Page 31 of Beyond the Bright Lights

“Who in hell is this?”

“Pa, don’t be rude! This is Mylan. He’s here to film the Tyler’s Team movie.”

“The what?”

“The movie version of the book Rebecca wrote.”

“Now they’re doing a movie? I can’t keep up with all that horseshit!”

Lana playfully slaps Pa on the shoulder and sits back down.

“How ya feeling?” she asks, scooping some eggs onto her fork.

“Finer than frog hair split four ways,” he says, chin raised.

“And you're following Doctor Lowry's meal plan?”

“Hell, what does he know?”

“Maybe that you had a stroke earlier this year and you should be eating healthier, so it doesn't happen again. Gram?”

“Yes, he's eating the foods on the plan.”

Pa sits at the table next to me, grumbling something about a big city doctor with a fancy degree. He judgingly stares me down. At this point, I'm so unsure how to act, I’ve stopped eating and hold my hands in my lap.

“What’s your story, Martin?”

I dart my eyes to Lana.

“Pa, his name is Mylan. You better behave.”

“If you’re wanting to date my Lana Banana, think again! Don’t make me bring out ole Betsy.”

“Pa, you sure are a lot of talk when it comes to that shotgun. Truth is you’d never hurt a fly.”

He locks eyes with me.

“Try me, Matthew.”

Lana stands up, tugging on my arm. “Okay, we’re going outside to start on the garage.”

She pulls me out of my seat and out the same door we entered. Pa’s evil laugh, and Gram’s complaining, follows.

The garage isn’t too cluttered, but dust coats the surfaces and cobwebs hang from the ceiling and corners. I shudder. I hate spiders. Taking up half the space is a car buried underneath a sheet that was white at one point but is now a dull brown. Next to the covered car, I count three rusty bicycles, a green push lawnmower, and a matching green riding lawnmower. On the other side of the garage are tall floor to ceiling metal shelves that you’d see in a warehouse with stacks of boxes labeled by black marker. Along the wall in the middle at the back is a long tool bench with every tool I could ever imagine and then some.

Lana’s hand rests on her forehead as she observes the mess. She drops her arms dramatically and walks over to a tower of boxes.

“Are you sure you still want to help with this?”

She pulls a box from the metal shelf and coughs when dust flies in her face.

“If it means spending time with you . . .”

She drops the box on the ground and puts her hands on her hips. “Now, Mylan Andrews, I do believe you are flirting with me.”

Why must everyone use my full name? It happens all the time. Mostly with fans. I just want to be Mylan.

“Let’s make a deal. Stop saying my full name, and I’ll stop flirting.”

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