Though I’m not sure I really want to know, I can’t help myself. “What happened?”

  Sheri looks at me for a moment, seemingly debating whether she should involve me in this mayhem, then clearly makes up her mind. “Well, it was all very civil at first with your parents, but then suddenly the whole damn house was shaking from their yelling. It sounded like your mom had a few choice words she needed to get off her chest, but I can’t say that your dad took it lying down. Popeye got so fed up he retreated to the shed.” She shakes her head with a smile that’s somewhere between sadness and frustration. “Anyway, I guess it’s good that they got things aired.” Then, changing the subject, she can’t help but examine my hair, running her fingers through its soft texture before stepping back to tell me, “I love this look on you.”

  “Thanks,” I whisper, then because I’m bursting to share my news: “Can you keep a secret?”

  “Of course!”

  I reach out for Sheri’s wrists and pull her close to me again, checking over her shoulder that my parents are definitely gone, then I meet her curious gaze. “Blake asked me to be his girlfriend.” I twinkle my eyes at her. “I said yes. Obviously.”

  “Oh, Mila, Mila, Mila,” Sheri gasps. “If only you weren’t already in trouble, you definitely would be now.”

  10

  I don’t know how we manage to sit down for breakfast together.

  Well, we’re not exactly gathered around the kitchen table, but still, we’re all in the same room and no one is yelling. That has to count for something.

  I’m chewing my cereal as quietly as possible, careful not to disturb the awkward silence, while Mom pokes her knife into her poached eggs opposite me, a zoned-out look on her face. Sheri is frying bacon while Ruben leans against the counter next to her, unimpressed by the chipped Dumbo the Elephant mug he’s chugging his instant coffee out of. Dad, on the other hand, has his hands pressed to the window frame and is totally still as he looks out over the ranch. And Popeye? Popeye stares at Dad, his rage bubbling just beneath the surface as he sucks on an endless number of Jolly Ranchers – his chosen method of stress-relief.

  “Are you going to look at me?”

  I stop mid-crunch. Sheri clatters the tongs against the frying pan. We all turn to Popeye, who has spoken for the first time this morning – everyone, that is, except the one person he has directed the question at.

  Dad bows his head at the window, and I see his shoulders drop. Quietly, he says, “What, Dad?”

  Popeye smacks his hand hard against the cabinet. “Look at me, son!”

  I’m on pause, fearful that I’ll choke on my breakfast if I don’t breathe soon, but I’m wide-eyed and taken aback by Popeye’s outburst. I know he and Dad talked the morning after Dad and Ruben arrived, but they have been dancing around each other since then. I’m not sure what they spoke about, but Dad is definitely still walking on eggshells.

  The bacon sizzles unattended on the stove behind Sheri. Ruben’s eyes are closed as he rubs at his temples. Mom glances rapidly between Dad and Popeye, a look of concern on her face.

  Dad, after the longest pause in history, turns around. He locks eyes with Popeye and through stiff lips he says again, “What, Dad?”

  “Was that so hard, Everett? To look at me?” Popeye remarks. “You’re staying in my house. The least you could do is stop actively avoiding me, but maybe you’re too ashamed of yourself.”

  “Hey, c’mon now, Wesley,” Ruben says as he hastens over to Dad’s side like the ultimate protector. I mean, how dare someone talk to the great Everett Harding like that?

  Popeye snaps his head around. “It’s Mr. Harding to you.”

  “Mr. Harding,” Ruben reluctantly corrects, spreading his hands wide. “Let’s not raise our voices, huh? Let’s just be calm and civilized.”

  Flabbergasted, Popeye can’t even muster a reply. He stares agape at Ruben as though he is truly from another planet, and I don’t blame him. Ruben, for as much as he’s aided Dad over the years, can also be a bit of a bumbling idiot when it comes to reading the room.

  “No,” Dad says. He extends his arm in front of Ruben’s chest, keeping him back, as he steps forward and fastens his weary gaze on Popeye. “Let him vent. C’mon, Dad. Tell me exactly what it is you wish to say to me. What you’ve wanted to say out loud for years.”

