Becoming Mila by Estelle Maskame
21
That evening, I really feel like I can’t stay at the ranch any longer. It’s unbearable being alone in my room with a million different worries building up around me, and every time I go downstairs to fetch a drink, I can’t even glance at Popeye without my chest heaving. Sheri is awfully muted, too.
I need fresh air, so I slip on my Nikes, pull a cap over my hair, then head out of the gate. I turn right and stride down the country road in the heat, southbound in the direction of downtown Fairview. It’s an odd feeling, not quite knowing if you want to be alone or are desperate for someone to talk to. Not a single car passes me until thirty minutes later when I’m trudging through the overgrowth at the side of the main road. The people who do drive by all give me a friendly wave, but I don’t return the gesture. I am not in the mood for small-town pleasantries.
Further down the road, it dawns on me that I don’t want to be alone. I kind of want my mom. I want her to hop on the first flight to Nashville to come here, right now, and hug me. Her reassurances would mean the world, even though I don’t know where my emotions sit in regard to her part in all of this. The way LeAnne phrased it, it seems like Mom knew Dad already had a fiancée when she started seeing him, which makes her entangled in the betrayal . . . Sure, Dad may have told LeAnne the truth eventually, but why did Mom continue seeing him until then? It just seems so massively . . . disrespectful. And if Dad doesn’t know about Popeye, then neither does she.
I pause beneath a tree to catch some shade from the relentless sun, and then pull out my phone. With an exhausted sigh, I call a number – that of the first person I think of – and wait patiently as the dial tone echoes across the line.
“Mila, hey,” comes an answer, just before the call is about to go to voicemail.
“Blake,” I stutter. “Uh-huh. Hi.”
“Are you okay?” he asks, concern evident in his voice.
“Yeah, I’m just . . . I needed to get out of the house,” I say, rubbing at my eyes and sinking back against the tree. I feel so . . . Tired. Tired of all these secrets. “Are you home?”
“Sure am.”
I pause for a beat. “Your mom?”
“In the city,” answers Blake. “Are you coming over? Do you want me to pick you up?”
“I’m walking. Can you text me your location? I don’t really know where I am.”
“Damn. Okay.” Blake laughs. “Don’t get lost.”
I hang up and stare at my screen, waiting for Blake’s message to arrive. A few seconds later and there’s a text containing his live location. I pull up the directions, see that it’s only two miles from here, and get back on the move.
It’s not that late; just after six thirty. It’s also the first time I’ve really taken the time to look at Fairview. I’ve explored a bit of the downtown area with Savannah and Tori, and I’ve seen all these quiet streets when driving through, but I’ve never just walked. It’s so peaceful and the air feels fresh, so much cleaner here than back home. It also feels crazy to walk for thirty minutes without ever brushing shoulders with another person. Here in Fairview, with its quiet streets and mass of clear space, there is no pressure.
I cross over Fairview Boulevard, the only street around here that shows signs of civilization, with traffic and some pedestrians, and I continue south into residential neighborhoods. My phone guides me all the way to Blake’s home. The stars and stripes above the porch blows in the breeze and his truck looks glossy and freshly waxed under the dusk sun. Although Blake already told me his mom is in Nashville, it’s still a relief to see that her Tesla is gone. If she were here, I think I would back away right now.
Putting my phone away, I head around the side of the house and as soon as I brush my hand against the gate, the yelps of an excited Bailey fill the air. He catapults across the lawn and tangles himself around my legs the second I step foot in the yard, so pleased to see another human being that he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself.
“You made it,” says Blake.
I glance up from ruffling Bailey’s golden fur and a smile spreads over my face at the sight of Blake walking over. It could be because I’m happy to see him again, but it could also be because he’s wearing gray sweatpants . . . Only sweatpants.
Blake is shirtless. It’s not the first time I’ve seen his body – I could barely get a word out that day at the Bennetts’ pool – but right now, as he strolls toward me in the hazy glow of the sunset, he looks even more perfectly sculpted. His tanned, toned skin shimmers with trickles of sweat and there’s a very prominent V-line that disappears under the hem of his boxers. A silver chain around his neck catches the sunlight as he walks, and he pushes his damp hair back out of his eyes.
“What have you been . . . doing?” I manage to force out.
“Oh, just some bar pull-ups in between jamming,” he says with a laugh, then changes direction toward the house instead. “I’ll grab a shirt. Back in a sec.”
“No!” I blurt, then instantly want to die. Blake stops and looks back at me with a raised eyebrow, his eyes flashing and a smirk forming. “I can’t believe I just said that.”
Blake chuckles and swaggers his chest a little at me, then continues into the house.
“Oh, Bailey . . .” I mumble, shaking my head at myself, mortified. Bailey gazes up at me with shining eyes, his head tilted fully to the side. “When will I ever act coolin front of him?”
