Myles’s face flashes with understanding, and the two of them turn to look at me. There is no time to register their rogue, wicked smirks.
Blake dives beneath the water and hooks his arms around my legs the same time as Myles seizes my waist.
“NO!” I gasp, but it’s too late.
The two of them pull me with all their strength, wrestling against my feeble attempts to fight them off. I kick my legs hard and try to shake off Blake’s grip, and I push at Myles’s shoulders, but my efforts are wasted. My screams blend with their laughter and, eventually, my own. They haul me into the water with a great splash.
My jean shorts suddenly weigh a hundred pounds and I rise quickly to the surface, gulping for air. Luckily, I am slightly taller than Savannah, so I can touch the pool’s floor with my tiptoes. I run my hands back through my hair, pushing it out of my face. My baseball cap floats in the water.
A second later, Blake and Myles pop up next to me, choking because they can’t contain their fit of laughter. They’re howling even louder than they did when Bailey destroyed Sheri’s cake.
“You – kicked me – in – the face!” Blake stammers breathlessly. He presses a hand to the edge of his jaw.
I place my hands on his chest and shove him hard. “You deserve it!”
Myles, as though fearing I may seek punishment on him too, dives under the water and glides back to his side of the pool, leaving Blake and me alone, wiping water from our eyes and breaking out into more laughter whenever we look at one another.
“Boys!” Savannah snaps, sounding like a scolding mother as she storms to the pool’s edge and glares sternly at her brother and Blake. “Why would you do that to her? Those clothes probably cost hundreds! They’re probably Gucci or something!”
“Because it’s hilarious!” Myles says.
“It’s okay, Savannah,” I say, feeling at my clothes as I tread water. This is going to be a wet, squidgy walk back to the ranch. “These shorts are from the clearance rack at Forever 21.”
“Oh,” Savannah says, lowering her head in embarrassment. “Still. Blake? Why would you drag her in like that?”
Blake looks at me out of the corner of his eye and his gaze sends another shock of fizzling energy down my spine. As he opens his mouth to reply, he doesn’t look at Savannah – he keeps his smolder trained only on me. “I thought,” he says slowly, “that Mila looked hot.”
The innuendo does not go unnoticed by me or Savannah. She looks at me for a long moment and I tilt my head down in embarrassment because I know exactly what she must be thinking – Blake has just given her positive affirmation that maybe thereissomething going on between him and me.
“Inthatcase,” Savannah says, “enjoy cooling off, Mila!”
16
There’s a photograph inside a dusty frame on a shelf in the laundry room that catches my eye every time I’m shoveling clothes into the washing machine.
I focus on it now, absentmindedly moving a damp pile of my clothes over to the dryer, my gaze never leaving the easygoing, million-dollar smile on my dad’s young face. Only back then it was more like a two-dollar smile, because his name hadn’t yet created ripples in the movie industry.
It’s a Harding family portrait from years ago – sometime in the ’90s, by the look of those hairstyles. Dad and Sheri are just teenagers, and Popeye and my grandmother –Mamaw, which was my name for her – stand behind them, hands on their children’s shoulders, beaming proudly. They’re all suited and booted as though for church.
It’s nice to see Mamaw in the photographs all around the house, because my limited memories of her are slowly fading as I get older. At least now her warm smile and lively mane of brown hair is ingrained in my mind again.
Staring at the photograph, I’m lost in thought as my phone begins vibrating in my pocket. I slide it out, expecting the call to be from Mom, but mentally crossing my fingers that maybe it’s actually Blake calling instead. I haven’t had the chance to see him again since the scorching day by the pool last week.
When I glance down at my screen, my stomach knots.
It’s an incoming video call – from Dad.
So, Mom has found time in Everett Harding’s schedule to pencil me in for the rare privilege of talking to him. I stare at my ringing phone in my hand, contemplating rejecting the call. The only time Dad has spoken to me since I left LA was the night of the tailgate party, and that was to yell at me. If he was worried about how I’m coping exiled out here in Fairview, he would have called long before now.
I move my thumb to reject him, but then I stop. There’s something I still need to ask, and for that reason, and that reason alone, I accept the call.
Dad comes into focus on my screen. Shockingly, for the first time in forever, he isn’t wearing his signature sunglasses, so his dark brown eyes shine back at me.
“At long last she answers!” he says with a smile, resting his elbows on the desk and leaning in closer to the screen.
He’s calling from the computer in his study. On the walls behind him, there are shelves stacked with awards he has won during the past decade. Last year’s Oscar for “Best Actor” takes prime position at the forefront, sparkling beneath the glow of tiny spotlights.
“Yeah, sorry,” I say, leaning back against the dryer. “I forgot you probably only have a maximum of four minutes to dedicate to me. Do I only have three left now?”
