Page 2 of The Making of Mila and Blake
“What things are you referring to, exactly?” he asks in a low voice, eyes locked on mine.
There are a lot of things that aren’t okay right now.
Like his forever strained relationship with Popeye and Sheri, for starters. Dad has joined me on a few of my visits back to the ranch over the past two years, but not as many times as I’d like. He has been so busy getting his new career off the ground that he simply hasn’t had the time, even though he reassured us all that quitting acting would be better for us as a family. He does call Popeye every month, though, and I do often catch him texting Sheri. Things are heading in the right direction, but the process is frustratingly slow. He did, however, raise a good point once when he asked Popeye why he never visitsus.It was a stark reminder that effort works both ways.
And then there’s Dad’s split from Mom. My parents’ separation was finalized this spring. It was ultimately a relief when they came to the decision, because the constant arguments were incredibly draining. I hated the way they looked at each other in contempt as they maneuvered around one another. I hated that they no longer went out for date nights, that they stopped holding hands in public, that they no longer laughed together.
It has been a long, bumpy road of working through trust issues these past couple years, but there was no repairing the damage between them, no matter how desperately they tried or how badly they wanted to. There’s still love there, no doubt about it, but what is love without trust? It sucks, but it was unhealthy, and already both of my parents are much happier, like they have been unburdened from the pressure of trying to force their marriage to work. Mom has moved into one of our many guest bedrooms for now until she figures out a more permanent living situation, and I am so relieved to be moving into the freshmen dorms at SDSU simply for the fact that it saves me from having to decidewhichparent to live with. I’m an adult, eighteen, and I want no part in my parents’ dramas anymore. I have my own life to live.
“Never mind,” I say, angling toward the window. There is no answer, because I don’t think you can ever guarantee that thingswillbe okay. Another bump in the road will always come along.
And as if on cue, the aircraft jolts with turbulence.
I resume my music– “Right Where You Left It” by Eric Dodd now,ugh–and lean my forehead against the window, allowing my eyes to close once more.
One hour down, three more to go until I am back where I belong.
2
The forty-minute drive in our rental car from Nashville International Airport to Fairview is so familiar to me now. The transformation from the chaotic traffic of Nashville to the twisting country road leading to the Harding Estate is like a direct highway between two completely different worlds– just thirty-five miles separate the two, yet it feels like a million.
The towering walls of the family ranch come into view and my body tingles with joy. As the sun blazes overhead in the ocean-blue sky and we near the electric gates, I find myself automatically releasing my seatbelt and reaching for the car door, amped up and ready for the summer to really begin. The more time I spend here in my small hometown, the more comforting it feels whenever I return.
“Go ahead, Mila. Buzz us in,” Dad says as he hits the brakes and the car rolls to a stop.
He doesn’t need to tell me twice. Throwing open the car door, I leap out into the fresh air and embrace the Tennessee humidity, inhaling the scent of sweet hay and freshly cut grass. Everything smells so natural out here, so homey, which is kind of wild considering I felt like a stranger when I stood at these gates two summers ago. Now I love pressing the crap out of the buzzer to let Aunt Sheri know I’m here. Seriously, I should have my own permanent remote for the gate at this point.
I wave up into the lens of the security camera atop the gate, then move my hand to the buzzer. I pause– the system has changed in the six months since I was last here. A new control panel has been installed and each buzzer has an engraving next to it:The Harding HomeandStable Visitors & Inquiries.
My eyes slide to the gold plaque bolted onto the stone walls and I realize that’s new too, updated and replaced to now read:THE HARDING ESTATE RIDING SCHOOL.
A smile stretches across my face as I buzz for the Harding Home. Things are really progressing around here. The jarring shrill of the bell as the gate begins to open, however, is as piercing as always.
“Weeeeelcome!” Aunt Sheri singsongs through the speaker.
“Hi, Sheri! See you in a sec!” I chirp back, then turn to the idling car and wave Dad through the gate. The sizzle of the afternoon sun feels too good on my skin and the soft breeze in my hair is refreshing. I break into a half-hearted sprint up the dirt track while Dad drives carefully behind me.
Things around the ranch may be a little different– why are there cement mixers over there?– but the house hasn’t changed, and I doubt it ever will. It is traditional and old-fashioned, but that’s what makes it so endearing. It’s home to a million memories of my late grandmother, of Dad and Sheri’s childhood, of my time spent here growing up. The fresh lick of paint I spent days applying around the windows two summers earlier is holding up well, but the deteriorating wooden railings around the porch are still in dire need of fixing.
“Mila!” someone squeals, and a flash of strawberry-blond hair emerges through the front door. My childhood best friend, Savannah, races down the porch steps at the speed of a bullet and launches herself into my arms.
I stumble back a few steps as I hug her tight. “Hey!”
“You arenotallowed to wait six months between visits ever again,” Savannah threatens with a mock glare as we pull apart. Her wide, beaming smile immediately returns and it feels so familiar and comforting, I instantly mirror it.
“Hey! Save some of that loving for me!” I hear Tori remark as she descends the porch steps with the confident swing of her hips, oozing that attitude that I know and love her for.
She skips over to Savannah and me, locking her arms around our shoulders and combining the three of us into a group hug. We all butt heads and break into laughter as though no time has passed at all since that cold, dark evening last year in the days between Christmas and January where we decided to take a festive stroll across town, drinking hot chocolate out of thermos mugs and fighting off frostbite when the temperature dropped below forty. Savannah’s foot slipped down a rabbit hole, and Tori’s and my rescue efforts were stalled by our uncontrollable giggling.
“I’ve missed you guys so much! I didn’t know you’d be here,” I say as I stand back to take in the pair of them. Tori stripped the neon pink out of her hair last year and continues to rock her natural jet-black shade, and Savannah has yet to stray from her taste in funky earrings. Her lower lobes are garnished with dangling horses, and I notice the addition of a helix piercing.
“Well, Savannah practically lives here now, and I thought I’d drop by before my late shift starts and check out your dad,” Tori says. She sidesteps around me and waves a hand in the air as Dad steps out of our rental car. “Hey, Everett! Welcome back to Fairview!”
Dad’s hands are full as he effortlessly swings our suitcases out of the trunk, so he gives Tori an acknowledging nod instead. “Hi, girls. Mila has been desperate to get back here to spend time with you both,” he says as he approaches, our luggage scuffing the dirt behind him. He stops in front of us and Savannah sucks in a breath.
With a nervous laugh, she manages, “Hi, Mr. Harding.”
“Savannah,” Dad says with the stern tilt of his chin toward her. “You call me that every time we meet. I’m just Mila’s dad, okay?”
