Page 62 of Becoming Mila
Blake nods and reaches for his guitar that’s still propped up in its stand. My head falls back against his bicep as he pulls the guitar onto his lap and positions his hands. Just before his fingers touch the strings, I ask, “Do you write your own songs?”
“I try,” he admits, “but I’ve never finished anything yet. I’m not great at putting my thoughts into words. That’s why I always fail my English Lit assignments.” He gazes at his guitar in concentration again, lining up his fingers. He isn’t using a pick this time, which probably explains those callouses on the pads of his fingers. He strums once, letting the note hang in the air, then suddenly flattens his hand against the strings, silencing the noise. “Before I start, let me ask you something before I forget. My friends have managed to get tickets to your dad’s movie this weekend. They got a ticket for me. And they – uh – got one for you, too.”
I sit up and my brows knit together. “I thought you weren’t a fan.”
“I’m not, but we were gonna get food after. I don’t wanna miss out,” Blake confesses with a laugh. “I told Barney you probably don’t want to go. I don’t know. Is it crazy for you to watch your dad on screen? I’m not sure how you feel about these things, especially after that phone call. . .” He speaks faster than usual, like he’s worried he’s going to offend me and would rather get the words out as quickly as possible.
“It’s okay,” I say. “I’ll come.”
It’s not something I’ve ever done before. I watch Dad’s movies at exclusive early screenings, and never at the movie theater with everyone else. It makes me uncomfortable, honestly, to see Dad on screen, so it always seemed too weird tochooseto watch his movies. But if Blake’s friends have gone to the effort to include me, someone they barely even know, then it feels rude not to take up the offer. It would even feel over-dramaticnotto go, like,Mila Harding thinksshe’s much too special to watch her dad’smovies with mere civilians. They probably wouldn’t think that, but still. I just want to be like everyone else. And Blake will be there, so it means spending more time with him, too.
“You’ll go?” Blake says, surprised.
“Sure. I’ve already seen it, anyway. The ending is a huge let-down, and the second movie is still the best one, but don’t let the critics hear me admit that,” I joke, managing to laugh for the first time today.
Blake grins and says, “Looks like you and I are going to catch Everett Harding’s new movie on Sunday.”
“I can’t wait,” I say with an overly dramatic roll of my eyes, and then I rest my head back against him and wrap my arms around his. On purpose this time.
Blake returns his focus to his guitar, once again positioning a hand on the fretboard and the other by the strings, and then he plays. My eyes close as I listen to the acoustic rhythm fill the cabin, drifting gently into my body, and I slowly start to feel calmer as Blake’s smooth voice dances in my ears, and I think my heart grows a little bigger.
22
“Look, if commercial first class won’t convince you, how about I ask your father to send out a private jet? I’m sure in these circumstances there are no financial limits.”
“You are beyond hilarious, Ruben,” I say nonchalantly as I slip on my shoes, not exactly listening. My phone is on speaker on the nightstand as I’ve been getting ready and rolling my eyes every ten seconds at the absurdity of Ruben’s pleas. “Go ahead. Send a private jet to come get me, but the pilot will have a wasted journey. I already told you a thousand times – I’m not coming home until the day before school starts, and that’s only because I have to.”
“When did you getsodifficult?” Ruben grumbles. After days of blowing up my phone to convince me to come back to LA now that he and Dad have realized sending me off to Fairview was a terrible idea, Ruben is at the point where he doesn’t even try to mask his annoyance at me with fake pleasantries and artificially sweet tones. “You were much easier to handle before you decided you have a say in any of these matters.”
“Well, Ruben,these mattersare my life,” I retort breezily, getting to my feet. I grab my phone from the nightstand and press it to my ear. “And that sort of means that I should be the one who decides how to live it.”
“Mila—”
“So sorry, Ruben, but I really do have to end this call now. I’m out,” I interrupt, my voice rife with sadistic pleasure because I know how much this will aggravate him. And then, with extra sarcasm, I add, “Fingers crossed I don’t cause too much trouble,” before hanging up.
Honestly, if I had a couple more ounces of bravery, I may have blocked Ruben’s number by now. But I don’t want to deal with that fallout, and it’s fun to torture him instead. I imagine him and Dad huddled close together in our lavish kitchen back home, conferring over how to deal with me, knowing all this information that shines a negative light on Dad’s character. It’s not very kind of me, but, hell, they deserve to feel unsettled.
My phone buzzes in my hand. No, it’s not Ruben harassing me again.
It’s a message from Blake that reads:Hey, Mila. Get your sweet selfoutside. I’m waiting.
With a grin of anticipation, I leave my room and head downstairs to where Popeye and Sheri are eating together at the dining table. We’re all going for food after the movie, so I’ve had to skip dinner tonight.
“Blake’s here,” I announce, stopping behind Popeye and placing a hand on his shoulder.
Sheri sets down her fork and breaks into a laugh. “When you confronted your dad about Mayor Avery, did you remember to mention that you’re dating her son?” she asks, wiggling her brows at me. She seems more at ease now I’ve confessed to her that I know all about how my parents’ relationship started, that they have a history of infidelity. Now Sheri can relax and not have to worry about letting that particular secret slip.
“This isn’t adate, Aunt Sheri. Blake’s friends are going to be there,” I say, because I’m not really sure that Blake and I could even be considered asdatingin the first place. It’s not like we’ve had an official date, but at least I am no longer denying that I like the boy. And I’m okay with that for now. We’re still getting to know one another.
“And you wear perfectly applied red lipstick every time you hang out with friends?”
I purse those red lips of mine to blow her a pouty kiss. “Ha ha. Okay, I’m going now. Bye, Popeye.”
“You are the image of your grandmother. Beautiful,” he says. “Enjoy your evening, Mila.”
With a small wave, I slip through the door and out into the evening sun. It’s been another gorgeous day, but I’m realizing now that every day in Tennessee is a beautiful one. For once, though, I’ve remembered to bring my sunglasses with me, and I push them down over my eyes and trek toward the gate where Blake awaits on the other side.
We saw each other earlier at church. But he was with his mom, and with a flickering moment of eye contact across the pews, we exchanged an unspoken agreement to stay clear of each other. When the service wrapped up, we didn’t search for the other in the parking lot. Blake remained firmly by LeAnne’s side while she nodded enthusiastically along to the church elders, and I didn’t attempt to pull him over for a chat by our favorite shrubs, so instead I hung out with Savannah. When it comes to LeAnne’s approval, I don’t think we’re going to get it. That just means Blake and I may have to be a little more discreet.
