Page 47 of Becoming Mila
By now, I have made it a habit to always wait outside the Harding Estate whenever someone picks me up.
It’s just after nine and the sky is a deep, darkening blue, enough for the twinkle of the stars to be noticeable, and the air is balmy but tolerable for once. I sit beneath one of the spotlights mounted to the ranch walls, perched on a large rock, and running my fingertips along the dirt, creating lines in the earth. Goosebumps spread all over my arms, the way they always do whenever I wait out here at night; there’s an eeriness to the silence of the country roads and the empty fields beyond.
A car sounds in the distance and I look up, staring down the long, dark road. Headlights flicker around a bend, and a few seconds later Blake’s truck barrels toward me.
I jump to my feet and wipe my hands on my thighs. The LED headlights nearly blind me, so I cup my hand over my eyes as the truck draws nearer. I skip toward it and clamp my hand around the door handle before Blake has even come to a complete stop.
“Hey!” I say as I swing open the door and climb into the backseat.
The melodies of country music and the smell of musky cologne sweep over me. Savannah is already in the backseat, Myles rides shotgun, and Blake is, of course, driving. I think of the night only a few weeks ago when he picked me up for the tailgate party and of the way his brown eyes had met mine in the rearview mirror for the first time. A sharpness had flickered in his gaze then, but as I meet his eyes now they are irresistibly inviting.
“Hi, Mila,” he says. The corners of his eyes crinkle with a hint of a smile. “This is the part where you tell us you don’t know what a bonfire is, right?”
I roll my eyes and softly punch the headrest of his seat. “I’ve been to a bonfire before,” I say defensively. “Malibu beach. Last summer. My hair reeked of smoke for the next two days.”
“Well,” says Myles. “Get ready to stink again.”
We set off through the darkness, tracing the now-familiar route down the country roads toward civilization. I have no idea where the bonfire is being held, but as Savannah talks my ear off, I manage to steal peeks out of the window every now and again. Eventually, when we pass the church I’ve found myself attending each Sunday, I notice we’re in downtown Fairview. Moments later, Blake turns off the main street and we pass a sign for Bowie Nature Park.
“Is it really a good idea to have a bonfire in a park? With trees?” I wonder aloud as the truck rolls toward the looming park ahead, with tall, thick trees clustered together in the darkness. “And right next to the fire station?”
“We’re keeping it by the lake and nowhere near any trees,” Myles says, casting a glance over his shoulder at me. “Don’t worry. We wouldn’t do anything stupid.”
“Back in the fall, we tried it in my back yard,” Blake says with a reminiscent chuckle. “Neighbors reported us for clogging the street with smoke.”
“But not to the police!” Savannah says dramatically, then shudders. “To Aunt LeAnne, who came hurtling home from the city, guns blazing. Metaphorically, of course.”
“Yeah. . .” Blake says quietly. He isn’t laughing anymore. “That was a bad night.”
Now apprehensive about the technicalities of this bonfire extravaganza, I bite at my lower lip. “So now you’re throwing a bonfire in a public park instead? Don’t you need a permit or something?”
“Don’t question my actions, Mila,” Blake says with a flippant wave of his hand. His eyes flicker back to the rearview mirror to look at me and they sharpen teasingly. “You should have figured out by now that they aren’t always wise.”
We pass through some wooden gates and crunch our way down a narrow path beneath a canopy of trees until we emerge into a parking lot. It’s late and I don’t suppose many people are interested in trekking through dark trails at this hour, so there’s only a few other cars here. The headlights are all still on the brights and the cars are filled with occupants who are, seemingly, waiting for Blake to arrive.
“Grab everything you can carry from the back,” Blake orders, killing his engine after pulling into a parking spot. He whips off his seatbelt and points out of his windshield at a spot further ahead. I see the glisten of the moonlight against water, and I realize he’s gesturing to a lake. “Carry it down there.”
The four of us climb out of his truck and head around the back, where Blake lowers the tailgate. The truck bed is crammed full of what appears to be a random concoction of items, from folding chairs to a crate full of Dr Peppers to thick timber wood logs to old newspapers. I’m relieved to see that there’s even some fire extinguishers. Sensible.
Savannah and Myles start grabbing items as more cars pull into the lot. All around us, people are emerging from trucks with their own supplies of chairs, drinks, and snacks.
“Just carry everything down to the water!” Blake calls out over the parking lot, waving a hand at the edge of the lake. “I marked out a spot for us the other night. Huge rock. Y’all can’t miss it!”
There’s an excited buzz of voices in the air as everyone treks off down the sloping ground toward the water. Myles darts off with an armful of logs and newspapers, and Savannah drags a couple chairs along the concrete, leaving Blake and me behind at the truck.
“Are you the dedicated events organizer for the teenage population of Fairview?” I ask playfully, giving him a sidelong glance.
Blake looks back at me with a neutral expression and shrugs, stretching into the truck bed to grab the remaining items. “It’s either lead or be led,” he says, heaving the crate of soda into my arms. “And when your mom wins the mayoral campaign in your freshman year, you want to be one step ahead.” The corner of his mouth curves into a smile but he looks anything but happy.
Blake continues to fill my arms with an assortment of items from the truck, stacking everything on top of the crate of soda until the pile is so high that my chin rests on a bag of Doritos. My shoulders slump from the weight of it all and I sway dangerously next to him as he wedges another folding chair under his arm, then reaches for the final object at the very back of the truck bed.
“Is that a guitar?”
Blake hoists the strap of the guitar case over his shoulder and fires me a funny look. “What else could it possibly be?”
“Is ityourguitar?”
Now Blake laughs. He turns to face me, his hand around the strap over his shoulder. “C’mon, Mila. Country is the only music I ever listen to. I love honky tonks. Isn’t it obvious?”
