes sense, I guess. LA with Dad is probably the last place she wants to be right now. The farther away from the chaos we both are, the better.
“Mom?” I whisper.
“Yes?”
“Are you okay?”
She is silent for a while, then finally she replies, “Are you?”
That answers my question.
I bite down hard on my lip and wipe tears away from my damp face as I listen to her shallow breathing.
“Stay at the ranch. Don’t leave, don’t talk to anyone, and please stay off the internet and avoid TV,” she orders. Then, her voice breaks as she says, “I’m so sorry, Mila. I love you. We both do.”
I don’t know about that anymore.
I hand the phone to Sheri and then get out of the van. The gate is just up ahead, and I drag my feet past the towering stone walls and let myself in via the electric remote I’ve learned to keep on me at all times. Tracking my way up the dirt road, I spot Popeye stomping around with an ax slung over his shoulder.
My grandfather may be aging, and he may be sick, but that doesn’t stop him from finding a release for his anger. I watch as he manages, albeit a little awkwardly, to toss split logs into a growing pile of wood. Furiously, he slams that ax through the logs over and over, and then he staggers out from beneath the tree into the blistering sun, sinks down onto the grass, and buries his head in his hands.
Popeye wasn’t a huge fan of Dad’s life choices even before this.
The sight of him breaks my heart all over again, but I have to turn my back on him and slip unseen into the house. I have my own rage to deal with, and if I don’t retreat to my room for some privacy, I’m worried I’ll not only do my best to smash up Sheri’s van, but that I’ll start destroying the house too.
In the safety of my bedroom, I slam the door and throw my phone across the floor. I don’t bother to check if I’ve smashed the screen; instead, I draw my blinds, crawl fully clothed into my bed, and bury myself under my comforter.
2
At first, when I peel open my eyes the next morning, I’m convinced it was only a nightmare. A really, really intense nightmare that I seem to remember every detail of. And why do my eyes and throat feel so dry and painful?
Rolling over, I spot my phone on the floor all the way across the room.Huh.I always leave my phone charging on the bedside table overnight. . . I stretch out my legs – why do my shins throb? – and get out of bed to retrieve my phone. When I turn it over in my hand, I see the smashed screen. The thick cracks, the missing pieces of glass.
I shiver as my body goes cold.
I really did throw my phone last night.
It wasn’t a bad dream – all of it really happened. The headline. . . Running from Blake’s house. . . Crying on the streets of Fairview. . . Yelling at old ladies. . .
The affair.
Just as my head fills with the horror of it all, there’s a soft knock on my door. “Mila?”
“Come in,” I mumble, staring blankly at my damaged phone. I have to remind myself to keep breathing.
Aunt Sheri warily pushes open my bedroom door, like she’s afraid of what she’ll find on the other side. An emotional wreck of a teenager, that’s what. “I think you’ll need some caffeine today,” she says, presenting me with a steaming mug of fresh coffee.
“I don’t like hot coffee. Only iced. You know that.”
“Mila, I think you’llreallyneed this today,” she repeats with a slight twitch of a sad smile, forcing the mug into my hand. “Oh. Your phone. When did you do that?”