  “Ooookay! ” Sheri turns the stove down and flaps a dishtowel over the bacon as she dashes over. “Everett, Dad, stop it.”

  But they don’t stop.

  Popeye moves forward too until he and Dad are in each other’s faces. They are equal in height. It’s the strongest I’ve seen Popeye all summer, with his shoulders broadened and his hands balled into fists by his side. They tremble, but still. Popeye kinda looks like a badass.

  “I think,” he snarls, “that you will never be happy. You can’t just settle for a normal existence like the rest of us. You always want more, more, more. More glamor, more adulation. More attention. Nothing is ever good enough for you, is it? Not this ranch, not us – your family.”

  I flinch, but Dad seems to take it in his stride. “Here we go again!” he groans, like a bored kid. “How dare I want more out of my life than the family ranch? How dare I not want what you want for me? That’s what it’s really all about, isn’t it?” Dad scoffs. “I’m not sorry, Dad – not even a little – for living my own life.”

  “Everett,” I hear Mom caution as she stands from the table.

  “You know why I don’t visit?” Dad continues, jaw clenched in fury now. “Because you look at me like dirt. You can’t admit that I actually made it, that I provide better for my family than I ever could have if we’d stayed here living what you like to call a normal existence.”

  I finally swallow my mouthful of soggy cereal and clink my spoon down hard against the bowl. As Dad glares into Popeye’s face, I notice something in his eyes, something other than rage. There is pain. Dad is hurt.

  Over the past few weeks, I couldn’t help but notice the way Popeye spoke badly of Dad and his choices in life. How flippantly he dismissed Dad’s success and the tone of disapproval whenever he spoke of him. I tried not to overthink it, but I can’t dismiss that Popeye, sweet but oh-so-old-fashioned Popeye, was never all that supportive of Dad’s – to him, unfathomable – dreams. And until right now, I never considered what that would feel like for Dad, but that flicker of a lifetime of disappointment in his eyes makes me wonder. I thought Dad didn’t visit because he was too busy living the high life to care about the small town he left behind. I didn’t imagine for even a second that perhaps he didn’t go home often because this small town makes him feel rejected.

  Popeye shifts on his feet, narrowing his eyes at Dad. “You think I want to be proud of a son who can’t remain faithful? Who has no morals? Who will stop at nothing to get his own way? You traded in LeAnne Avery for Marnie when LeAnne was smart enough to suggest you pursue a sensible degree, because if anyone has the audacity to challenge you, you throw them out of your life!”

  I am totally rooted to my chair, my body frozen. This is . . . intense. Are there any boundaries that Popeye and Dad won’t cross? How the hell did we ever survive Thanksgiving dinner together once upon a time? How much effort did my family have to put into maintaining a facade to protect me as a kid?

  “How many times do we need to talk about LeAnne?” Dad snaps. “I already explained that to you – two decades ago! Why do you have to bring her up again now?”

  “Enough.” Mom’s voice cuts through the strained atmosphere, and suddenly she is by Dad’s side, pulling him back from Popeye. I’m finding it extremely confusing to watch – Mom, who’s supposed to be furious at Dad, stepping in to remove him from the situation. Her hand tightens on his arm, tugging him away.

  “I smell burning,” Ruben says, sniffing the air, and for a moment I’m even more confused – can he smell flames leaping out from the massive episode of Harding drama being acted out in front of us?

  “The bacon!” Sheri gasps at the exact same second the fire alarm goes off.

  This is, officially, the biggest breakfast disaster of my life.

  Mom pulls Dad from the kitchen, the two of them disappearing in the midst of the ear-piercing beeps, while Ruben remains leaning against the counter. He wears a look of indifferent weariness as he watches Sheri grab the sizzling frying pan full of charcoaled bacon from the stove and a grumbling Popeye pull out a chair to stand on to turn off the fire alarm.

  Chaos. There is no other word for it. Complete and utter chaos.

