“Forget it,” Sheri says in a resigned voice. “You’re always out of line.”

  We pull up at the gate where a handful of reporters are still waiting, and all of us know it won’t be long before the rest follow us back from church. Sheri floors it through the opening gate and all the way up the dirt track toward the house. She yanks her keys from the ignition, throws open her door, and strides off. Sheri is relatively composed most of the time; it’s unlike her to be so visibly upset.

  “Good job.” Popeye tuts as he stiffly steps out of the van to follow her. “You ruin everything, Everett.”

  I want to help him, but I’m still rammed into the backseat with my parents on either side of me. The three of us watch as Popeye carefully climbs the porch steps, and then disappears out of sight.

  “You shouldn’t have said that,” Mom says stonily, breaking the silence with a disappointed sigh. She glares at Dad. Maybe I’m in the clear, perhaps the subject has changed, but then Mom crosses her arms and stares me down in the most uncomfortable of ways. “So, is that who you were with yesterday? Blake? ”

  “Yes,” I answer without missing a beat. My voice may be bold and my expression firm, but inside, my heart pounds in my chest and heat surges through my veins. I rarely ever talk back to my parents, but I refuse to let them decide who I can and can’t hang around with. Not now, not ever again. “We went to Nashville with a few other friends. I’m squished. Can we get out of the van now?”

  With a huff, Dad gets out first and I slip out after him. Mom walks around the vehicle to meet us, her and Dad lining up in front of me with very unpleasant expressions on their faces.

  “Welcome home,” Ruben calls from up on the porch, his tone sardonic as ever. “How was church then?”

  Without turning around or even taking his fierce eyes off me, Dad loudly and clearly announces, “We learned that Mila is dating LeAnne Avery’s son. But not for much longer.”

  “LeAnne Avery?” Ruben repeats, and then he recognizes the name. “Oh. The other woman from your early days.” He descends the porch steps and joins my parents, his hands placed sternly on his hips. “Mila, if your father doesn’t want you dating this boy, then you absolutely need to stop seeing him immediately. We are trying to contain a situation here, not create more complications. This relationship of yours clearly has disaster written all over it.”

  “Ruben, enough,” Mom says, then, only slightly less strictly than Dad, “Mila, you can’t date this kid. We have history with his family, and you aren’t staying here forever. I’m sure you’ll find a great guy back home one day. Don’t be difficult about this.”

  I’m still trapped next to the car with my parents and the insufferable Ruben against me – the three of them poised in a line in front of me, all staring back with disapproval and intense pressure. Maybe they expect me to give in to their wishes like I most likely would have done a month ago, but one thing Blake has taught me is that you need to live your own life the way you want to, even if that means causing friction with your parents. It’s a good lesson. LeAnne doesn’t want Blake to pursue music, to be with me, but does that stop him? No.

  “Dad. Mom. Ruben,” I say, my gaze shifting to each of them one at a time. “I’m dating Blake, and the most I can promise you is that I won’t bring him over here.”

  There’s a horrible silence, then: “Your phone,” Dad orders, holding out his hand.

  “What?”

  “Give me your phone.”

  A mixture of resentment and panic seizes me. “You’re kidding, right? No way!”

  Dad looks at me, completely unimpressed. “Mila, I have every right. I pay for your damn phone and whether you like it or not, I do get to have a say in your life. Now, hand it over!”

  “Fine.” I grab it from my skirt pocket, and slap it down hard against Dad’s palm, hoping it stings. “It’s smashed, anyway, so you can buy me a new one. You owe me, after all. I threw it in anger because of you.”

  “Mila!” Mom exclaims, as if appalled by my behavior.

  Dad rubs at his forehead in frustration, turning to his annoying shadow. “Ruben, you’re to speak with Sheri and figure out how Mila left this place. Then make sure she can’t do it again.” He glares at me. “Mila, you aren’t leaving this ranch until it’s time for us all to go home.”

  I try not to laugh. When will he learn to stop throwing these blanket orders at me? “What, like, together?” I scoff. I’m forcing myself to find this hilarious only because if I don’t, I fear my anger will explode until I burst into tears. “How optimistic of you, Dad, to believe everything will be okay when you are literally ruining my entire life!”

