Page 20 of The Making of Mila and Blake
Blake pinches the bridge of his nose, closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “I don’t want to have this conversation with you, Mila. The truth is, we were never going to work anyway.”
“That’s what you thought? That we were a lost cause straight from the beginning?” I rise to my feet too, anger rushing through me, and I feel all of my control slipping away from me. I didn’t come here to yell at him, but the words tumble out of my mouth before I can stop them. “It’s only a four-hour flight, for God’s sake!”
“I’m not talking about the distance!” Blake snaps as his eyes fly open.
“Then what? Why weren’t we ever going to work?” I challenge, crossing the deck so that he has no choice but to look me in the eye and tell me exactly what he is thinking. He is as much to blame for our relationship falling apart as I am. I messed up at the end, yes, but he was wrong to shut me out completely.
“Did you just come here to ambush me?” he growls, his jaw clenched tight. “You’re asking me to account for something that happened twoyearsago, Mila. I don’t care about you anymore!”
I stare at him, shocked by the harsh finality of his tone. Then suddenly, Bailey makes an awful hacking noise, followed by a high-pitched shriek. He flies across the yard toward us, whimpering and squealing, and Blake latches onto his collar in a panic. He wrenches open Bailey’s jaw, sticks his hand into his mouth, and fishes out the splintered stick. Bailey’s mouth pools with blood and I gape in horror.
“Fuck!” Blake erupts, dropping to his knees to get a better look in Bailey’s mouth, but Bailey resists, snarling in fear and pain. “Goddamn it, Bailey! Mila, move your van out of the way, I need to get him to the vet.”
“I’ll drive you,” I splutter without hesitation, scrabbling for my keys and running for the gate. The sting of Blake’s words–I don’t care about youanymore– has no time to sink in. Bailey is hurt and time is passing at a million miles an hour. We need to help him.
Blake lugs Bailey up into his arms, his muscles flexed tight under the weight of his dog, and follows me out to the drive. I push away the surge of blind panic threatening to engulf me and throw open the door to the back of Sheri’s van. Blake clambers in with Bailey, then I hop in the front and jam the keys in the ignition. My foot is jerky on the gas pedal thanks to the adrenaline racing through me, and the van judders as I speed away from Blake’s house.
“Where am I going? Where’s your vet?” I yell into the backseat.
“Fairview Boulevard. Just get us there, please!”
Bailey’s cries are the most heartbreaking noises I think I’ve ever heard, and if Sheri’s van had the power to go faster, I would gladly take a hundred speeding tickets if it meant getting Bailey to the vet faster.
“Shit,” Blake mutters, and he’s swaying around in the backseat with no seatbelt on as he comforts Bailey as best as he can. “I don’t wanna make a goddamn mess of your aunt’s seats!” And when I steal a glance at him in the rearview mirror, he whips off his T-shirt and presses it to Bailey’s mouth, soaking the material in fresh blood.
I spin out onto Fairview Boulevard and Blake yells directions at me, heading northbound to the edge of downtown until relief floods me when I spot the sign for the Fairview Animal Clinic up ahead. The van’s tires screech against the road as I make the sharp turn into the lot, and I don’t even pull into a parking space. I dump the van in the middle of the lot, right in front of the entrance, and speed around to the backseat to throw open the door for Blake. He heaves a distraught Bailey back into his arms andruns. I sprint ahead, holding open the door of the clinic for him as we all pile into the reception.
“My dog is bleeding!” Blake says, his words fast, his bare chest smeared in blood. “I think he choked on a stick and then it stabbed him in the throat. Please get a vet out here!”
The assistant behind the front desk springs into action, disappearing into the back and returning with a vet and her technician. There’s a blur of words and before I know it, Bailey is passed into the arms of the vet and whisked away.
Blake has turned pale and his breath is a heavy pant. With a ghostly stare, he stares at the door Bailey has disappeared through, frozen on the spot in the middle of the reception area.
“Please take a seat for now,” the receptionist tells him in a soothing voice. She slides a clipboard across the desk. “And can you fill out this form for me, honey?”
Blake nods in numb agreement, taking the clipboard and collapsing onto the wooden bench against the back wall. He looks so nauseous; I worry he might throw up. His hair is damp from sweat and he runs a hand through it, pushing it back.
“We got him here as fast as we could,” I say, sitting down next to him. And I can’t help it– I lay a comforting hand on his arm. “He’s going to be just fine.”
Blake looks down at the blood on his body. He’s still holding his soaked, crumpled T-shirt and the clipboard in his other hand begins to shake. There isa lot of blood, and I don’t think the initial shock has worn off yet. “I should have been watching him more closely,” Blake says in a low murmur, shaking his head fast. “I know sticks are dangerous. Iknow.But he loves them, and I usually supervise him, but. . .”
“But I distracted you,” I finish. Now instead of feeling panicked and squeamish, I just feel pure and utter guilt. “I’m so sorry.”
Blake drops his head and groans, like he has a piercing headache that he just can’t fight.
“Here, sweetheart,” the receptionist says gently as she approaches us with a damp wash cloth. “Clean yourself up, and don’t worry, your dog will be just fine. Those pesky sticks! It’s very common, and they know how to handle it back there.”
“Thanks,” Blake mumbles, taking the cloth from her. He passes me the clipboard and dabs at his chest and arms while wearing an empty, blank expression.
“There’s a little on your face,” I say softly, gesturing to the smear of blood on his cheek. “Let me get it.”
I take the cloth from him, now turned a shade of red, and scoot in closer. He is still trembling in shock, his entire system jolted, and his eyes stare wretchedly at nothing. Delicately, I press the cloth to his cheek and clean away the blood, but my hand lingers over his jaw a little too long.
“I don’t blame you,” he says. “I don’t blame you for wanting to talk.”
His eyes jump to my face, and I realize just how close we are to one another. My hand drops from his jaw and I shift back on the bench, reminding myself to take a breath. Being so close is too intimate for two people who are no longer friends.
“Did you mean it?” I ask, my voice dry. It almost hurts too much to say it out loud, to feel the punch of his words all over again. “That you don’t care about me.”