  I make a swift exit from the kitchen in search of my parents, and I find them in the living room, face to face. Dad is seething. His shoulders rise and fall with his deep, angry breaths, and his nostrils flare. Mom offers her hands out to him, trying to calm him down. I watch from the doorway. What is this? It’s not that I don’t want my parents to stay together despite everything, it’s just that it feels a bit too soon to find Mom being there for him like this.

  I move into the room, my steps light. “Mom? Dad?”

  Mom steps away from him, almost guiltily, and Dad turns his head. The sheer intensity of emotion I can read on his face would honestly have me believe that he was in the middle of rehearsing a scene for an upcoming movie. I’ve never seen Dad, in real life, look such a mess.

  “I’m sorry, Mila. I know he’s your grandfather, and I shouldn’t talk to him like that in front of you, but I just . . .” He exhales a long breath. “I need a minute.”

  He strides out of the room and his footsteps can be heard on the stairs. Mom looks at me, and I throw my hands up in that universal signature of “what the hell is going on?”

  “Aren’t you mad at him?” I ask.

  “Of course I am,” Mom says, then pushes her hair off her face with her manicured fingers. “But your dad and your grandpa . . . It’s a sensitive subject. I know how much it hurts him.”

  “Hurts who? Popeye?”

  Mom gives me a strange look, as though I should know this. “No, Mila. Your dad.”

  I’m trying to make sense of her words when Ruben dashes into the room, Dumbo mug still in hand, bringing the smell of scorched bacon with him. “Where is he?”

  Mom stares at him in despair, but eventually answers with a nod to indicate “upstairs.” Ruben turns to leave, and I wonder if I should stop him. I doubt Dad will appreciate Ruben chasing him down when all he seems to want is a second to himself.

  “Let’s hurry up and get to church so I can pray that he sees sense one day,” Popeye mumbles a moment later as he follows Sheri into the living room. She has broken out into a sweat and loose strands of hair wisp around her cheeks. Meanwhile, Popeye is still a ball of unfiltered anger.

  “Church?” Ruben repeats as he sticks his head back around the doorway, having overheard Popeye. “I’m sorry, but unless that church is stationed right here on your ranch, Wesley, then I’m going to ask that you don’t attend.”

  “Mr. Harding! ” Popeye snaps, turning to point a finger at Ruben. At this point, I’m amazed Popeye hasn’t kicked his LA ass out on the street for his consistent lack of respect.

  Ruben holds up his hands apologetically, but it’s painfully clear that he doesn’t actually care. “I was saying,” he continues, “that it’s best not to go to church today. We have lots of visitors outside, remember? And, Mr. Harding, they will follow you.”

  “Those lowdown scavengers! They won’t stop me from living my life!”

  “He has a point,” I say, and Ruben fixes me with a death stare.

  “Ruben, it’s a Sunday and we will be attending church,” Sheri decrees. No apologies. Good for her. They shouldn’t be sorry for getting on with their normal lives, the same way I’m not sorry for disappearing yesterday with my friends and Blake.

  Oh, excuse me. My boyfriend.

  My boyfriend who will also be at church today.

  “I’m going too,” I say in a voice so chirpy it surprises even me. “We go every week.”

  “Maybe we should all go.”

  The sound of Dad’s voice entering the conversation startles us all. He appears at the doorway, a little behind Ruben, and interlaces his fingers behind his head while taking a deep breath. In the minute that he’s been gone, he seems to have pulled himself together and appears much more composed. But he could be acting, I guess.

  “You don’t go to church,” Ruben huffs, shaking his head in astonishment.

  “But maybe I should,” Dad says steadily. “I used to go every Sunday when I was a kid.”

  Sheri glances nervously at Popeye, and Popeye cocks his head at Dad. “You’re seriously deluded if you think you’re going to show up at our church just so you can look good to the media.”

  “No, no, no.” Ruben begins to pace the room the way he always does when he’s in a tailspin and trying not to panic. “This is such a bad idea, Everett. They are just waiting to pounce on you out there.”

  Dad ignores Ruben’s attempt at reasoning – which, to his credit, is sensible – and keeps his eyes trained on Popeye with the occasional glance at Sheri.

