“No, no, no,” Blake says, shaking his head. “Trust me, the problem isn’t you. The problem is my mom being bitter.”
“Bitter?” I raise an eyebrow, intrigued. “About what?”
Blake momentarily freezes, appearing almost regretful. He swallows and bows his head, returning to his food. “Ah, nothing. Just forget it. We can finish up here and I’ll take you home.”
Silenced, I say nothing more. This is totally in the running for the most uncomfortable Sunday lunch ever.
I keep my head down and pick at my food, no longer hungry. Blake doesn’t say anything else, either. He sighs every once in a while over the sound of the music that’s still playing. Somehow, the buzz of chart hits doesn’t quite fit the mood at this table. Whatisgoing on?
“Well,” I try. “Are you at least going to tell me about your music?”
The strain in Blake’s features fades, replaced instead by a warm shyness. “Another time. I promise,” he says.
So I don’t push it; he doesn’t seem to be in such a friendly mood anymore.
We return to eating in silence. There’s a lot of food still leftover by the time we’ve cleared our plates.
“Bailey can get it,” Blake finally says, his voice lighter than before. He gathers up the empty plates, dumps them through in the kitchen, then grabs the dish of beef. “C’mon.”
We’re back to acting casual again, as though there’s not just been this huge tension?
“Bails!” Blake yells.
He sits down on the edge of the decking, dish on his lap. I join him, but with a gap between us this time, and try to keep the confusion from showing on my face. There’s definitely no leg brushing this time.
Bailey bounds across the yard toward us, tongue lolling as the smell of freshly cooked meat in the air catches his attention. This time he slides to a stop in front of Blake, obediently sitting and awaiting a command. Again, his long tongue hangs from his mouth. It kind of looks like Bailey is smiling – and I want to smile too.
“Paw,” Blake instructs. He holds out his hand and shakes the paw Bailey holds up. “Other paw. Lie down. Good boy.” He flicks a slice of beef into the air and Bailey snatches it between his teeth, slobbering all over the grass. Blake catches my eye. “Your turn?”
Well, how can I possibly say no?
“Bailey,” I say in a high-pitched voice that’s nothing like my own. I repeat the same instructions Blake gave him and a real smile spreads across my face as Bailey sits, lies down, and shakes my hand. Then I toss him another slice of meat.
Blake seizes this safe opportunity. “Things got a little heated back inside. I—”
His words die in his mouth when there’s a loud rumble from behind us. LeAnne bangs hard against the kitchen window, enraged. “I was going to make sandwiches with that tomorrow! You think that wretched dog deserves prime cut meat?”
“Oh please,” Blake growls under his breath. “Fuck off.” But, of course, it isn’t quite quiet enough.
LeAnne storms to the doors and flings them open. Her hands are on her hips, her stance challenging. “Repeat that,” she orders. “Right now.”
Blake looks at her over his shoulder. “Nothing,” he says in defeat. I can see how badly hedoeswant to repeat exactly what he said, but he must know better than to insult his mom that much.
“That’s what I thought,” LeAnne says. She bangs the doors shut behind her as she disappears, but I become hyperaware that she may still be watching us from the windows again.
I scoot alittlebit further away from Blake.
“I’ll drive you home now – it’s best that you don’t see me losing it with her,” he says quietly. He dumps the dish of food on the grass and gives Bailey free rein to dive in, then fishes out the keys to his truck as he stands. “Because she’s really, really pushing it today.”
14
There’s a definite tension in the air during the drive back to the Harding Estate, but for once that tension isn’t palpitating between Blake and me. No, it’s only Blake who is on edge.
The entire, uneventful drive across Fairview, his teeth have been clenched and his attention focused fully on the road ahead, barely blinking. Of course, music plays from the speakers, but the volume is low, and he doesn’t hum along like he usually does. It’s clear his anger is fueled by the peculiar interactions with his mom back at his house, though I’m nowhere near putting my finger on what exactly is wrong. Is he angry at his mom for her questions over dinner? Do they simply not get along? There was no way I’d anticipated that level of strain in their relationship.
When we pull up outside the huge Harding gate, I know I have approximately five seconds to say something other than goodbye. So, I sit forward and ask, “Are you okay?”
The truck comes to a stop and Blake kills the engine, his movements lethargic. “Yeah.” He plays with the keys dangling from the ignition. “I just know I have to go back and face her.”