  “Don’t be so melodramatic,” says Mom.

  “But it’s true! You – all of you – are controlling every move I make!” It’s spilling out now, all the frustration, and with burning eyes I look at each of them individually. “Not allowed to spend the summer at home, not allowed to leave this ranch, not allowed to have my phone, not allowed to see the guy I like. Blake is the only person who understands the monumental mess that you made.” My glower settles on Dad.

  “Mila, this is for your own good,” he tries, and by his side I see Ruben growing increasingly exasperated, waiting for the right moment to jump in.

  “No,” I snap back, “this is all because you’re so goddamn SELFISH!”

  Dad, Mom, and Ruben share a hopeless look as I break away from them, propelled by fury. It’s like I am a total stranger to them, but how am I ever supposed to figure out who I really am if they’re always controlling my life? Ruben might do most of the groundwork, but I’d be naive to believe my parents don’t expect me to fall into their plans without question. The more I grow up and make my own decisions – and mistakes – the more they have me believing I’m stepping out of line.

  But I’m not.

  I’m just becoming Mila.

  12

  As it turns out, being grounded really does mean grounded.

  Who knows quite what I’ve done to deserve this level of punishment, but for the past four days, I have had no phone access, no contact with the outside world, and absolutely no sanity whatsoever. And the only thing worse than being grounded at a family ranch? Being grounded at a family ranch where every member of that family loathes one another.

  Mealtimes are unbearable. Any attempt at conversation is a disaster. The rift between Dad and Popeye is worse than ever, despite our attempt at a united front at church last week, and Mom and Dad are working through issues together behind closed doors. Ruben spends most of his time criticizing everything while keeping a close eye on my whereabouts and checking the security cameras more often than necessary, thanks to his bullying Sheri into telling him how I escaped the ranch.

  It’s truly been a miserable few days, and I haven’t been afraid to sulk about it.

  “I know you’re angry, Mila,” Dad said last night when he caught me slamming my bedroom door too aggressively. “But things have the potential to get out of control right now. I know, I know – it’s not fair. But it’s not safe for you to be running around town with Blake with all the paparazzi swarming around.”

  Which only angered me even more and resulted in a second door slam.

  “Sheri?” I say as I slide the heavy saddle off Fredo’s back. “I want to ask you something, but I don’t want to be . . . well, rude.”

  Sheri and I are in the stables after our afternoon canter around the fields with some of the horses, a part of our new daily routine to get some fresh air away from the heavy weight of tension bearing down on us inside the house. She guides her horse back into his stall and clicks the wooden door shut.

  “Nothing you say will ever be as rude as what comes out of Ruben’s mouth,” Sheri jokes with an easy smile. She grabs a bucket of straw and hooks it over her arm, turning solemn. “What would you like to ask me, Mila?”

  “You were really upset on Sunday,” I say, swallowing the lump in my throat. I can’t look her in the eye out of fear that I’m about to offend her, so I carry my saddle down the length of the stables to the far wall where all the riding equipment is neatly stored. “Do you wish your life was different? With kids and stuff?” I pause and wait with my back still turned.

  “Mila,” Sheri breathes softly. She appears next to me, setting the iron bucket down with a clink. We glance at each other. “I’d have loved kids, but things haven’t worked out that way. That doesn’t mean I’m not happy.”

  “But is this what you wanted?” I press her. “Doing nearly all the work around the ranch and looking after Popeye by yourself?”

  “No,” Sheri admits, angling toward me, and I return the courtesy. I’m surprised to see that there’s a hint of a smile returning to her face. “But there’s still time to figure things out. I’m working on it. And what about you, honey? How’s the situation with the boyfriend?”

  My eyes roll in embarrassment, and I head back to Fredo, combing my fingers through his thick mane as he emits a soft neigh of satisfaction. “I haven’t spoken to him since church. And that was only for two seconds. Dad took my phone, remember? So Blake is probably wondering why I’m not texting him back.” I grimace into Fredo’s glistening black eyes and pat his elegant neck.

