I hit End and send a quick text to Blake, who won’t get it until he’s off the plane.
If you need me, call Braeden’s phone. Love you. xL
I power down my phone and shove it to the bottom of my sock drawer. Out of sight, out of mind.
Well, at least out of sight.
Thirteen
Blake
It’s almost noon when I pull my brother’s charcoal-gray Mustang GT into the driveway of my parents’ house. The Mexican-style architecture of the old house doesn’t make me think of family holidays or summers spent skateboarding in the street. It all brings me back to the night I was taken to military school.
I’ve been back to visit a half dozen times since I left the Corps, but no matter how many times I come back, the driveway holds a memory I can’t seem to shake.
I throw the car in park and push up and out, my feet hitting the pavement almost on the exact spot where I broke my dad’s nose. It’s been years, and I still search for the bloodstain that faded a long time ago.
With a deep breath of the briny ocean air, I square my shoulders and push back the nervousness that started building the second my plane flew out of Las Vegas airspace. It’s as if the further away I got from Layla, from my home, the more my anxiety built.
My hand absently pats my phone in my pocket, reminding me that Layla is a phone call away. It’s only a few hours before I have to head back to the airport. Surely I can endure anything for a few hours.
I ring the bell and shove both hands in my pockets.
A few clicks of the locks and the door swings open so quickly that a small gust blows the loose strands of my mom’s light brown hair. “Blake.” Her eyes are wide and her lips parted, as if she’s breathing through the emotion to avoid letting it overtake her.
Not showing emotion. No hugs. Nice to see nothing has changed.
“Hey, Mom.” I take in her jeans and pale green collared shirt. Even when I was a kid, she only wore jeans on the weekends. I never thought about it much, but now I have to wonder if that was her choice or The General’s demand.
“Come in.” She steps back to allow me inside, and it’s as if I’m stepping back in time. Everything looks the same from the pale yellow wall color to the antique furniture. Even the lulling tick of the grandfather clock that my dad brought home from a garage sale still sounds through the otherwise silent house.
I move past my mom to the living room with the hope that she’ll make this quick so I can get back to my life in Vegas. “I don’t have a lot of time. My plane leaves at five.”
She pushes back a wisp of hair that’s fallen down from where the rest is wrapped at the back of her head. “Oh, so soon?”
I sit on the couch, and she takes one of the chairs across from me.
“Yeah, Mom, Layla’s about to have a baby. I need to stay close. I’m sure you can understand that.” Fuck, I can already feel the burn of anger stir in my chest and the sound of my father’s voice in my own.
“Of course.” She drops her chin and fumbles with a kitchen towel she has wadded in her hands. “I’d love to meet her someday.”
Good, at least we’re getting right to the point.
“I’d like that too, Mom, but Layla’s had it rough. When Dad and I get in the same room together, shit goes south quickly. Layla and Axelle can’t be around that. I won’t allow it.”
“Axelle is your adopted daughter, right?”
“Layla’s daughter, and yes, now my daughter too.” Just saying their names makes my chest feel warm.
She shifts in her chair keeping her back straight and her knees together, the picture of pristine discomfort. “Braeden says Axelle is very smart.”
“She is. And she’s strong, just like her mom.” And nothing like you. My jaw aches as I bite down hard against blurting something hurtful.
“And you,” she whispers.
“What?”
She lifts her gaze to meet mine. “She’s strong like you.”
I shrug, not comfortable taking any kind of compliment from my mom.
“Are you still playing?” She doesn’t whisper as if it’s a dirty little secret as she used to, but her eyes dart toward the bedrooms out of habit.
“Every day. I’ve even been working with Axelle, teaching her the basics. She’s picking up the guitar like a champ.” I shouldn’t be angry anymore, but every word fires from my lips like a bullet aimed straight for her heart. I want her to know that I’m encouraging my kid toward music rather than treating her interest in it like a fucking disease.
She dips her forehead and nods. “That’s great.”
Shame twists in my gut, and the impulse to get on with it is overwhelming. “So you sent Brae to get me to come home. You got me here, now what?”
Her eyes slide to the hallway that leads to three bedrooms, including hers, before she turns back to me. “Would you like something to drink? Or eat?” She stands. “I could make you a sandwich.”