With Bailey on my heels, I cross the yard to Blake’s cabin. The glass doors are propped open wide and there’s music playing at a muted volume from a speaker beneath the TV. Some weighted plates are scattered on the ground next to the gym equipment, not yet packed away. On the couch, Blake’s Gibson Hummingbird sits surrounded by notebooks with scrawled handwriting covering the paper. Despite my curiosity, I refrain from being intrusive and tear my eyes away from his words.
“Let me move that,” Blake says, appearing behind me. He’s wearing a baby blue T-shirt now that matches surprisingly well with his dark hair and eyes, and I smell the fresh spritz of deodorant.
Blake gathers up his notebooks at speed and stuffs them away into the drawer of a side table, then picks up his guitar and gestures for me to take its place on the couch instead. I do.
“Don’t put it away,” I say, when he moves to put his guitar back in its case.
Blake pauses, his guitar hovering mid-air. “No?”
“I might need you to play for me,” I admit, then hunch forward over my knees and press my hands to my face. Groaning, I tell him, “I’m having a rough day.”
I sense Blake rest the guitar into its upright stand, then head back around the couch to sit down next to me. His knee bumps mine, accidentally for once, and he presses a comforting hand to my back. “What’s up, Mila?”
“Popeye . . .”
“Popeye?”
“My grandpa,” I say, dropping my hands from my face. I peer at Blake out of the corner of my eye and feel at ease seeing his guitar resting on its stand. Maybe he will play some music for me so that I can focus on anything but the Harding family secrets. “Something is wrong with him.”
“Oh.” Blake inhales sharply. “I’m sorry.”
My eyes are fixed straight ahead, locked on nothing in particular, my shoulders swaying. It makes me feel dizzy, knowing that one day Popeye won’t be around anymore and that I missed out on so many memories with him that I would have had if circumstances had been different. I know Popeye is aging, that much is guaranteed, but what if something really is seriously wrong? Something that’ll take him from us sooner?
I manage to gather my thoughts enough to speak. “He seems okay for now, but it sounds like they’re trying to figure out what the problem is. He doesn’t want my dad to know. My dad, who doesn’t even visit . . . Maybe if he did, he would notice for himself.”
Blake rubs soft circles on my back with his palm. “You seem pretty angry at your dad,” he says gently.
“Of course I’m angry!” I snap, tearing my eyes away from the wall and setting them on Blake. Exasperated, I fling my hands up in the air, daring the world to throw me one more curveball. “Dad ships me over here for the summer and sets secret orders for me to essentially be held captive at the ranch. And then I find out there’s something wrong with my grandpa and my dad is off living his glamorous life, totally oblivious, because he doesn’t ever bother to go call. Oh, and how could I forget – I find out he was once engaged to your mom! But he cheated on her! With my mom!”
Blake winces. “Uh, yeah. Not exactly the greatest guy on earth, is he?” he says awkwardly, then reaches for my hand. He intertwines our fingers. “Have you spoken to him about any of this?”
“What is there to say? You may have the rest of the world fooled into thinking you’re some charming, family-focused man, but you’re really just a selfish phony who cares about no one but yourself?”
Blake pulls a face. “Damn. That’s harsh.” He smiles softly at me. “Even though I have to agree.”
I sink my head forward again and rub my temple, feeling the stress pulsing from me. “I don’t really . . . I mean, he’s my dad. I love him. Of course I do.” I straighten up and look at mine and Blake’s interlocked hands. All of the anger pent up inside of me deflates a little, leaving my shoulders to slump in defeat. “I just don’t think I know who he is anymore.”
“Do you want to call him?” Blake asks. “Maybe he’ll have some answers for you.”
“Well, yeah. I just keep putting it off because . . .”
I take a deep breath. I have never – not once – in my entire life confronted my father about anything. We have never really fought all that much besides petty disagreements where I slam a door in his face for not letting me stay out later than curfew or something equally as trivial. This though? This is huge. This is serious. It could ruin both our worlds, and it’s the kind of drama Dad really doesn’t love. Something in my gut tells me that if I go through with this, if I question Dad about all of these secrets I’ve discovered, then things might change between us. And it might be a change that I don’t have the ability to fix again.
“I guess I don’t want a fight,” I finally finish, my frown deepening. “I’ve gotten used to staying quiet unless told otherwise.”
“You could call him now when you aren’t alone. It might help if I’m here.” Blake’s tone rises to end on a hopeful note. “And if it doesn’t go well, then I’ll sing to you all night until you’re smiling again.”
His goofy words are enough for me to smile right then and there.
“Okay,” I say, then nod several times in affirmation. “Okay.”
