Becoming Mila by Estelle Maskame
8
The church Sheri and Popeye attend is on Fairview Boulevard. It’s a large, red-bricked building with white awnings and lots of immaculate, bright flower baskets. It triggers a memory from five years ago. I’ve been here before. It’s the church where my grandma’s funeral was held. I was only eleven, but I remember when my parents and I flew home to Fairview to attend the service. Popeye restlessly paced the fields of the ranch back then, distraught, while Dad and Sheri had to put their own grief to one side and take care of the funeral arrangements. And then we all gathered here, in this church, and said goodbye to the grandmother I’d barely seen since we left for LA. That’s why it became important to me to keep in touch with Popeye a lot more once I got a little older. I didn’t want to forget about him too, because I’d already learned how distance does that to people.
This morning’s service doesn’t start for another fifteen minutes, but the parking lot is already pretty full, and people are chatting among themselves at the church doors, basking in the sunshine before heading inside.
I’ve only just slid out of Sheri’s van when someone taps me on the shoulder. I spin around and Savannah greets me with a wide smile.
“I didn’t know you were going to be here this morning!” she says cheerfully. “I should have guessed, though. I see your aunt and grandpa every week. Hi, neighbors!” She twists around me to give them a friendly wave, and both Sheri and Popeye return the favor.
Savannah focuses back on me, looping her arm through mine. “Do you want to sit with us?”
I glance at Sheri, checking for permission, and she nods. “Sure,” I tell Savannah, glad of her easy friendship.
We head for the church doors and meet up with her parents and Myles, and I stick with Savannah and her brother while Sheri and Popeye chat with Patsy and her husband.
I follow behind Savannah as us Hardings and Bennetts head inside the church. The space is lined with rows and rows of pews and there’s a raised wooden platform at the front with a podium, and everyone is speaking in chirpy tones while they wait for the service to begin.
It doesn’t take long for the pews to fill up and I end up squished in between Savannah and Myles. Sheri is at the end of the row, with Popeye sitting by her side.
“So, this is what you guys do around here?” I whisper, in fear of raising my voice too loud. “Tailgate parties, then church in the morning?”
Myles wiggles his thick eyebrows at me, a dazzling grin taking up too much of his face. “Yeah, your life back in LA must seem pretty uninspiring in comparison. Sorry.”
I grin back at him and roll my eyes just as the chorus of voices dies out all at once. When I glance up at the stage, the preacher, or minister, or priest – or whatever the heck they call that guy – has taken up his role in front of the podium, adjusting the mic. And then what follows is the most mentally draining hour of my life where I have no idea what is going on.
Half the words the preacher says I’ve never even heard of and the other words I do understand, I can’t comprehend the context in which he uses them. Bible verses are quoted, prayers are said, hymns are sung (which I lip-sync to). Everyone seems to be deeply invested in the proceedings and I appear to be the only one whose gaze continuously roams the church, staring at a clock on the wall, at the sunlight streaming in through a decorative window, at the wooden paneling on the ceiling.
And then, just as the service is showing signs of wrapping up, my eyes land on something I really didn’t expect to see.
Blake.
I haven’t spotted him until now, mostly because there’s been some tall guy’s head in my line of sight all this time, but said tall guy has shifted over slightly in the pew, and now I can see it as clear as day – Blake’s freaking head.
He’s on the other side of the aisle and toward the front, diagonal from where I’m sitting. I can tell he’s slouched back in the pew, with his head tilted to one side and his face resting flat against the palm of his hand. I can’t tell who he’s with – there’s women on either side of him. His mom? Grandma? Either way, it’s a relief to see there’s one other person here who seems as bored as I am.
The service ends and noise reverberates around the auditorium as voices rise and everyone stands, stretching their muscles and rubbing their lower backs. These wooden pews aren’t all that comfortable, and I can feel a knot forming between my shoulder blades. Amid the commotion of bodies weaving around, I lose sight of Blake, though I don’t know why I’m even bothering to look for him.
The throng of churchgoers – which includes me now, I guess – spills out of the front doors and into the sizzling hot air outside. I expect everyone to hop in their cars and head straight home, but I discover there is one thing even more dull in this life than a Sunday service – and that’s the minglingand chit-chat that comes afterward.
