Becoming Mila by Estelle Maskame
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.”
If Blake can coerce me into telling him the truth about my dad, then I don’t believe I’m crossing any boundaries by pressing the matter further. “Face her about what?”
“About the comments she made over lunch.” Blake frowns and props his elbow up against the window, angrily weaving his fingers into his hair. “You’d think a woman in her position wouldn’t be so damn childish.”
“Childish?” I arch a brow. Sure, LeAnne’s questions were invasive and her responses patronizing, but I assumed that was just her true personality shining through.
“Making those comments about your family,” Blake mumbles. He sounds irritated all over again, but I can’t get a good look of his face. He’s still staring out of the window, staring off across the empty fields. “It’s pathetic. All because . . .”
“What did I do?” I cut in.
“It’s not about you.” Blake snaps his head around to look at me. “It’s about your dad.”
“My dad?” I blink, because his words make zero sense to me. “But she doesn’t know him.”
Blake looks at me as though I’m naive for not understanding what the hell he’s talking about. All he says is, “Fairview is a small town, Mila.”
I still don’t get it, but there’s no time to ask Blake for a dumbed-down version of the point he’s trying to make. The buzzing of the gate rings out across the empty road and a figure comes bounding out from the inside.
“Where have you been?” Sheri yells into my face as she yanks the truck door open. “Your grandpa and I have been worried sick, Mila! You never showed up after church! I called Patsy to check if you were over at their ranch, only to be told you never even asked them for a ride!”
Before I can respond, Blake clears his throat and leans over the center console. “Miss Harding, my apologies. But I invited Mila back to my place for lunch. It’s my fault. It was spur of the moment and we lost track of time.” He gives a conciliatory smile.
Sheri doesn’t reciprocate. In fact, this is the first I’ve ever seen her so angry. There are deep lines of frustration in her brow. “You couldn’t answer your phone? You couldn’t send a simple text?” she asks me.
“I’m sorry, Sheri. I didn’t take my phone to church . . . You said phones weren’t allowed.” I’ve definitely overstepped the line by disappearing for two hours. The worry in Sheri’s eyes stirs up guilt within me, because, after all, she’s doing me a favor taking me in. And she obviously cares about me. The least I could do is make her aware of my whereabouts like we agreed. “I’m really sorry,” I apologize again.
Sheri heaves an exasperated sigh and steps back from the door, gesturing for me to get out. She waits silently as I step out of the truck, but it’s clear she has more to say. Just not here.
“Thanks for the ride,” I tell Blake, looking back into the truck at him. I have more to talk about with him too, but it’ll have to wait.
He salutes me goodbye with a small smile and the truck pulls away.
Sheri clamps a hand around my shoulder and steers me toward the gate. I can feel her worry radiating through her fingertips. We head onto the estate together as the sound of Blake’s truck dies in the distance. He’s going home to face LeAnne Avery; I’m about to face Sheri Harding. And I’m thinking that I have no idea what it means to face Sheri.
Her hand still on my shoulder, we walk slowly up the dirt track to the house, the sun blazing overhead. I keep my head down and wait for her to speak, but she stays silent. When we reach the porch, she steps in front of me and folds her arms across her chest, her expression more panic-stricken than stern.
“I really didn’t mean to scare you,” I say quickly. “I got talking with Blake after church and –”
Sheri shakes her head to silence me. “Mila, while you’re here, you’re my responsibility, and we agreed that you would tell me where you are at all times. When you didn’t return from church and the Bennetts had no clue where you were either, I thought I would have to call Everett, or that dreadful manager of his, and tell them that I had no idea where you were. I thought I would have to tell them I’ve been letting you go off by yourself.”
I lunge forward and wrap my arms around my aunt, holding her close. Sheri’s chest heaves against me and I feel her starting to relax.
“I’m sorry, Sheri,” I say thickly, feeling genuine guilt. Sheri is a few inches taller than me, but nonetheless I soothingly rub her back as though our roles of parental care have been reversed.
Sheri straightens up and runs her hand over her weary face. “Mila, sweetie, let’s take this inside.”
Together we advance up the porch steps where I spot Popeye peering through the window, one hand cupped over his brow to squint through the blinding sunlight. As we near the front door, he hurries to meet us.
“Is everything okay?” he asks, his face lined with concern. He stretches out a hand.
“Yes, Dad, everything is okay,” mumbles Sheri, slipping her hand into Popeye’s and giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Mila forgot her phone. She was at the Averys’. For lunch.”
“Oh, he won’t like that.” Popeye tenses. “Lunch with –”
“Who won’t like what?” I question.
Sheri casts a cautious look at her father.
“Who?” I repeat, harder. “Who won’t like it?”
Sheri chews her cheek again, a telltale sign that she’s mulling over whether or not to spill information to me. “Everett – your dad . . .”
