Page 112 of Beyond the Bright Lights

Mylan and I also took a break from our lives to travel the first year of our relationship. We visited all the places I dreamed about. Hawaii, London, Ireland, Italy, Paris, Tokyo, Australia (where I got bit by a vicious spider and had to go to the emergency room for a steroid shot in my ass to stop the poison from spreading to my heart.) Traveling with a celebrity was easier than I thought it would be. There were times when the paparazzi found us, but for the most part, no one bothered us. Sometimes we’d venture out in disguises, especially if we were going to a crowded area in big cities.

The disguise idea also helped when we returned to Los Angeles. We’d turn it into a game. Who could come up with the most ridiculous outfit/wig combination? Mylan usually won. His favorite persona was 70s porn star with the horrible mustache and a mullet.

We’d dress up and head out into Hollywood, or to the Santa Monica pier, or anywhere crowded to see how long we could go before being discovered. It worked for months until we started going to karaoke once a week. People figured it out. Then they got in on the game. Like Where’s Waldo or Where in the World is Carmen San Diego. Social media accounts were made with pictures of us out and about in our costumes.

“Everything looks wonderful, Lana,” Marie Andrews says, walking into the room. Mylan’s mother is steadily coming back to life. Her dry, thinning black hair grows fuller every day. She’s gaining weight, her pale skin now tanned by the warm Southern California sun. She’s no longer living in the institution in Northern California and stays in the guest house behind the Malibu home Mylan and I bought together last year.

Our home.

“Thank you for helping me decorate!”

The doorbell rings again and before I can answer, Gina appears out of nowhere (I swear) and tugs the door open.

“Who are you?” Pa’s gravelly voice shouts followed by Gram saying, “That’s Lana and Mylan’s butler! I told you they had a butler!”

Ginger giggles, and I shake my head as my grandparents waddle their way into the expansive living area. The furniture is vintage, with an antique red couch and matching red chairs, and a white wooden coffee table on top the dark hardwood floors. Mylan picked out the artwork, minimalist drawings inspired by the timeline of how we met. Like the minimalist tattoos that line my spine.

“Ain’t this fancy!” Gram says with nothing but awe in her voice as she inspects the living area. It’s the first time they’ve visited us because it took two years for us to convince Pa to fly on a plane.

“I don’t like it,” Pa grumbles.

“I don’t like you!” Gram counters.

“Why don’t you two grab something to eat? I’ve got mac and cheese, some Memphis barbecue, cornbread. Pa, there’s some grilled chicken and salad, and other healthy things for you.”

“I’m on vacation. I’m eating whatever the hell I want!”

Pa and Gram stop to say hello to Ginger and Mylan’s mother before wandering off, bitching to each other nonstop. My heart swells. Their love is one I envy. I can only hope my love for Mylan grows to that level of bickering when we reach that age.

Though, I’ll reach old age before him.

“And why are you feeling guilty?” Mylan whispers against my neck, wrapping his arms around me from behind.

“How’d you know?”

He points at the mirror across from us. My scowl and his smirking face stare back. “Whatever.”

“Whatever? Donut, you know I hate that word. Are you wanting to be punished today?”

“Listen, brat,” I begin, and he bites me! Not hard. A love bite. Still, he knows how much I melt into a horny mess when he does that.

“I hate that nickname too,” Mylan breathes on my neck and kisses the place he just bit. I close my eyes and stifle a moan.

“Maybe I don’t like my nickname.”

“Liar.”

“I told you. Calling a fat girl donut? Cliché and offensive.”

“And I told you the reason I call you donut." He moves his hot breath up my throat to my jaw, causing that moan I was holding back to escape.

“Get a room!” a familiar voice calls out.

I peel myself out of Mylan’s strong hold and whip around to find Jensen at the entrance to the living area. Mylan moves to him, and they greet each other with their so-called secret handshake—three palm slaps, two fist bumps, a fist to the chest over the heart. Jensen smiles then adjusts his black-rimmed glasses and folds his arms over his wide, flannel-covered chest. That man hasn’t changed one bit.

Which is why I’m surprised to see a certain woman walking in right behind him.

“Wow. Did you two come together?”

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