Page 65 of Beyond the Bright Lights

“We became friends first. All through elementary school we were the best of friends, plus Ginger. She was our third, the three musketeers some would call us. Then we grew up. In middle school, puberty hit. I stopped seeing Tyler as a friend and decided I wanted to kiss him. So, I did. I kissed him on a rainy day out on the playground after school. He froze. He didn’t know what to do. I pulled away and said, ‘don’t be a wuss, kiss me back—’”

“You would say that,” I snort.

“—and from then on, we were boyfriend and girlfriend.”

At first, I don’t say anything, letting the story soak into my own memories. A beautiful story of friendship and love that I won’t ever want to forget.

“I understand,” I eventually say.

“Understand what?”

“Your grief. Why it’s difficult for you to let go.”

Her brows pinch together.

“Grief is always harder when the love you have for a person is that deep, that pure.” I shrug. “I didn’t mourn my father when he passed because he didn’t deserve it for what he did to my mother and me. I hated him. I still hate him. I didn’t cry one single tear when he died because I was relieved. I thought my life was finally about to get better.”

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

She’s staring up at me, her chin still on my chest. I should tell her all my dirty, dark secrets now, but I'm enjoying my time with her too much. If I tell her about my demons, she’ll run away.

I boop her on the nose and grin ear to ear. “Some other day?”

She answers with a mischievous smile, and then we’re making love for a sixth time.

Chapter 16 - Lana

The next week flies by. Mylan and I spend as much time together as possible. Most nights, I’m at the bar with him sitting in front of the taps in his usual seat, going over his lines and reading the notes he wrote. Bruno keeps guard, but the excitement over Mylan being in town has died down enough that the crowds aren’t as bad. Eloise tags along most days, tapping away at her smartphone.

I found out she helps run Mylan’s social media accounts. She showed me a few recent pictures, and I have to say, they look professional—Mylan leaned over the script, pencil behind his ear, his black hair falling across his forehead as he concentrates. Another of him, shirtless, at the cliffs on the lake. One of him on stage singing, the lights sparkling behind him as he smiles brightly.

My favorite is one Mylan took himself—a selfie with me asleep on his chest. You can’t see my face because my red hair covers most of it. Just the tip of my nose, a glimpse of my lips, and my eyelashes show. He posted it himself, so he could caption it DONUT with a ton of hashtags that I didn’t try to decipher.

Even though Mylan told me not to, I scanned through some of the comments. The majority of them were positive—people loving that Mylan and the real Lana Young from the book are ‘in a relationship.’ However, there were plenty of negative comments about my weight and my age. Words that would have bothered me if I were young and naïve and still cared what people thought about me. I was also surprised to see a good amount of death threats to me. Mylan assured me that his PR team reports each threat to both police and the social media companies where said threats were posted.

I’d asked Mylan’s publicist to release a statement about our relationship. I told her to say that we’re enjoying our time together as two single adults. We're taking it day by day and will decide how to proceed once filming is done. I’m sure she wrote something way better, but that’s the gist of it.

Going into this . . . hot summer fling with Mylan, I knew what was going to happen at the end of filming. Mylan would go back to L.A., and I would stay here in Arkansas.

Now I have doubts. Now I’m letting myself wonder.

My life is here. My grandparents and my friends are here. My parents and Tyler are buried here. I own a bar here.

But what would happen if I gave it all up?

I could focus more on the Tyler’s Team organization.

The organization has kept me busy this past week. Donations are pouring in with the news of the movie, so I’ve been helping with paperwork and answering emails from fans and the press, scheduling interviews with our head of publicity (though everyone requests me). It’s the busiest I’ve been since creating the non-profit with Tyler, up until I took a step back when Rebecca released the book.

Mylan and I made another visit to Gram and Pa’s. This time, he was far more comfortable. We held hands in front of them, and the moment Pa spotted our embrace, he turned on his heel and returned with ole Betsy. Mylan freaked out, thinking my grandfather was really going to shoot him, which had Pa bursting into a fit of giggles. Pa offered a hand for Mylan to shake that he proudly accepted. Then Pa had to ruin the moment and offer Mylan a beer. Gram yelled at Pa, apologized to Mylan, then explained that Mylan is a recovering alcoholic.

My favorite part about visiting my grandparents this second time was spending time with Mylan at the massive oak tree in their front yard. We took turns pushing each other on the tire swing. Then he climbed the tree, onto the large limb, where he sat for several minutes smiling and swinging his legs. He looked so young and innocent up there. He looked happy. Content. He told me it was his first time climbing a tree.

My heart clenched at how much life Mylan must have missed out on because of his career—how fast he grew up because he was a child actor. Still, he's lived a life one could only dream of; the places he’s traveled, the people’s he’s met, the once-in-a-lifetime spectacular moments he’s experienced.

That’s the thing about strangers. You can envy their life yet, in turn, they will envy you for different reasons.

Now it’s Saturday. Rock Star Karaoke is underway, and Mylan is killing it on stage. I slip out during his third song of the night, taking a breather on the patio, which I only keep open during the day for ax throwing and darts. Years ago, someone sliced a finger after too many drinks one night that forced me to shut down the patio once the sun sets. Now anyone who wants to throw an ax must sign a form saying they haven’t had a drop of alcohol.

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