An older gentleman with silver-like hair approaches us, shaking Popeye’s hand and discussing what a wonderful sermon the preacher just gave. I stand awkwardly behind Popeye, trying not to draw attention to myself, while Sheri is twenty feet away talking with some women that include Patsy Bennett. I hear her laugh, which is nice.
“And who’s this, Wesley?” the man asks, flashing me a smile.
Popeye looks sideways over his shoulder at me and I notice his movements seem a bit jerky this morning. “This is my granddaughter. Mila,” he says proudly. “She’s spending some time at the ranch with us over the summer.”
“How wonderful!”
I return the stranger’s smile and am saved by the sound of Sheri’s voice calling my name.
“Mila,” she beckons. “Come over here, please.”
I leave Popeye behind and weave through the congregation of people, but it’s only as I draw nearer and it’s too late to pretend I didn’t hear her call my name that I realize why she’s called me over. The group she was talking to a second ago is gone now, replaced instead by a different woman who stands with Blake by her side.
I feel myself tense up. He’s wearing black slacks and a plain white shirt, long-sleeved and buttoned tight around his chest. His hair isn’t as wild as it was last night. It seems to actually have gel in it to tame the unruliness, so that it looks tousled on purpose rather than as if he’d just rolled out of bed.
“Mila, this is . . . LeAnne Avery,” Sheri says politely, gesturing to the woman by Blake’s side, but her words don’t flow as easily and warmly as they usually do. It’s as though she’s struggling to be genuine. “I was just thanking her again for calling me last night, otherwise who knows how long you’d have been stuck outside.”
So, this is Blake’s mom. Duh. She’s tall and slim, dressed smartly in a royal blue pencil skirt and a cream, ruffled blouse. I can see where Blake gets his features from. LeAnne Avery has brunette hair pin-straight against her shoulders and eyebrows so dark and prominent I wonder if they can possibly be natural. She smiles at me, and I see them – the dimples in her cheeks, exactly like Blake’s.
“Hi, Mila,” she says, clasping her hands together in front of her. She looks at me inquisitively for several long seconds while the corners of her mouth twitch as if she’s battling to keep that smile in place. “I’m glad you got home safe.”
“Hi. Thank you so much,” I force out, feeling Blake’s eyes locked on me.
“And how have you been doing, Wes?” LeAnne asks as Popeye approaches. I notice her accent isn’t as pronounced as Blake’s, or anyone’s for that matter. Less of a twang, more neutral. She gets Popeye wrapped up in a conversation, and Sheri joins in.
Which leaves Blake and me standing around like two spare parts.
“So, you go to church,” I say flatly.
“Clearly.”
He nods to the side, gesturing to the edge of the parking lot by a row of shrubs, then walks off in that direction. What the hell? I steal a peek at Popeye, LeAnne and Sheri. None of them are paying attention to us, so I reluctantly drag my feet to catch up with Blake.
“So why are you here?” he asks.
“Because my aunt and my grandpa wanted me to be. So, I guess I’ll be here every week, too.”
Blake narrows his eyes as though he’s trying to read me, but I give nothing away, keeping my expression calm and neutral. “How long are you sticking around in Fairview for, anyway?”
“For as long as I have to.”
“For as long as you have to?” he repeats, raising a suspicious eyebrow. “That doesn’t sound like someone who’s here because they want to stay with family.”
Crap. I’m caught off guard by his observation and I rack my brain for a response that will clear up my mistake. But the longer I’m frozen in silence, the more Blake realizes he’s hit the nail on the head.
“Anyway,” he says, clearing his throat and saving me from having to speak, “I’m sorry about last night.”
“You’re . . . I’m sorry – what?” Did he just apologize without any kind of prompt?
“I’m sorry about last night,” he says again.
“Why?”
“Because you were right. I was being a jerk.” He shrugs casually as though he doesn’t want to make this a big deal, like he’s sheepish about having to own up to his actions. “I knew I wasn’t doing you any favors, and I’m sorry if I got you in hot water with your dad or anything.”
