Page 29 of Beyond the Bright Lights

After a stretch of silence, I say, “Lana.”

“What?”

I wince at the biting tone. Despite my need to push her buttons, I worry I’m going too far. She’s tense, maybe even uncomfortable. Though, I feel she’s only uncomfortable because she’s attracted to me. She's not, however, attracted to my age.

“I’m sorry. I’ll stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Flirting with you.”

A flash of . . . something . . . crosses her face. Disappointment? That would mean she doesn’t want me to stop. Perhaps she can’t admit that to herself quite yet. She puts that stern mask right back on and gives me a curt nod.

We don’t speak the rest of the short drive.

The home we pull up to is chaotic, to say the least. The front yard is encased in a literal white picket fence full of metal ornaments: a frog, a rabbit, a turtle, a wind spinner with a rooster on top and two-sided arrows—one for north and south, another for east and west.

I spot a large tree, oak I believe, off to the side, and a tire swing hangs from one of the sturdy limbs. I’d give anything to climb that tree right now. I’ve skydived in Dubai and hiked trails along Mount Fuji in Japan, but I’ve never climbed something as simple as a tree.

Bushes adorn the elongated porch that wraps around each side. Beds of colorful flowers, including the ones at Lana’s bar, are in front of each bush. The same ones tattooed on her skin. On the white wooden porch sit four Adirondack chairs, also white. In between the chairs is a medium-sized wooden table. I imagine that table is stained with ring marks from sweating cups of iced sweet teas during hot summer months.

The house itself is a light blue with white trimmings. I expect us to walk down the cement pathway through the dark wooden front door, but Lana leads us past the porch and to the back of the house. My eyes widen at the piles of junk back here. Rows of hollowed out cars and trucks with hoods propped open. Worn-out tires are piled next to one of the beat-up vehicles.

Another massive tree sits in the corner of the fenced off area with a treehouse built in. I want to go up there so badly. I’ve never been inside a treehouse, either. Not even for one of my films. It's sad that most of the things I should have naturally experienced through my childhood were done only on the big screen or in a television show. It was all forced, with strangers surrounding me, cameras pointed in my face, and hot lights over my head.

Before rounding the corner to the back of the house, Lana looks over her shoulder where we parked.

“Bruno’s more than welcome to come inside.”

“He would, but then he’d be obligated to help with the garage clean-up. He’s a big guy, and his body isn’t made for this heat. He said he’d rather wait in the air-conditioned car and listen to the chainsaw snores of my driver than die of heatstroke. I don’t blame him, since I was the one to volunteer to help, not him.”

She gives me a soft laugh at that, and we continue down a path of round stepping-stones. The back of the home has an enclosed porch and a creaky screen door that we walk through before opening another door to get inside.

Ancient appliances pack the decent-sized kitchen. Shelves line one wall, full of old cookbooks and porcelain animals like pigs, roosters, and cows. Another wall holds a row of white weathered cupboards with glass doors where I spot mismatched dishes: plates, bowls, cups. Below the cabinets is a red topped counter with more white weathered cupboards, but no glass doors.

An elderly woman with stringy white hair pulled back into a low bun, wearing a muumuu, stands at a vintage stove, cooking and humming to an old song playing on the equally old radio sitting on top the counter. She taps her foot on the white tiled floor, not hearing us come in.

“Hi, Gram,” Lana sings.

The woman yelps and brings her hand to her chest.

“Heavens to Betsy, Lana Banana. You can’t go around scaring old ladies like me,” Gram says in the thickest twang I've ever heard. If I were watching a movie, I'd activate the subtitles to better understand a word she’s saying.

“Old? You’re a young eighty-five.”

Gram waves Lana off with a disgusted snarl that makes Lana smile from ear to ear. It makes my chest hurt with . . . something.

Lana’s grandmother spots me. Her thinning white eyebrows jerk up, and she plants a hand on her hip.

“Now, what do we have here? Is this the movie star everyone’s been going on about?”

I stand behind Lana, suddenly feeling shy. I’m never shy. Ever. Lana drags me out by the arm to her side.

“Gram, this is Mylan Andrews. Mylan, my grandma, Lila.”

Lana elbows me, and I hold out my hand. Gram wipes her palms on a kitchen towel and tosses it over the side of the deep tub sink to accept my greeting.

“Does he speak?” she asks Lana, who snickers.

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