Page 46 of Trusting Blake
Jason spins the cap off his water and takes a swig, looking at me inquisitively. “Paparazzi?”
“My dad is, um, kind of famous. Everett Harding,” I whisper, and as soon as his name leaves my lips I’m reminded of just how much I hate saying those exact words out loud. It’s rarely something I broadcast, who my father is. The statement makes me internally cringe, like I’ve just bit into a bitter lemon.
My dad is Everett Harding.
“Oh,” Jason says, and then: “Ohhh.” He runs a hand through his long hair, pushing it off his face, and slumps back into his chair. “This conversation calls for a beer, but y’know, I’m staying clear of alcohol right now.”
“Yeah, about that,” Blake says, looking at his dad as if he’s not quite noticed him before. “You look. . . better. Have you stopped drinking completely?” His tone rises to an optimistic note, and I can see the hope in his body language; his shoulders pulled back, his gaze full of anticipation.
Jason’s shoulders pull back too, an exact mirror of Blake’s. “Ain’t had a drop of bourbon, beer, or anything else in months.” He sighs, cupping his long fingers around the water bottle. “It was getting out of hand, and well. . . I decided to really kick that shit altogether not long after I last saw you,” Jason announces, pride creeping into his voice now as he beams at his son. “I didn’t mention it to you yet. I’m trying to get back on my feet first.” He drops his gaze shyly to the floor.
“That’s great, Dad. I’m honestly impressed. But. . . are you still dating Marissa?” Blake asks, and I search for purpose by haphazardly stacking our dirty plates and silverware in an effort to be helpful to the waitress. It doesn’t stop me from noticing the hard edge to Blake’s voice all of a sudden. “Because maybe you shouldn’t be around her if you’re trying to clean up your act. She’s—”
Jason firmly waves his hand in the air. “Don’t worry. She’s out of the picture. You’re right, I need to keep my focus and, well, we weren’t really in the same place with the drinking. . .” His voice trails off, a little subdued.
But Blake appears rather pleased by this information. He drums his fingers against the table, like he’s full of the jitters. “And you’re. . . you again. Playing music. You sound just as good as I remember.”
“Hey, I needed a distraction, huh? Check out the new baby.” Jason straightens up and retrieves his guitar from the floor. He lugs the case onto his lap and opens it to reveal. . . well, a guitar. But to Blake, it may as well be a million dollars in cash.
“Nice! You stuck with Gibson.” He jumps off his chair to examine the guitar up close, stroking his fingers along the fretboard and over the head, his touch light and feathery. “Mila, this is a J-45. A classic!”
Blake knows I don’t know a damn thing about guitars, but his contagious enthusiasm has me nodding back in acknowledgement. It seems that music is the only topic that comes naturally between Blake and his dad.
“Yeah, but it ain’t got a thing on that old Hummingbird of mine,” Jason says with a wink as he clicks the case shut again. “Not bored of it yet?”
“Never,” Blake says, forcing himself back onto his chair in an effort to calm his energy levels. “I never thought I’d see you perform again, though. Why’d you get back into music, Dad?”
“Ah, I guess I never wanted to give it up in the first place.” Jason shrugs, but I can see the flicker of sadness in his brown eyes, the same emotion Blake has in his whenever LeAnne shuts down his dreams of being a musician. “Just took me a few years to realize it. That and it’s a much better friend to me than a bottle of JD ever could be. I’ve only been gigging for a few months, seeing if I’ve still got it in me. I may have been known in Nashville back in the day, but here in Memphis, I’m pretty much a new kid on the block, y’know. I had to call in a lot of favors to get my first slot.”
Blake lets out a satisfied sigh. I get the feeling he’s genuinely proud of his dad. “You have no idea how awesome it is to see you on stage again. Do you remember you used to take me to all of your gigs, even on school nights, and Mom would lose her damn mind?”
“Does she let you use that language?” Jason asks, tilting his head sternly to one side, and Blake scoffs. “Those were the good days. You used to sit by the side of the stage playing air guitar like the most badass ten-year-old kid in the world.” He looks at me and Blake, suddenly animated. “Hey, how about you guys come back to my place, and we can jam out together? That’s if Mila doesn’t mind.”
Blake looks to me with bated breath. “Mila?”
It might be a change to the evening I envisioned with him, but this might be even better. As though I would ever deny a chance to watch Blake lose himself in music. I laugh and say, “Let’s do it!” And in my head, all I can imagine is a young Blake playing air guitar, dreaming of the day when he too would be performing on stage like his father.
We call over the check, which Jason puts up a fight to pay for on our behalf, and then the three of us head outside into a bustling Friday-evening Beale Street. It’s busier now, louder. I can see how quickly the area has transformed into catering toward an adult crowd as the night draws in. There are far fewer kids around now.
Blake’s hand gravitates toward mine as though he can sense my apprehension again.
Jason strolls slightly ahead of us with his guitar over his shoulder and his head held high. It’s like the famous Beale Street is his own personal playground, but then I suppose it is, considering he lives in the downtown area. I hold on tight to Blake as we walk the ten minutes to his dad’s home, only a few blocks away, Jason pointing out various bars and venues as we go.
It’s a large, modern apartment building and as we huddle into the elevator, Jason jokes, “My neighbors keep putting notes under my door asking me to shut the hell up. I try to oblige, but I reckon they’re not big fans of me fine-tuning my riffs at midnight.”
He brings us to his apartment, unlocks the door, and gestures for Blake and me to head on in. Blake guides me in by my elbow, and I glance around, immediately wondering how Jason was ever married to LeAnne.
The apartment is bright, spacious and neutral-toned, with vintage gig posters and a wall of vinyl adding color, but it’s also kind of a mess. There’s dishes stacked in the sink, empty milk cartons and food wrappers cluttering the granite countertops, and the couch with its sad, flat cushions is in desperate need of being plumped. It’s a studio apartment, so there’s no hiding the unmade bed at the other side of the room and the guitar picks littering the side table.
It’s so different from the spotless, glitzy house that Blake lives in with his mom, where one would be hard-pressed to even find a speck of dust, let alone misplaced objects or a jumble of slightly dog-eared album sleeves. It’s evident that Jason is way more carefree and laid-back, like he’s still young and reckless at heart, whereas LeAnne doesn’t even seem to knowhowto kick back because she is too busy overseeing the running of Nashville while also having raised Blake on her own. I honestly don’t see it – them as a double act. Like, at all. Just from this brief encounter, I’m not surprised the two of them weren’t compatible in the long run.
“You aren’t hitting the road again tonight, are you?” Jason asks, hooking his hat on the back of the door and then setting his guitar case down on the coffee table in the lounge area. It’s warm in here, and he switches on the ceiling fan.
“Tomorrow,” Blake says. “We’re gonna sleep in the truck, and then I was gonna come see you in the morning, but you beat me to it by rocking up at the Tin Roof.”
Jason places his hands on his hips and stares him down, then shakes his head pitifully at me. “I’m so sorry, Mila, this boy of mine clearly doesn’t possess an ounce of chivalry. Making you sleep in a truck!” He makes a deep huffing noise, then adds, “You two can spend the night here.”
“Are you sure?” I ask, exchanging a glance with Blake. His shoulders sink in unison with my own. Sure, spending the night in his truck isn’t the most comfortable of options, but it’s definitely romantic, and private, and full of unspoken possibilities. Tonight was going to be our first night alone together, but it would be awkward to turn down Jason’s offer.