  I’d be lying to myself if I pretended Blake hasn’t been on my mind every damn hour. With each day that passes without being able to check in with him, the more my anxiety builds. I probably have a thousand missed calls from him. So many unread texts. I even tried to sneak onto Sheri’s desktop computer in the middle of the night to connect with Blake on social media. Hunt him down on Facebook, find his Instagram. But Ruben changed all my passwords, so I couldn’t even gain access to my accounts in the first place. I don’t know when my parents plan to stop holding me and my freedom hostage, so who knows how much longer I’ll have to wait to see him again, let alone talk to him? I’ve been cut off from the outside world completely. I wish I hadn’t warned him not to call the landline.

  Sheri approaches and places a hand against Fredo’s neck. She strokes him for a moment as she zones out, her gaze hovering just beyond my shoulder, like she’s contemplating an important decision. Then her eyes shift to meet mine.

  “Here,” she says. “Call your boyfriend.”

  I stare at the cellphone she holds out for me as though it’s something rare and unusual. “But I don’t know his number.”

  “Hmm. Well, I have Patsy Bennett’s number,” Sheri says, forcing her phone into my hand with a mischievous smirk. “Start there. C’mon, Fredo.”

  As Sheri guides Fredo off to his stall to get him settled, I flip an empty bucket around and sit down, cradling the phone in my hands like a prized possession. The stables are a haven of privacy – neither Mom, Dad, nor Ruben have ventured out here in the time they’ve been at the ranch. Horses are too “country” for them, which is why Sheri and I escape out here so frequently. It’s the only place on the ranch where we feel like we can breathe.

  First, I call Patsy Bennett’s cell number, and ask her to pass me over to her daughter, Savannah – who is very relieved to hear from me after days of radio silence – and who then very kindly provides me with Blake’s number. I nervously drum my fingers against the side of the bucket as I listen to the phone ring.

  “Hey. Blake Avery here,” he answers.

  The sound of his voice alone has me smiling already. “That’s how you answer calls from strange numbers?”

  “Mila?” Blake says in surprise as his polite, chirpy tone instantly switches back to his usual low huskiness. “I always hope when new numbers call it’s someone finally calling me back about my requests for a gig at their bar. But no luck so far. Anyway, where the hell have you been? I’ve been calling for days.”

  “Hell is about right, but never mind that.” Then I blurt, “I want to see you,” but for once I don’t feel embarrassed by my upfront honesty.

  “I’ll come meet you at the wall.”

  “No,” I say. “I can’t leave. And they know I climbed the wall last time.”

  “Then how are you getting out?”

  My gaze wanders to Sheri, who is now grooming one of the other horses at the opposite end of the stables. She is already doing too much by letting me call Blake, but a phone call isn’t going to cut it. I need to see him, to get out of this toxic ranch and enjoy a normal summer with him. It’s going to mean trouble for me. A lot of trouble. But the very sound of his voice fills me with longing. I’ve had enough. “The same way as everyone else,” I finally answer. “The gate.”

  Sheri knows this is a terrible idea, but surely as my aunt, it’s her duty to let me make decisions that my parents would never agree to. She doesn’t promise to lie for me or distract Ruben from the security cameras, but she does scrawl her number on the back of my hand in case of an emergency. She knows that my parents are the last people I’d want to call if things go wrong during my forbidden journey outside the ranch – again.

  “Are you sure you can handle them on your own?” Sheri asks in a low voice, grimacing toward the gate in the distance. We can hear the faint buzz of voices, the press still here days later, though admittedly the crowd is dwindling as time passes and new headlines steal everyone’s attention. That’s the one thing about Hollywood you can always rely on: the spotlight is forever moving.

  “Head down, lips sealed,” I say, pretending to zip my lips shut.

  “Okay. I’m off to grab a shower so that I can say I didn’t witness you leave,” says Sheri. She gives me a hug, brushes the straw off her jeans, then heads inside the house.

  This is my moment. Blake should be here by now, my parents are wrapped up in another one of their intense conversations, Ruben is pacing the kitchen on a phone call, and Popeye is upstairs in his bedroom with his head in an old western novel – something he has resorted to doing every day as an excuse to stay clear of Dad and Ruben.