“I wish you could tell that to Ruben,” I say under my breath. I idly tug at the ends of my hair, absorbing Blake’s sincere apology, and feel a bit . . . Conflicted? He riled me up the entire evening last night, but now he seems almost – nice. Which is really, really confusing considering I didn’t want to see his face ever again. But he did come to my aid last night, after all . . . “Thanks for your help with the gate.”
“Blake!” LeAnne calls, waving her son back over and breaking the moment of awkward silence between us.
Blake holds up two fingers to her, asking for two more minutes, then steps closer to me. “Give me your phone,” he says.
“Absolutely not!” I protest indignantly. Does he think I’m that stupid after what happened last night? Protectively, I increase the distance between us again. “No one is ever touching my phone again.”
“Okay, then here’s mine.” He digs his phone out from his pocket and hands it over. When I don’t immediately take it from him, he reaches for my hand and forces his phone into my palm. His fingertips are warm as they brush against my skin and I hate the unauthorized little jump my heart takes. “Add your number.”
I eyeball his phone in my hand with uncertainty. “And why would I do that?”
“Didn’t last night teach you anything? You need to save people’s numbers so that you can call them in an emergency.”
“No offense, but you’re probably the last person I would ever call in an emergency,” I remark, but Blake laughs as though we are merely bantering with each other.
“Just do it, Mila,” he instructs, like he honestly expects me to do what he says.
It’s not like I’m giving out Dad’s private number or anything, but nonetheless I still hear Ruben’s voice in my head, warning bells ringing. I have to be careful about whose hands my number gets into, because although it’s not the end of the world if it ever got leaked online, I would be endlessly harassed by Dad’s fans and the media trying to get gossip and information. And that is a headache I really don’t want to deal with.
“Please don’t pass it on to anyone,” I say, fixing him with a threatening look as I add my number to his contact list.I hand him his phone back. “It’s the least you owe me.”
“Your precious digits are safe with me,” he says somewhat mockingly, hand on his heart. He checks out my number on his phone, then lifts his head and stares at me with an expectant gaze at the same time as my phone begins to vibrate. Before I can even attempt to reach for it, Blake hangs up. “There, now you have my number too. Just in case you get bored of hanging around with Savannah.” He winks and then strolls back across the parking lot to meet his mom. She puts her hand on his shoulder and guides him over to speak with some of the other churchgoers.
I shake my head to wipe away the hint of a smile and then make my own way back to the crowd. I haven’t seen Savannah and her family since everyone congregated outside, so I figure they’ve made a quick getaway. Luckily for me, Popeye and Sheri have decided to finally leave too. I find them back at the van.
“What were you and Blake talking about?” Sheri asks, a slight hesitation in her voice.
“Just stuff,” I say, reaching for the door.
“Mayor Avery is so gracious, isn’t she? Even now . . .” Popeye comments, and I jolt to a standstill.
“Excuse me? Mayor Avery?”
“That friend of yours,” Popeye grins, motioning over my shoulder. “His mother is the mayor.”
I stretch up on my tiptoes to peer at Sheri over the roof of the van. “Blake’s mom is the Mayor of Fairview?”
“Oh, honey, no,” Sheri says with an amused chuckle. “The Mayor of Nashville.”
Holy crap! Blake’s mom is the freaking Mayor of Nashville?That’s huge.
I search the crowd for Blake. He’s still with his mom and they’re talking with the preacher now, though Blake seems disinterested. His mom, however, nods enthusiastically and wears an elegant smile that only a politician could pull off so smoothly. I register it all, the way she holds her head high and her careful, calculated movements. It seems kind of obvious now that there’s a certain authority to her. She’s part of the Nashville government, a leader. She has won a freaking election. Of course she carries herself with such grace and self-assurance.
Blake catches my stare. He taps his pocket where his phone is and mouths, “Call me.”
Okay, mayor’s son,I think, rolling my eyes.
Then I instantly feel guilty for thinking of him as the mayor’s son, rather than as Blake Avery. I hate being known as Everett Harding’s daughter instead of Mila Harding. So yeah, I’m a total hypocrite.
I glance back at him, but he has already looked away, and is now busy shaking the preacher’s hand. I watch him for a moment, his courteous body language matching his mom’s, and I realize something.
I think Blake Avery might be the only person around here who understands what it feels like to live in someone else’s shadow.