Page 8 of Trusting Blake
Mom sighs, realizes there’s no point tiptoeing around the subject in front of me, and answers, “From Ruben.”
“Ruben?” I say, scrunching my face up, confused. I assumed Mom would have been confronted by the tabloids like the rest of the world. . . I certainly didn’t think she’d find out from Ruben.
Mom nods, takes a deep breath. “He’d been given the heads-up that some photos had been leaked. . . So, he broke the news to me a few hours before it hit the press, but only because he was desperate to strategize a damage-limitation plan of action. I’m afraid I told him where he could stick hisstrategizing, and I walked straight out of there.”
“But did you get the chance to talk with Everett before you left?” Sheri asks, finally sitting down on the opposite couch, bolt upright and as clearly uncomfortable as the rest of us.
I’m glad Sheri asked, because I’m wondering the same. Has Mom even heard Dad’s side of the story, or did she immediately flee?
“Yes,” Mom says in a tiny voice.
“And?” Popeye prompts. “What was his excusethistime? He clearly hasn’t changed a damn thing over the years.”
Sheri looks as though she wants to shrivel up and disappear. Popeye’s constant references to Dad’s previous affair – the one he hadwithMom – are excruciatingly uncomfortable, to say the least. Mom ignores the remarks, but I can tell they are grating on her.
“Look, I. . . I had my suspicions.” She takes a gulp of water and I notice her hand tremble on the glass. “I just can’t believe they’ve turned out to be true.”
“I suppose you know the signs to look out for,” I hear Popeye mutter under his breath. The words are barely audible, so I convince myself I heard him wrong.
“Suspicions?” I ask Mom, taken aback. What did she suspect, exactly? How can I not have noticed anything at all? I know I’m their kid, but still. . . I feel like all the air is knocked out of me.
“I’m sorry, Mila,” Mom says, her bottom lip quivering as she scoots closer to me. “I tried to explain it away, but I just. . . I wish I had dealt with this properly long before now. Maybe then you wouldn’t have had to find out the way you did. Maybe then we wouldn’t all be in such an awful situation.”
Popeye clears his throat, and his voice comes out harsher than I’ve ever heard it. “A situation that you yourself once were happy to put LeAnne Avery in.”
“Dad! We’re not here to dredge up the past,” Sheri gasps, her hand flying to her mouth, stunned. She gapes at Mom. “I’m so sorry.”
Mom is silent. She stares across at Popeye, a flash of hurt in her eyes, but her expression strangely brazen. “Wesley, please. That’s ancient history now, water under the bridge, so, for Mila’s sake, can we be civil? You don’t have to feel sorry for me, but please have some consideration for Mila.”
Sheri has her hand pressed over her eyes now, unable to look, as if anticipating an actual bomb to explode, but all I can think is:So Popeye really doesn’t like Mom?
It’s amazing all the details you miss when you’re young. Four years ago when we all visited for Thanksgiving, there was no tension, no drama. Just smiles and happy laughter around a sumptuous dining table. But that’s because I wasn’t reading between the lines back then. I didn’t know that I had to. Now, however, I’m horribly aware of the suffocating strain in the atmosphere.
Popeye stubbornly gets to his feet, and as he shuffles past a mortified Sheri, he looks at me. “Mila, I wouldn’t change you for the world,” he says, “but it’s a real crying shame that your parents are so selfish.”
4
It’s the longest, most unbearable night of my life.
Popeye and Mom won’t talk to each other. Sheri says things just got overheated and they’ll be better once the dust settles, but I have my doubts. It seems that Popeye is too stubborn to do anything but voice his opinions, and what is Mom supposed to do? Tread carefully around the Harding Estate until somehow, one way or another, she finds resolution with Dad? And how can she do that when he’s thousands of miles away? Does Mom evenwantto resolve this? What if she wants a divorce?
Maybe I would stand a chance of finding out if she hadn’t shut herself away in her room. It might be right next to mine, but she won’t talk to me either, stating she needs the evening to gather her thoughts before we sit down in the morning, just the two of us, for a real conversation.
So, unlike last night when I was dead to the world for hours and hours, tonight I’m wide awake. It’s after midnight, the house is silent, and moonlight streams in through my window. I’m in my PJs – my favorite Victoria’s Secret set, matching satin shorts and a cami – sitting cross-legged on the floor, staring at the wall, lost in my thoughts. I am too wired to even attempt to sleep, but still, the sound of my phone buzzing makes me jump out of my skin.
Considering the time, I figure it must be one of my friends from back home calling to check in on me, havingclearlyforgotten the time difference, because obviously it’s too late for any normal person to call.
I crawl over to reach for my phone on my bedside table, and smile at the name on my screen.
“Blake,” I answer, keeping my voice low. Mom is only in the room next door, maybe also unable to sleep. “Do you know the time?”
“Yup. Twelve thirty-nine,” he says cheerfully. “Good thing you’re awake. Can you do something for me?”
This has one of Blake’s impromptu ideas written all over it. Last time he called me in such a spontaneous playful mood, we ended up at a honky tonk in Nashville together. What could he possibly have in mindnow?
“Riiiiight.What exactly do I need to do, Blake?” I reluctantly ask, pinching the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger, waiting for the impending headache.
“I need you to go downstairs.”
