Page 33 of Beyond the Bright Lights

“I don’t share that part of my life with a lot of people, and my PR team manages to keep that, and a lot more, out of the press.”

She pauses, perhaps wondering about the mysteries of my past. She opens her mouth to say something before shaking her head. “Well,” she begins. “What about friends? I’ve learned over the years that family can be more than blood.”

“My friends like me because I’m rich and famous,” I begin, still scanning through the shoebox pictures. I found some from when Lana was younger (I only knew it was her because someone wrote her name and age on the back). One of her holding two fluffy kittens against her cheeks and grinning ear to ear. Another of her in the treehouse out back. Several of Lana and Tyler when they were in middle and high school. “I get them into exclusive clubs or take them on expensive vacations with me because I don’t want to do those things alone. Though, it always backfires on me. I’ve been burned by so-called friends too many times. They’ll learn a secret of mine and leak it to the tabloids for money. Or steal from me—my valuables, my clothes—to sell to my stalker fans.”

“Jesus, Mylan. That’s fucked up,” she says, flipping through the pages of a magazine. “I’m starting to understand—”

She slaps a palm over her mouth.

“Why I’m an addict?” I finish the thought and peel her hand away from her mouth.

She winces. “I’m going to stop talking now.”

I’m still holding her hand and squeeze it once. “Please, don’t. Most of the time, people walk on eggshells around me, or tell me what I want to hear, or just plain out lie to me. I like that you don't do any of that.”

Her eyes fall to our hands, and I immediately release my hold. I shuffle to the next photo in the stack—a young man and woman, embracing each other and smiling. I flip it over, but there are no names. I hold it up for Lana to see.

“Who are they?”

She squints at the picture. Her face drops and she looks away.

“My parents. They died when I was nine.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, placing the pictures back in the box. I close the flaps and stand to put it back on the shelf.

“Guess I’ve had a lot of people who were close to me die,” Lana whispers.

I find another box full of old clothes and bring it over to my bucket to sort through.

“My dad died when I was ten. He was an alcoholic. Maybe that’s where my addiction comes from.”

Lana pushes her box of books and magazines to the ‘for sale’ pile and joins me to go through the clothes.

“Maybe, but I think our childhood, and how we’re brought up, help shape who we become as a person. But willingness to change and to learn from our mistakes ultimately defines us.”

I consider Lana’s words, turning a black cowboy hat I found over and over in my hands. Instead of responding and saying something stupid, I put the hat on and stand, posing how I think a cowboy would pose.

I muster my best southern accent. “What a mighty deep thing to say, ma’am.”

Lana cringes. “Aren’t actors supposed to be good with, like, accents and stuff?”

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“It was atrocious.”

“Want to hear my British accent? Aussie? I’m good at those.”

I spot a pair of cowboy boots in the box and pick them up. I’m about to put them on too when Lana stops me.

“Oh, I’d shake them for spiders first. This is Arkansas. We’ve got Brown Recluses and Black Widows here.”

I throw the boots across the garage, and sure enough, a spider runs out of one of the boots. I yelp while jumping over said spider, which causes Lana to burst into a fit of laughs.

The sound fills me with life. It jump-starts my heart, giving me hope.

I'm desperate for that hope to stay.

Chapter 9 - Lana

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