“. . . does not like LeAnne Avery,” Popeye finishes.
“Why? Because of her policies or something?” I say, confused. “Why would he care about the mayor when we don’t even live here?”
“Oh Mila,” Popeye murmurs, his real eye now twinkling at me. “So blissfully unaware.”
“What?” I push.
Sheri walks to the kitchen and pulls out a chair at the dining table. I hadn’t noticed the scent of food lingering in the air until now, but a fresh pang of guilt hits me when I spot some foil-covered dishes over on the counter – presumably leftovers that would have been my share of the meal.
There’s the tap tap tap of Sheri’s fingertips against the oak table, a hum of contemplation in the air. “It really isn’t my place to bring it up,” she says after a moment. “You should talk to your parents.”
“I should talk to my parents about Mayor Avery?” I say, nonplussed. I mean, why would my parents even know who the Mayor of Nashville is?
“Yes, because your grandpa is right. Everett and Marnie would not be thrilled to discover that you’ve been visiting LeAnne’s home,” Sheri says, her mouth twitchy. Then, as an afterthought, she adds in a low voice, “Or that you seem to be getting cozy with her son.”
“Blake? No – no, there is definitely no coziness between us.”
Sheri shoots me a knowing smile. With her foot, she kicks out the chair next to her and gestures for me to join. “Dad, do you mind giving us a minute? Mila and I need to finish our conversation.”
Popeye grunts. “I may as well just be a piece of furniture these days,” he grumbles. He spins around and advances across the living room, but before he heads out onto the porch, he says, “Y’all be nice to one another.”
Sheri waits until the creaking in the floorboards fades away, then fixes me with a penetrating stare. “I’m sorry if I raised my voice at you before. I was just . . . I thought – well, if you didn’t show up, I thought Ruben would personally hop on a jet over here to throttle me with his bare hands.”
Still nervy, I snicker at the image. I don’t think Sheri and Ruben have ever met, but it says a lot about Ruben’s intense management regime that people are terrified of him just from the way he treats them over a phone line.
“It’s not funny, Mila,” Sheri says sternly, looking down her nose at me. For a second, I fear she may get cross again. “They don’t want you out of my sight.”
“They?” I repeat, holding my breath.
Sympathy flits across Sheri’s gaze. “These go-nowhere, see-no-one orders of Ruben’s? They were your father’s idea,” she says.
I exhale sharply. It feels like a punch to the gut. It’s Dad who wants me to remain locked in this ranch for the summer, with no freedom and no life of my own?
All – for – a – fucking – movie?
I know to expect these things from Ruben; it’s his job to manage Dad’s career and that means Ruben ultimately has the final say if he truly believes his decisions are for the best. It made sense until now that this was all Ruben’s idea. I could survive knowing this was just Ruben being Ruben, with his bizarre stunts and overreactive measures, but to hear that Ruben, for once, is following Dad’s orders . . . Wow, that hurts.
Dad wanted this. He wanted me here, thousands of miles away from Mom and him, locked up and silenced in the old family ranch. He chose this as a summer for me.
The feeling of being second best to Dad’s work is one I’ve always told myself I’ve imagined. I have shaken off the endless, rolling tides of resentment and jealousy and convinced myself that sometimes, like when Dad’s latest project is due for release, it’s normal for his career to be at the forefront of his mind. It’s okay that he doesn’t have time to have breakfast together in the mornings before school, it’s okay that there’s a conflict in his schedule that prevents him going out for dinner with Mom and me, because he’s busy. Once the initial rush of excitement from the movie’s release is over, he’ll turn his focus to me again . . . Except, he never quite does.
And now . . . Now I know, as clear as the blue skies outside, that it’s true.
Dad’s career does come first. Otherwise, he would never have removed me from his picture-perfect life simply because I dared to smudge the frame without even meaning to. If I were of the utmost importance to him, he would have told the production executives to shove it. He would have told Ruben to lay off me. He would have kept me at home where I belong, no matter how many more times I messed up. But now there is no denying that I’m not his priority.
Tears scorch my eyes and I blink fast to keep them at bay.
But then a kind hand squeezes my thigh.
“I didn’t want to let you know that,” Sheri says regretfully, scooting her chair in closer. “But I need you to know how serious this arrangement is. Your dad will not be happy if he finds out I’m giving you freedom, and you’re old enough to notice that we don’t have the best relationship as it is.”
I fasten my damp eyes on her. “I’m sorry,” I apologize once more. “I really do appreciate what you’re doing for me, and the last thing I want is to make life difficult for you. I promise this won’t happen again.”
“Thank you, Mila,” she says with genuine relief, and then her eyes crinkle at the corners with a knowing warmth. “Next time you’re out with a certain boy named Blake Avery, you make sure you give me the heads-up. Promise?”