Page 9 of The Making of Mila and Blake
“Right?” Teddy agrees, and although I can’t tear my eyes from the foxes, I can sense his grin. “I haven’t told your aunt Sheri that there’s a den back here because I don’t want her to call animal control.”
“Sheri wouldn’t get rid of them!”
“You’re right, but the truth is,” he says, and I glance sideways at him to meet his eyes, “I like that no one else knows.”
“Then why’d you show me?” I ask.
“You seemed like you needed a distraction.”
The way he’s smiling right now, it’s no surprise Savannah likes him so much. There’s a softness to his features despite his built physique, a sense of sincerity that already has me believing he is someone I can trust. Teddy seems like the kind of capable, good-natured guy you’d call in an emergency, like when you’ve blown a tire on the highway and need someone to show up with a car jack, and you just know he’ll drop everything to help you out. At least that’s the vibe he gives off, but maybe that’s because he just seems so sweet– the guy feeds berries to foxes, after all.
“Back away slowly,” he instructs.
Still crouched, we shuffle backward through the grass until my quads burn, and only once we are a safe distance away from the foxes do we stand. Leaving them in peace, we turn toward the house, retracing our steps through the field.
“Savannah says you aren’t from Fairview,” I say.
“No. Kingston Springs,” Teddy answers, but my silence forces him to add some clarification. “The next town over. Youwereborn here, right?”
I laugh. “Yeah, but I left when I was six. Forgive me if my local knowledge isn’t up to par, but if you’re ever in LA and need directions, then I’m your girl.”
“How is it out there?” he asks, his gaze trained on me as we walk. “Los Angeles. Famous old Hollywood. You must live a pretty extraordinary life.”
Teddy works here on the Harding Estate, so he knows exactly who my father is. It’s refreshing that we don’t need to havethatconversation.
“Yeah,” I admit, “but I’m still figuring out exactly what kind of life I want. I’ve been accepted into the nursing program at San Diego State.”
Teddy’s features brighten. “Nice! I never bothered with college. I think I’m destined to be a ranch hand all my life. I just like getting stuff done and being outdoors all day, you know? That’s why I’ve never left Tennessee.”
“Never?”
“Never,” he says.
I lift my head toward the sky and frown. “I’m jealous.”
“Why? You’re telling me this ranch with its fox infestation is cooler than, say, Malibu? That place with the amusement park on the pier? The red carpet events? The A-list parties?” He chuckles and playfully nudges his arm against mine. “Get out, Mila.”
“Seriously!” I say, pushing his hand away. “LA is great, but Tennessee. . . It just feels easier to breathe when I’m here. I feel more at home, but that’s probably because thisishome. You know what I mean? Or am I rambling?”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m used to Savannah,” Teddy says. “Did you know that girl can talk for hours? She really overthinks everything.”
“Yeah, she’s great,” I say, then glance at him to gauge his reaction. This is my chance to be the perfect wingwoman. “We were in the same class together when we were kids. She’s always been bubbly. I think it’s cute when she rambles, don’t you?”
“Yeah, I enjoy working with her. Sweet girl,” he says.
We break out of the field and back around the house, following the dirt road all the way up to the porch. I place my foot on the first step and pause.
“Thanks for showing me the foxes,” I say. “It made this night less sucky.”
“No problem. But don’t say goodbye just yet,” Teddy says, then brushes past me up the porch stairs. “I’m coming inside with you.”
He wipes his hands on his jeans and then holds open the front door for me, gesturing me forward, and I roll my eyes as I head inside the house.
Like every time I visit, I am amazed that nothing ever changes. The wooden flooring still has scuffs and cracks in it, the wallpaper in the hall is painfully floral, and the kitchen cupboards are still hanging on by a thread. This house is in dire need of the renovation that Sheri has planned, but for now the lack of perfection makes me love it all the more. I don’t really want anything to change. I want every room to remain vintage, charming, like old antique memories, because these rooms, exactly as they are now, are the rooms my grandmother once lived in. The rooms she and Popeye raised Sheri and Dad in.
Voices dance through the hall from the living room and I look around the doorframe. Popeye and Dad sit opposite each other, both with a bottle of beer in hand, and Sheri sips from a glass of red wine while fiddling with the old record player in its place on the table by the window. Dad is laughing, and even Popeye is smiling.
“Oh, Mila!” Dad says when he notices my arrival. “You’re back early. I thought you’d want to spend all night with your friends.”
