The call goes dead, and I throw my phone to the floor and slump back against my pillows, groaning into my sheets. I wish I could be a normal sixteen-year-old who doesn’t have her father’s manager controlling her every move, but as Mom always reminds me, I’m not normal. It’s not easy on her, either. She’s the wife of a goddamn movie star. The rumors that circle are insane, and the pressure to play the role of the perfect, gorgeous, supportive wife gets to her too. No wonder she focuses on her own life within the industry with so much passion. It lets her be her own person.
Hell, I wish I had my own identity.
With a tired yawn, I stretch out my arms and then slip out of bed. It’s an odd thing, waking up in a brand-new room. Back home, my bullet journal sits on my mirrored glass end table; my favorite body lotion and perfumes are aligned in perfect order along my dresser; my jewelry is arranged in dainty little boxes along the shelves on my walls. Here, everything is all over the place, spread out over the floor. I make a start on unpacking, but I feel even more exhausted by the time I sift through everything. I’ve piled my clothes into groups across the floor, lined up all of my self-care products, and set my teddy bear on my pillow. Then I give up on putting everything away and head downstairs instead.
The smell of freshly brewed coffee wafts from the kitchen, so I follow the scent. The house is so silent that I’m surprised when I find Popeye in the kitchen. He’s fiddling with the hinges on a window, a wrench in hand, while gazing outside across the ranch he is so proud of. I look out at the fields with him. I think it was actually my great grandfather who built the Harding Estate up from nothing after the Second World War, then Popeye and my grandmother inherited it and raised their own family here. Dad would have been in line to take over if life had played out like generations before him might have expected, but his ambition threw a wrench in the works. That’s why Sheri has been helping Popeye out with the ranch all these years, because I imagine one day it will belong to only her. The ranch used to be so much bigger when I was a kid – a few hundred acres larger – but Popeye sold off most of the land a few years ago right before the security walls went up so that it’s much more manageable. I can’t imagine Dad ever returning to live here, even if his career were to end at some point. It’s so far from who he is today.
“Good morning,” Popeye greets me, holding up the wrench. “Sheri is with the horses, but she said she’ll cook you a hearty breakfast once she’s back. I’m trying to fix this darn window that won’t stop creaking.”
“That’s okay. I can grab something myself,” I say. I pad across the wooden flooring and plant a kiss on his cheek. “Good morning, Popeye.”
My hand is on his shoulder, and he squeezes his fingers around mine, his skin warm. He looks down into my eyes. “So, I hear you got stuck outside the gate last night.”
I throw my arms around him from behind and bury my face into his shoulder blade, inhaling the scent of . . . Well, the scent of Popeye. Like someone who has lived his entire life on a ranch. “Yeah, I did. Let’s not joke about it.”
“It’s been just Sheri and me around here for so long it’s easy to forget we have someone else to consider for once,” he says, though his tone is more downbeat than playful.
I’m painfully aware that we really haven’t visited as much as we should have over the years, and an image of Sheri and Popeye sitting at the dining table, just the two of them, day after day, tugs at my heart. It’s kind of like, when Dad packed up his life and moved to LA with stars in his eyes he forgot about the lives of those he left behind.
I unwrap my arms from around Popeye’s shoulders and he sets his wrench down, then crosses the kitchen. He rifles through a drawer rammed full of papers and cables, then holds up a plastic device like a small TV remote. “This is for you,” he says. “I’m going to call that technician and give him a piece of my mind if he doesn’t show up and fix that gate soon, and when he does, you can use this electric remote to get in and out. But until then, please make a note of the correct code.”
I move across the kitchen to take it from him, turning it over in the palm of my hand. “Thanks, Popeye.”
Sheri appears at the back door to the kitchen, shaking her hair out of its ponytail. She’s wearing an old shirt and tattered jeans caked in dirt, and she kicks off her grubby rubber boots by the welcome mat. Sheri is blessed with naturally gorgeous features, so even when covered in horsehair and muck, she still manages to look like a million dollars. Dad once told me that, in her early twenties, Sheri was set to marry a paramedic from the city, but he was tragically killed in a car accident out on the interstate. She has never gone on to marry anyone else or have kids of her own. It seems to suit her, though; she always seems cheerful and contented.
“Oh, good morning, Mila, you’re awake!” Sheri says, crossing the kitchen. She lifts a strand of my hair behind my ear. “Did you sleep well?”
“Yeah, right up until Ruben woke me up. He wasn’t too thrilled about last night.”
“Last night?” Sheri repeats, stiffening. “Ruben knows you went out?”
“Yeah. About that . . .” I say sheepishly. “There was a little . . . Incident. Someone took my phone and called my dad.”
“Oh, Mila!” Sheri groans, turning for the sink. She lathers up her hands with dish soap and rinses them beneath the faucet. “Now Ruben will call me and give me hell!”
“No, he won’t,” I say with a shy smile. Although I haven’t had much of a chance to grow close with my family over the years, I do like Aunt Sheri, and I really appreciate that she’s willing to take me in for the summer. The last thing I want to do is make life difficult for her. “I covered for you.”
“Thank you, Mila. That’s the kind of teamwork we need to have, okay?” she says with a relieved laugh, shaking the water from her hands. She might be my aunt, but I get the sense Sheri is still young at heart. “Oh, Dad! What are you doing with that wrench?”
Popeye gestures with the tool. “Fixing this darn window! That latch you broke last week. I don’t want this place turning into a tumbledown shack. Not now, not fifty years from now, not ever,” he grumbles.
“Okay, but perhaps this isn’t the best time . . .” With a groan, Sheri turns back to me. “Mila, we have church at ten, so make sure you’re ready to leave in an hour.” Her eyes catch on my frayed jean shorts. “And our church’s attire is semi-formal, so please wear a skirt.”
“Church?” I repeat as though she’s spoken a language I don’t understand.
“It is Sunday,” she says, brows pinching together as she scrutinizes my bewildered expression. It seems to dawn on her that I’m not confused about which day it is, but rather confused about the notion of attending church in the first place. There’s a distinctive shift in her demeanor. “I assume Everett doesn’t take you in LA?”