Blake’s eyes darken, and I almost flinch at the shift in his mood. He’s the one who steps back first. “Exactly,” he says flatly.
“You and me” – I motion between us, shaking my head, my voice rising as I storm on – “we arenotthe same. Our lives are completely different, so back off,mayor’s kid.”
“Mayor’s kid?” some passing guy echoes, coming to an unsteady halt. He jabs an angry finger out at Blake. “You’re Mayor Avery’s kid? Tell your mom to stop calling out for gun reform. The quicker she gets bounced from that office, the quicker. . .” His slurred words trail off as the woman he’s with drags him away, mouthing hasty apologies to us.
“Thanks for that,” Blake says bitterly, turning his attention back to me. We are still standing on the sidewalk in the middle of Broadway while people weave all around us, but we both seem to have forgotten for a second that we aren’t alone.
“You’re welcome,” I say, holding my head up high. “Just take me home. Please.”
“Fine! But you deserve to be left here to take your chances with a cab.” He pulls his truck keys out of his pocket and strides off, muttering, “God. I should’ve fucking invited Lacey.”
I don’t know who Lacey is, but I wish he’d invited her instead too, because this has turned into a disaster. We are both walking too fast, fueled by our aggravation at each other. Our mouths are set in rigid lines and anyone who sees us now must surely wonder what the hell is wrong with us. We don’t fit in with the easygoing, energetic atmosphere. I’m energized all right, just in all the wrong ways.
“You can delete my number from your phone after this,” I add hotly, unable to resist the pettiness.
“Now see?That’sdramatic,” Blake says with a sneer. “Getoveryourself.”
We turn the corner off Broadway and the parking garage is in sight. It’s less busy here, and I cut in front of Blake and block him off from going any further.
“Look, Blake,” I tell him, my tone dialed down a bit, “I don’t trust you enough not to get me in trouble. So please just let this go and believe me when I say I’m here by choice, because I missed my grandpa, because I missed Fairview, and there’s nothing else to it. Okay?”
“Even though I know you’re lying?”
I swallow back the venom in my voice, and nod. “Even though you know I’m lying.”
10
“He used to play in the cricks till the sun set, then come home for supper soaked through and covered in hives,” Popeye says. “And one time when he must have been around thirteen, I had to get into Lake Van and drag him out by my bare hands. I could’a strangled that boy half the time.”
It’s late Friday morning and Popeye and I are relaxing together on the porch, drinking his favorite sweet tea while he shares stories of the past. The sun is exceptionally bright today, so I slump back in the canvas lawn chair with my legs crossed and sunglasses shading my eyes. Aunt Sheri is busy doing what Aunt Sheri does best – never quite sitting still, always keeping herself occupied with the maintenance and upkeep of the ranch. I can see her off in the distance, popping in and out of the stables.
“Did he always want to be an actor?” I ask Popeye.
“Not always,” Popeye says, a slight tightness to his words. He’s positioned in a shaded spot across the porch from me. It’s so peaceful out here, breathing in the fresh air and basking in the warmth and the silence. “We thought it was a phase. Just a teenage hobby that he’d eventually grow out of. But oh no, he pursued it straight into college. It’s beyond me that theater and drama is even a real degree.”
I steal a cautious glance at him out of the corner of my sunglasses. Diving into the world of theater and dramaisof course a real ambition to have, but Popeye seems disgruntled. “Are you disappointed?” I ask, treading carefully. “That Dad didn’t stay here to help run the ranch with you?”
Popeye looks at me, and I quickly tilt my head in the opposite direction, so I don’t have to meet his eyes. “Well, that was the dream,” he says quietly. “I took over from my father and have been proud to carry on the family tradition, so of course I hoped for Everett to do the same. I would never stand in the way of what he wants, but I just wish he had arealjob.”
“Actingisa job, Popeye.”
“Learning a script and fooling around on a film set?” Popeye scoffs, dismissively waving his hand as though he can’t bear to even think of it. “That’s an easy life. . .Sitting in a trailer getting his hair styled by three people at once – how can that count aswork? I guess I’m a bit old-fashioned. All that hoo-ha for posing in front of a camera, I just don’t get it,” he grumbles.
“Learning a script like the back of your hand is actually really hard. Dad stays up all night sometimes, he’s always walking around the house practicing his lines,” I say defensively, Popeye’s scornful tone making me feel uncomfortable. His son is a global superstar, his success recognized in every corner of the world. . . Surely Popeye can appreciate the hard work Dad put in to achieve such a status? Surely Popeye is proud of his son?
“Oh, Mila, of course I’m glad it all worked out. It would have been a real shame if his choice of career meant he wasn’t able to provide for his family. . .It was a huge gamble,” Popeye mumbles, thoughtfully rubbing his chin. “Still, even if the risk paid off, he should visit more often. Or even call. I haven’t spoken to Everett since. . . Oh, since February.”
“What?” I sit up and lift my sunglasses. “You guys haven’t spoken in months?”
“No.” Popeye’s smile is cracked with hurt. “But don’t you worry about that, Mila. I’m just glad that I get to speak to you.”
I lower my sunglasses back over my eyes and stare off at the walls in the horizon, keeping us safe in our own private bubble. A million different thoughts race through my mind. I know Dad has been busy and he hasn’t kept in touch with Popeye or Sheri as well as he maybe should have, but I didn’t realize just how distant he really is. He hasn’t called his own father sinceFebruary? Visiting isn’t always possible due to Dad’s hectic schedule, I know that, but how difficult is it to pick up the phone every once in a while? And to think I felt guilty for only calling once or twice a month. . . But now it seems I’m the one who calls the most.
“Mila!” Aunt Sheri calls. She strides through the long grass, approaching from across the field. Her face is in shadow beneath a cowboy hat and she holds up the remote for the gate. “Your friends were outside. I’ve let them in. The technician did a good job for once – and the system is up and running again!”
Friends? I don’t quite think I have any friends here yet, but I leap to my feet anyway and head toward the gate. It’s fully open by the time I get there, and Savannah and Tori are taking apprehensive steps onto the property, their movements cautious as though the ranch is a minefield.
“Are we allowed in?” Tori asks. She spins around in a slow circle, taking in the ranch in all of its not-so-glory.