  “You think I want to get harassed?” Dad asks. He is much calmer than earlier, but there is still a distinct undertow of exasperation in his voice. “Just consider, for one damn second, that maybe I want to go to church because I think it will be good for us all to attend. As a family.”

  “In that case,” Ruben adds, “I’ll come with you.”

  “No, not this time,” Dad tells him. “It’s best that it’s family only.”

  Ruben flinches as if physically wounded. Dad’s his one and only client and they have worked together for years. It’s very unlike Dad to go against what he recommends.

  “Are you sure?” Mom asks, but only because I think she’s unsure of the idea.

  Dad nods, then looks at Popeye with an odd mixture of pleading and loathing in his eyes. This is hard for him, but he knows it must be done, however reluctantly. “Dad, this is an olive branch that I am offering you. Please accept it.”

  Popeye twists his hands, undecided.

  “I think Everett is right,” Sheri says in a quiet voice as she casts a glance at Popeye, like she’s afraid he’ll accuse her of taking Dad’s side over his. “Maybe it will be good for us.”

  But wait. Have they actually thought this through?

  The spark of excitement I felt at realizing Blake will be at church is now matched by a lurch of serious apprehension.

  If Blake’s there, then his mom will be too . . .

  Even if we get past the hordes at the gate unscathed, I have no idea how my parents will deal with LeAnne Avery.

  Popeye clears his throat; he has made a decision. “Okay. This family is going to church.”

  11

  It’s like bracing for impact in those nanoseconds of realization before your car collides with another. This sickening feeling of absolute doom while your stomach drops, and all you can do is cling to your seatbelt and brace, brace, brace.

  That’s how it feels to be facing the Harding Estate gate, waiting for it to swing open and for the car to be swarmed. It’s inevitable, and it’s something my parents and I are used to. Popeye and Sheri, on the other hand, are in for a shock. I don’t think they realize just how crazy the next couple of minutes will be.

  “Visors down,” Dad orders.

  I am wedged in the backseat between Dad and Mom, Popeye rides shotgun, and Sheri sits a bundle of shaky nerves behind the wheel of her minivan. She pulls down her sun visor, then reaches out to do the same for Popeye. It barely makes a difference, but anything that attempts to shield us a little more is worth trying.

  “Can’t even leave my own home without being attacked,” Popeye grumbles, which is only slightly melodramatic. We aren’t going to be attacked. The van, however . . .

  Sheri grabs the remote from the center console and opens the gate.

  We all sit rigid as the gate electronically sweeps open to reveal the throng outside. They grab their cameras and bunch together in one frantic, scrambling huddle, pulling forward into the open gap the gate has left. They know better than to take a single step onto the property, as they could then be arrested for trespassing, so they stay as close as possible to the boundary like a solid, defiant barrier.

  “They’re blocking the road!” Sheri says as the cameras begin to flash.

  “Just drive forward,” Dad directs. “They’ll move.”

  Sheri looks like she may pass out at the thought of potentially ramming a crowd of paparazzi, but Dad’s right. They always move. No picture of Everett Harding is worth the cost of a hospital visit.

  The van creeps forward, and forward, and forward . . .

  Until we are in the midst of the crowd that circles every inch of the van. I hear the rumble of metal as bodies press against our vehicle and see blinding flashing as cameras are shoved up against the windows, mostly focused on the backseat to see if the elusive Everett Harding has finally emerged.

  Next to me, Dad has his chin tucked down tight against his chest and his hands shield his face over a pair of sunglasses. On my other side, Mom hides beneath her big, woolen shawl. As for me and my not-so-subtle pink hair, I don’t even try to hide. What’s the point? It’s obvious that we’re all here together, so I just stare blankly straight ahead at some of the paps nearly throwing themselves onto the hood of the van.

  Despite the windows being closed, there is no way to shut out the muffled voices. It is painful to listen to; there is nothing to do but ignore it. Popeye gets especially shifty in the passenger seat.

  “EVERETT, WHERE IS LAUREL PEYTON NOW?”

  “MARNIE, HAVE YOU FORGIVEN HIM?”