“Aren’t you a sweet grown-up thing?” she says. “So good to see you for real instead of on that laptop screen.” But then she frowns as she pinches my cheek. “There’s no need for all this makeup, especially not here with us . . .”
I know she’s right, so I just lift my shoulders in acceptance.
But at this point in my life, I never know when someone with a camera will spot me, and the need to look picture-perfect at all times is ingrained in me, thanks to Ruben – and also my mom’s immaculate example. I puff out a breath, feeling that makeup melting the longer we stand here.
“It’s so hot out here,” I say.
Sheri chuckles and swings an arm over my shoulders. “Welcome back to Tennessee!”
Fairview, Tennessee, to be exact.
I guess it’s what my father still thinks of as home, and I suppose in a way it is home. I was born out here, and that sort of defines home. But the reality is, I have spent most of my life in California and it’s pretty much all I’ve known, so LA seems more like home than this place does. I don’t have that level of attachment to Tennessee, but how can I expect to feel differently when I left Fairview at the age of six?
That part, I remember.
The leaving part.
I was only halfway through first grade when I packed up my favorite toys into cardboard boxes, hugged my tearful grandparents one last time, and boarded a one-way flight to Los Angeles. I didn’t understand what leaving meant back then, but my parents kept calling it “our little adventure”, and I had no idea how much our lives were about to change. All I cared about was getting to live near a beach.
The reason for our move right across the country was simple – to chase Dad’s dreams.
Dad was always acting up as the class clown in his teen years, but one pesky detention where he had to help out in the drama department altered the course of his life forever. Painting sets for the winter play soon led to the “discovery” of Dad’s natural talents – plus the movie-star looks and charisma that soon became apparent – and, before long, he was a certified drama heartthrob. So much so, he surprised everyone by pursuing this passion in college where he met my mom. By his mid-twenties, he was starring in low-budget independent movies, slowly building up his filmography, his name appearing in more and more credit sequences. And then, out of the blue, he nailed an audition for a movie that was pitched to be the next big Hollywood blockbuster – and it was. Landing that role was Everett Harding’s stepping-stone into a world of stardom and fame.
So off to California we went. Mom quit her job and took on the role of Dad’s personal assistant at first, supporting him every step of the way while readjusting her own career; brilliantly as it turned out, as she’s now a much-in-demand movie makeup artist. To give them credit, my parents have worked really hard over the years to establish themselves.
So, we have lived out in LA for the past decade, moving from one house to the next, each one increasing in size and grandeur. For now, though, we are pretty comfortable in our home within a gated community in Thousand Oaks. My school is there, my friends are there, my life is there.
Long story short, California is home to me, and Tennessee is simply a blip in my distant memory.
Fairview, in my mind, became nothing more than somewhere we used to visit on vacation. The only real memories I have of this place are from the occasional trips we’ve made over the years to see family, and the last time I was here I was twelve.
But this time, it’s not for the weekend. Dad wouldn’t back down, and Ruben agreed it’s best I hang around here for a while, at least until the initial hype of the movie release dies down. Surely, I can’t do any more damage if I’m not in the vicinity of him or the Hollywood press?
“Lucky for you,” Sheri says, “I’ve got the AC cranked up full. Let’s get you settled.” She grabs my suitcase and drags it down the dirt road that weaves a route to the house.
The ranch hasn’t changed much from that last time we all gathered for our Thanksgiving get-together four years ago. It’s just stretching fields that were once home to grazing cattle and sheep many moons ago when my grandparents ran this place, but now the only livestock are the horses. I can see some of those horses now, lingering in their field by the stables just beyond the approaching three-story family home.
I think the security around this ranch is probably its most luxurious, high-end feature.
Everything else is … normal. The grass is a little overgrown, the stables could do with some fresh paint, and the house shows its age with its old-fashioned windowpanes, slightly rusty ironwork, and a wooden porch. It feels humble and charming. No Hollywood glitz. Just a real, down-to-earth southern ranch.
“Are you sure it’s okay for me to stay?” I ask as we near the house. This plan for me to spend the next month or so out here only came into existence two days ago, so it’s last-minute for everyone involved. Sheri most likely hasn’t even had the chance to fully think it through, and already I feel like I might be a nuisance.
She pulls my suitcase to a stop outside the front door. “Sweetheart, you’re family, aren’t you?” she says with a warm smile and a tilt of her head.
“Yeah.”
“Then there’s your answer!” She pushes open the door and gestures for me to head on in first. “Besides, we could use some young company around here.”
I step into the house and the AC blasts cool air against my face, which is a welcome relief from the heat. Sheri drags my suitcase over the welcome mat and into the wide entryway, where a rustic wooden staircase leads upwards. The room ahead of me is mostly open plan, with structural archways separating the space, and I gaze in at the living room and then the kitchen, surprised by the sense of familiarity that warms me. Nothing appears to have changed since my last visit. There’s the same well-loved furniture that’s been here for decades and the walls are lined with family photographs in glass frames that are gathering dust. The kitchen hasn’t been renovated in years, and although one of the cupboard doors is quite literally hanging off its hinges, I actually like that not everything is perfect. It feels real, like actual human beings live here even though there is way too much space for just two people to fill. Plus, there’s that same glorious smell of Sheri’s incredible cooking that I remember so vividly.
“Beef stew,” Sheri announces, seeing me sniff the air. “And all the damn fine sides you can imagine. You deserve a real welcome home.”
There’s a loud creak from the top of the stairs, and my heart triples in speed and nearly bursts straight out of my chest when I hear the words, “Is that my little Mila?”
The voice belongs to my grandfather.
Slowly, he descends into view and instantly my mouth lifts into a grin that mirrors his.