Page 36 of The Making of Mila and Blake
“I forgot to feed the you-know-whats earlier, so I came back with some food,” Teddy says, pointing over to the open seat of his bike where bags of berries for the foxes are stored. He widens his stance and crosses his arms, looking Blake up and down with intimidation. “Is this ex of yours bothering you, Mila?”
“Wait,” Blake says as he studies Teddy just as intensely in return. “You were at the party last weekend. You. . .” He looks at me and the realization flashes in his eyes as it dawns on him that yes, this is the guy he’d seen me kissing by the pool. But how can I admit that it wasn’t real, that I was lame enough to resort to petty games like that?
“Mila?” Teddy prompts.
I shrink beneath Blake’s warm hoodie, wishing I could disappear inside of it. They both believe different things. Teddy believes Blake is an ex I can’t stand, one who flaunts his new girlfriend in front of me at parties, while Blake. . . God, I don’t evenknowwhat Blake thinks Teddy is to me.
“No,” I finally reply. “He isn’t bothering me. We’re just. . . talking.”
Blake broadens his shoulders next to me and goes on the offensive. “Why don’t I know you?” he questions Teddy.
“I live over in Kingston Springs, and I doubt our social circles would have ever crossed,” Teddy says casually, his arms still locked over his chest. “I’m a little older than you, man. Now get your dog out of here.”
Blake scoffs indignantly and unlocks his truck, ushering Bailey into the backseat. The goofball stares at us all with dismay, wondering why he has been banished. “Happy?” Blake snaps.
“Yeah,” Teddy says, then adds, “Are you leaving too?”
The testosterone levels on this ranch right now are through the roof; I can’t bear it. Teddy needs to drop this. I know he’s looking out for me, protecting Sheri’s niece and all, like the superstar employee that he is, but Blake and I reallyarejust talking. Maybe when I complained to Teddy about Blake with such bitterness, I should have mentioned that I was still in love with him.
“Oookay. I need to finish painting my nails,” I say quickly, and both Blake and Teddy look at me unconvinced. Itistrue– I do need to finish painting my nails– but it is also a very obvious attempt to put an end to this encounter. “Teddy, feed the. . . you-know-whats. Blake, I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
“Sure. And you can hang onto that hoodie of mine,” Blake says with a sneering glance at Teddy.
Teddy, amused, drops his arms and retreats to his bike. “Goodnight, Mila. I’ll see you Monday. And every day after that.”
I sigh. Who knew guys this age could still be so immature? Blake hops into his truck and slams the door, and Teddy grabs the berries from his bike seat and disappears into the darkness. I climb the porch steps in my slippers and watch from the front door as Blake’s truck pauses at the gate, and then it buzzes open a few seconds later.
As the truck taillights fade into the distance and the gate sweeps closed behind it, I hug Blake’s hoodie a little tighter.
14
“He loves you, he loves you, he loves you!” Savannah sings.
It’s 7 a.m. on Monday morning and Savannah has arrived an entirehourbefore her shift simply to hear first-hand what went down when Blake showed up unannounced at the ranch. I have told the story a hundred times already over the phone to her and Tori, but that isn’t enough for Savannah. Shelivesfor epic displays of love, except. . .
“He didn’t say he lovedme.”
“Oh, c’mon. You know that’s exactly what he meant,” says Savannah, twirling across the kitchen to fetch her toast as it springs from the toaster. She is way too happy for a Monday, but so am I.
I hug my hands around my mug and inhale the waft of coffee, my hip propped against the countertop. I hold back my smile. “Maybe. He has a gig Wednesday night, and I was thinking that after his performance I might pull him to one side and—” My mouth clamps shut.
Sheri waltzes into the kitchen, bright-eyed and wide awake, clipping back her natural curls from her face. “Good morning!” she says brightly, then notices Savannah rifling through the refrigerator for jelly. “Savannah, honey, what are you doing here this early?”
Savannah spins around and jokes, “Beating Teddy for employee of the month, I hope?”
“Too late,” Sheri says. “He’s already working through this weekend’s delivery. And you are bothmy favorite employees.”
“What!” Savannah slams the jelly down on the counter and sulkily shakes her head. “And Sheri, we are youronlyemployees.”
“And didn’t I get lucky to hire two such hard-working people?” Sheri teases, playfully bumping arms with Savannah as she moves around her to fetch a bowl. As she grabs the box of instant oatmeal, she tells me, “Your grandfather is in no rush to get out of bed this morning. He was restless through the night, so I’m bringing breakfast up to him. Can you prepare some fruit?”
I set down my coffee, grab a knife, and dice some strawberries. There are a lot of mornings where Popeye requires a slower start to the day, but he just needs his rest. Later, he’ll be meandering around the house with full energy in search of DIY tasks that need doing. Busy hands equal a busy mind, and the more mentally active Popeye is, the slower the psychological deterioration. Sheri no longer wrestles screwdrivers out of his hands.
“How is Wesley, Sheri?” Savannah asks softly as she sits at the dining table with her jelly-smothered toast. “My parents send their love. They miss him at church.”
Popeye’s diagnosis isn’t public knowledge, but it is no secret that he hasn’t been well these past few years. In the weeks that I’ve been here, he has only managed to attend Sunday service once. Now that he knowshe has a disease, he has become much too self-conscious of his every shaky movement to even consider leaving the ranch and engaging with people. It’s why I hug him extra tight every night before bed and tell him, “You’re the still the same Popeye to me.”
“That’s sweet of them,” Sheri says as she pops the oatmeal into the microwave. “He just hasn’t been up for church recently, but I’m sure we’ll be back soon.”