“I’ll be right outside. If you need me, just shoot me a hand signal, all right?” Blake says, letting go of my hand and standing up. Then he does the most surprising thing – he clasps my face in both hands and lowers his head to mine, gazing into my eyes with supportive reassurance. “It’ll be cool. Stand firm, say what you need to say, and if you feel like you’re going to cry, do some math in your head as a distraction technique.” He smiles. “Or just – you know – imagine me naked.”
“Blake!” I gasp, but the sound of his name has barely filled the air before he pecks his lips against mine. Then his smile widens and that knot in my stomach becomes undone.
“C’mon, Bails,” he instructs.
With Bailey curiously following, Blake heads out of the cabin. He fetches a rubber ball from inside a pot plant and erratically squeezes it, driving Bailey wild. While the two of them mess around, I pull out my phone.
Dad’s name is quite far down in my list of recent contacts. Most of my calls have been to Mom and my friends, but with the occasional call from Ruben to check in on “life at the farm”. It makes me nervous to pull up Dad’s number now. I should know better than to contact him unsolicited and without warning.
But he should know better than to keep secrets from his daughter.
I dial the number before I can change my mind, then instantly begin pacing the length of the cabin, dodging weighted plates, and nearly tripping over Bailey’s water bowl. It feels like my lower lip is nearly bitten to shreds by the time the call is answered.
“Mila, honey!” Ruben’s artificially sweet voice shrills across the line. His pleasure to hear from me is so forced, so fake, that it makes me hate him a thousand times more than I already did.
“I need to talk to my dad,” I state clearly, calmly. “Give him his phone.”
“Oh, Mila, not right now. Everett is busy. He’s just about to do a live interview with –”
“Put – my dad – on – the phone,” I demand, vehemently spitting each word.
“Wow. Where did this attitude come from?” Ruben asks loftily, chuckling to himself. “Doesn’t sound like you’ve learned much about that famous southern hospitality!”
“I need to talk to my dad,” I repeat, calm again before my killer punch. “And that means right now, or I’ll let your favorite gossip columnists know that Everett Harding has locked his daughter away for the summer in case she embarrasses him.”
Ruben quits laughing. He is momentarily silenced, perhaps in shock that I seem to have suddenly grown a backbone. “Mila . . . C’mon now . . .” he says warily in an attempt to de-escalate my rage. “Let’s not make threats—”
“NOW, RUBEN!”
“Keep your hair on,” Ruben huffs. “I’ll see what I can do.”
I hear him cussing under his breath, and then there’s the muffled sound of Dad’s phone being passed around. A few moments where I think I can hear hushed voices speaking fast, and then the call is picked up again. It’s not Ruben anymore.
“Mila,” Dad says. There is no warmth in his clipped tone. “This is really not a good time. What are you doing making wild threats to Ruben?”
“Hi, Dad,” I reply, as falsely cheerful as Ruben. Then, no preamble, I tell him, “I – know – everything.”
Silence again. I can hear a lot of commotion in the background, most likely Dad and Ruben are backstage of some TV talk show, but then a door clicks shut, and the noise disappears. I think Dad is alone now.
“You know what, Mila?” he prompts, his voice a steely calm.
“I know it was your decision to lock me up on the ranch,” I say, still pacing the cabin. I freeze on the spot for a second and stare outside into the yard where Blake is wrestling the ball out of Bailey’s mouth, but his eyes are on me, watching. In an even harder, colder voice, I add, “And I know you cheated on LeAnne Avery with Mom.”
The weight crushing down on my chest lifts. It feels like such a relief to finally face up to Dad, even though I know this conversation isn’t over yet. The old Mila knows she should be afraid of Dad’s reaction, but the Mila I’m becoming? She’s different. She needs more than to be a prop in Everett Harding’s life, picked up and put down in her place by Ruben. She needs her own life.
Dad is quiet for an awfully long time. All I hear across the line is his shallow breathing, and I imagine him pacing back and forth the same way I have been, his mind racing to calculate the most effective method of damage-control. At last, he heavily exhales and says, “I can’t do this right now, Mila. Really. I’m working.”
“Sorry, I forgot – everything is about work, right?” I sneer. “You’d rather get rid of your daughter than risk her daring to do anything that embarrasses you.” I pause, gathering my strength. “And you had an affair! Does it make you nervous that LeAnne Avery never signed that non-disclosure agreement? Are you worried one day she’ll tell the world that you’re a cheater? Now that would be embarrassing.”
My name sticks in Dad’s throat, like his airways are tightening. “Mila,” he rasps.
“Dad,” I mimic.
“Why are you doing this right now? What exactly do you want?” he questions in a small voice, a trace of panic lacing his words. “Do you want to come home? Is that it? I’ll get Ruben to book you a flight first thing tomorrow.”
