The cameras flash brighter, the click of their shutters echoing in my dizzy head. A clash of voices yells different things all at once, some screaming my name in hopes that I’ll glance up and look straight into their lens for that perfect candid shot, others screaming gross questions in hopes of triggering an even more inappropriate reaction.
Ruben grabs me by my elbows and hauls me off the ground. With a raised arm, he shoves cameras out of our way as he pulls me to the minivan, guides me inside, then slides the door shut with a slam. The chaos of noise outside is muffled, but hands are still banging on the windows.
“Mila!” Mom gasps, sliding into a kneeling position on the floor and cupping my face in her hands as my head sways. She looks up at me, her makeup still perfect, wide-eyed, and shocked. “Are you okay? What have—”
But Dad is the one who finishes that question. With a thunderous look of disbelief, he snaps, “What the hell? Have you been drinking?”
I’d completely messed up.
And now that it’s the morning after, everything seems a hundred times worse. Headlines drag the Harding name down. Photos are all over the internet. I’ve made a fool out of my father.
“This is happening far too often,” Ruben grumbles from across the kitchen. I can understand why he’s upset. He’s dad’s manager, so managing our lives is what we pay him for, but I don’t make it easy when I keep accidentally stirring up the hornets’ nest that is the gossip press. “There’s four weeks until the movie’s release. Stories about a drunken Mila Harding on her knees throwing up at a press conference hitting the tabloids are not doing us any favors.”
“Negative publicity surrounding our main lead is not what we need to be dealing with either in the lead-up to this release,” the sole remaining production executive adds. She folds her arms over her chest and stares me down. She doesn’t have any personal interest in us as a family – all the production company cares about it is how many dollars this movie will rake in at the box office.
“Plus, school just let out for summer, which means you, little lady, will now be in the public eye more often,” Ruben says, rubbing at his stubbly chin as though he’s thinking hard.
I wipe tears from my cheeks and pull out of Mom’s cradling hug. Sitting upright, I sniff and look Ruben straight in the eye. “How can I fix it?”
Ruben shrugs. “Ideally? By not being here over the next few weeks so that no one has to worry about you becoming the tabloids’ new best friend.”
“Ruben,” Mom hisses, placing a hand on my arm and squeezing tight as though to protect me from his words. The look she fires him is nothing short of disgusted.
“What? You have a better idea, Marnie?” he remarks dryly.
There’s a creak at the kitchen door. Through swollen eyes I spot my father leaning against the doorframe. He’s wearing his favorite sunglasses, his eyes most likely tired and sensitive after yesterday’s hectic schedule, and his hands are stuffed into the pockets of his jeans. We all remain silent, unsure of how long he has been listening in the hallway. Mom takes my hand in hers.
“Mila,” Dad says, clearing his throat. His voice is low and husky – part of the reason why he sells the whole global heartthrob thing so well – but even more so in the mornings. He reaches for his sunglasses and lifts them slightly so that his dark eyes meet mine. They are bloodshot and heavy from lack of sleep. “I think it’s best if you go home for a while.”
“Home?” Mom echoes at the same time as my heart sinks halfway down my chest. “This is our home, Everett. And Mila’s home is right here. With us. Let’s talk about this properly before—”
“Ruben, arrange travel,” Dad says, riding roughshod over Mom’s protests. Gaze still locked on me, I catch the flicker of remorse in his eyes before he drops his sunglasses back down and quietly says, “Mila, start packing. You’ll be spending the summer back in Tennessee.”
2
THE HARDING ESTATE.
The words are engraved in gold on a slab that’s bolted onto the heavy stone walls that surround all fifty acres of the ranch’s perimeter. The entrance gates are electric, and access appears to be granted via a keypad which I don’t have the code for, so I call the help button and stare up into the security camera, waiting for something to happen.
My personal airport chauffeur has already made his getaway, leaving me abandoned in the middle of nowhere to stand in the sweltering heat with my luggage. It’s eerily silent out here on these country roads – the neighboring ranch is at least a mile down the road – and the lack of noise pollution is jarring. Silence like this simply doesn’t exist in LA.
I wipe a bead of sweat from my brow, not realizing there’s also a speaker on these gates until I hear a buzz and the sound of someone clearing their throat.
“Mila! You’re here! Just give me one second.”
Aunt Sheri! It’s been ages since I last heard her voice in person – with its comforting, unmistakable twang – so a happy grin spreads across my face.
I wait a minute longer, sweating even more with each second that passes, and continue to study these towering walls.
When I was a kid, the ranch was open to the road – no fencing, no walls, no gates. No security. Just a weather-beaten wooden signpost with the name of the ranch hand-carved into it. There was no need for anything different back then, but once strangers started turning up, there was no other option. Super fans of all ages would come lurking every once in a while because, for some reason, visiting the ranch where Everett Harding grew up is a big deal or something. That’s why Sheri insisted my parents secured the ranch – for safety reasons – and Dad called in a construction crew and took care of all the costs so that any hassle from unwelcome visitors would end. However, I don’t remember the walls being this lavish during our last visit. The gray stone is pristine and looks entirely out of place out here in the open countryside, the ranch more like a fortress than a family home.
There’s a loud shrill of a bell, and the gates slowly open, revealing Aunt Sheri waiting on the other side.
“Mila!” she exclaims, pulling me into the type of hug that I always associate with the friendliness here – a bear hug that’s suffocating, my body pinned beneath her grip while she sways from side to side with me. “Oh, let me look at you!” She pulls back, hands on my shoulders, and examines every inch of me like I’m a rare artifact.
Aunt Sheri, despite being Dad’s sister, looks nothing like him. Dad has dark, intense features, while Sheri’s face is much softer, her cheeks round and rosy, and her blonde hair is a mass of natural curls. She’s the younger of the Harding siblings, and she has the fresh face to prove it.
“Hey, Aunt Sheri,” I say, offering up a goofy grin. It’s been almost four years since we last saw one another in person, and although Sheri looks as though she hasn’t aged a day, I can understand why she’s studying me in fascination. I’m not quite that scrawny kid with the overbite and the pink glasses anymore – dance classes, braces and contact lenses took care of that.