  I race down the porch steps and sprint toward the gate, fully aware that my every move is being captured on the Harding Estate’s security cameras, but by the time anyone notices, I’ll be out of here. Pointing the remote at the gate, I unlock it and tip my sunglasses down over my eyes.

  And then I brace, brace, brace.

  “MILA, HOW IS YOUR RELATIONSHIP WITH YOUR FATHER?”

  I hug my arms around myself, arrange my features into a nondescript expression and force my way through. Cameras flash and the shuttering of lenses drills into me.

  “ARE YOUR PARENTS CONSIDERING A DIVORCE?”

  Bodies close in around me. I can see Blake’s truck idling down the street, waiting. My path gets blocked by a pap barging in front of me, video camera rolling.

  “IS IT TRUE YOU’VE BEEN HERE IN FAIRVIEW FOR THE PAST MONTH?”

  Obviously, the press has been prowling around town finding locals willing to dish some dirt. Nice. It’s unsurprising, really. After all, it’s basically public knowledge at this point. But I still don’t give the media the satisfaction of having me confirm it.

  “Excuse me,” are the only words that leave my mouth. My tone is polite, but incredibly firm. There are other phrases I wouldn’t mind saying, but I’d like to keep my dignity – and, anyway, Ruben would throttle me if I got caught on video telling the paps to, well, you know.

  I only need to reach Blake’s truck, and then he’ll whisk me off to safety. Only twenty yards to go. So close. I just need this menace of a pap to get out of my way. I can barely take another step and I’m starting to feel claustrophobic, like the oxygen around me is being sucked into a vortex.

  “Let her through!”

  Through the tint of my sunglasses, I see Blake barge his way through the crowd, elbows pointed outward like weapons. He grasps my hand and pulls me with him, forcing his way forward with me close behind him, protected. I bury my face into the back of his T-shirt and trust his guidance, but someone else has grabbed my arm.

  “MILA, DO YOU BELIEVE LAUREL PEYTON PURSUED YOUR FATHER?” a gruff voice yells into my face, so close to me his camera whacks my shoulder.

  “Don’t touch me!” I scream, freaking out and shaking my arm in an attempt to loosen his grip.

  But his fingernails dig into my skin, making me flinch, and my heart skips a beat in panic and fear. The paparazzi usually respect some kind of boundaries, but after days of no activity at the gate, they are clearly growing desperate.

  “HOW DO YOU FEEL ABOUT YOUR DAD CHEATING ON YOUR MOM?”

  “She said don’t touch her,” Blake growls, and before I can even register what he’s doing in time to stop him, his fist spirals through the air.

  Blake slugs the guy square in the jaw with such force that he stumbles back a few steps and drops his equipment to the floor. Cameras flash at lightning speed, voices erupt, other photographers surge forward to steady their colleague. My mouth hangs open, stunned, as there’s a break in the thickly packed crowd and Blake seizes the opening to haul us both out of here.

  We hightail it to the truck, the engine already running, and with the screeching of tires and a plume of exhaust smoke trailing behind us, Blake stomps on the gas pedal. We tear down the country road so fast no one even tries to chase after us.

  Terrified, I scramble to secure my seatbelt, one hand pressed to the dashboard. “Why did you . . . Why did you just do that?” I gasp.

  It’s the one major rule: never, ever, ever lay a hand on the paparazzi. But Blake isn’t a part of Dad’s crazy world. He acted to defend me. He doesn’t know the rules.

  Still, Blake has gone a shade paler, seemingly in shock at his own actions. He stares wide-eyed ahead at the road as he drives beyond the speed limit. “I don’t even know. That guy was grabbing you, I didn’t even think, and I just . . . Damnit!” He smacks his hand against the steering wheel.

  I push my sunglasses up into my hair and place my hand on Blake’s thigh. He’s panicking over the potentially severe consequences of his lack of temper control, and although I know he should be worried, I also want to put him at ease. After all, he did just punch a stranger in the face for me. “Honestly?” I say. “I’m just jealous I didn’t do it myself.”