“No. You can tell Ruben not to book me a flight until the day before school starts, because maybe I don’t want to come home,” I say. “At least the people here are real. Oh, by the way, there’s something wrong with Popeye’s health, but you would know that already if you actually paid attention to your family.”
“What?” he whispers.
A deranged laugh escapes me and bounces around the cabin, and Blake shoots me a wary look. “Dad, please don’tbother acting like you care now. You should call him more! You should visit! Not because there might be something wrong with him, but because you love him. He’s your father, remember?”
“Mila, you should come home,” Dad mumbles, uneasy. For once, he doesn’t have the upper hand. I am the one with all the power right now, because I know. And Dad seems – and I can hardly blame him – afraid of what I may do with all of this newly discovered information. “You shouldn’t be out there in Fairview.”
“Maybe before you shipped me out here,” I hiss, “you should have thought more carefully about which of your lies I’d uncover.”
And then, without another word, I do something I have never done before – I hang up on my father. I want the final say. There are no excuses for what he’s done, and I don’t want to hear him attempt to conjure up some. All I want is for him to know that I’m not in the dark anymore. I’m old enough now to know these secrets – they are about my family, my past, the future of the people I love – and I don’t want to be lied to. It’s as simple as that.
Blake notices me end the call, and jogs over to join me inside the cabin while Bailey remains scampering outside. “No tears. That’s good. How did it go?”
I release a long, deep breath that I’ve been holding on to and collapse onto the couch, letting my phone slip through my fingers to land on the floor.Did I seriously just talk to Dad in such an assertive, confrontational way? Adrenaline is pumping so fast through my veins that I feel lightheaded.
“He’s unsettled. I threatened I’d talk to the press.” I sit up and widen my eyes at Blake, wishing to reassure him that I’m not the kind of person who would betray my family in such a way. “But, honestly, I would never, ever speak to anyone about him. Dad should know that I wouldn’t do that, no matter what.”
“Still. You did it, Mila,” Blake says with a growing smile as he sits down next to me. “You spoke to him on your terms. Not so behind the scenes anymore, are you?”
Without thinking, I rest my head on his arm and sigh, full of mixed feelings. My body is in a tumult. A distraction wouldn’t go amiss. I look up at him from beneath my lashes. “Can you play for me now?”
Blake nods and reaches for his guitar that’s still propped up in its stand. My head falls back against his bicep as he pulls the guitar onto his lap and positions his hands. Just before his fingers touch the strings, I ask, “Do you write your own songs?”
“I try,” he admits, “but I’ve never finished anything yet. I’m not great at putting my thoughts into words. That’s why I always fail my English Lit assignments.” He gazes at his guitar in concentration again, lining up his fingers. He isn’t using a pick this time, which probably explains those callouses on the pads of his fingers. He strums once, letting the note hang in the air, then suddenly flattens his hand against the strings, silencing the noise. “Before I start, let me ask you something before I forget. My friends have managed to get tickets to your dad’s movie this weekend. They got a ticket for me. And they – uh – got one for you, too.”
I sit up and my brows knit together. “I thought you weren’t a fan.”
“I’m not, but we were gonna get food after. I don’t wanna miss out,” Blake confesses with a laugh. “I told Barney you probably don’t want to go. I don’t know. Is it crazy for you to watch your dad on screen? I’m not sure how you feel about these things, especially after that phone call . . .” He speaks faster than usual, like he’s worried he’s going to offend me and would rather get the words out as quickly as possible.
“It’s okay,” I say. “I’ll come.”
It’s not something I’ve ever done before. I watch Dad’s movies at exclusive early screenings, and never at the movie theater with everyone else. It makes me uncomfortable, honestly, to see Dad on screen, so it always seemed too weird to choose to watch his movies. But if Blake’s friends have gone to the effort to include me, someone they barely even know, then it feels rude not to take up the offer. It would even feel over-dramatic not to go, like, Mila Harding thinks she’s much too special to watch her dad’s movies with mere civilians. They probably wouldn’t think that, but still. I just want to be like everyone else. And Blake will be there, so it means spending more time with him, too.
“You’ll go?” Blake says, surprised.
“Sure. I’ve already seen it, anyway. The ending is a huge let-down, and the second movie is still the best one, but don’t let the critics hear me admit that,” I joke, managing to laugh for the first time today.
Blake grins and says, “Looks like you and I are going to catch Everett Harding’s new movie on Sunday.”
“I can’t wait,” I say with an overly dramatic roll of my eyes, and then I rest my head back against him and wrap my arms around his. On purpose this time.
Blake returns his focus to his guitar, once again positioning a hand on the fretboard and the other by the strings, and then he plays. My eyes close as I listen to the acoustic rhythm fill the cabin, drifting gently into my body, and I slowly start to feel calmer as Blake’s smooth voice dances in my ears, and I think my heart grows a little bigger.