Page 24 of Becoming Mila
“Maaan!” he groans dramatically and bangs his hand a couple times against the rim of the steering wheel. “You clearly don’t have a single drop of southern spirit running through your blood. You’re from here! From Nashville! Music city! Only thehomeof honky tonks! And you don’t know what they are?”
“Are you going to tell me?”
He shakes his head in disapproval. “Somewhere that plays live country music.Obviously.”
“I should have guessed,” I say with a roll of my eyes. Every time I’ve been in Blake’s truck, he has played country music. Country pop, country acoustic, now country rock. . . He is super stereotypical for a Tennessee kid.
“I’m taking you to my favorite,” he continues. “Honky Tonk Central on lower Broadway. They serve good food there too. And don’t even. . .” He briefly squeezes his eyes shut and inhales. “Don’t evendaretell me you don’t know what a meat and three sides is.”
“Hey!” I hold up my hands. “Of course I know.”
Blake runs a hand up the nape of his neck, flashing me a smile. “Well, there’s something.”
We leave behind the country roads of the Fairview outskirts and head out of town on the highway. Blake’s playlist keeps us company for most of the drive, though he constantly switches the volume from too-loud-to-thinkto just-low-enough-to-hear whenever one of us tries to speak. He tells me more about honky tonks while I try not to snicker whenever he says those words and we chat a little about Nashville, so the topics we cover are all safe. Safe because we don’t talk about ourselves too much, and he doesn’t mention my father, and I certainly don’t mention his mother. So, we stick to random chat about music until half an hour later when he parks in downtown Nashville.
“Wait,” Blake says when I release my seatbelt and reach for the door handle. I pause and raise an eyebrow. “Just a heads up. This isn’t Hollywood, so it’s not glamorous or anything. Don’t expect too much.”
My lips form a tight line. “Why do you need to justify it to me?”
Blake doesn’t have an answer. He eyes bore into mine as he reads my expression, then he shrugs guiltily. “I don’t, I guess. I just assumed you’re used to places much. . . higher-class than the one I’m about to take you to.”
“That doesn’t mean I won’t like it.”
Do I come across as a spoiled brat to him or something? I’ve grown up with a lot more privilege than most kids, sure, but Mom always taught me to be humble. It’s been embedded in me since a young age that I’m incredibly lucky and to appreciate the life I live, and Mom has always been a hell of a lot more frugal than Dad is. Dad churns his way through new cars every couple months, whereas Mom still uses the same handbag he bought her for her birthday six years ago even though the seams are fraying. My allowance has always been capped, too – once it’s spent, that’s it. No more for the rest of the month. If Ireallywant something bad enough, I only need to bat my eyelashes at Dad, but I never do. In that respect I’m much more like Mom.
That’s why Blake’s assumption grates on me – it seems kind of judgmental.
“Okay,” Blake says, exhaling. He climbs out of the truck and I follow suit.
The final remnants of sunshine that lingered on the way here are gone, the sky deepening with blue and streaks of pink above the streets of Nashville. The air is still hot and sticky, and it’snoisy.Traffic and the purring of car engines; voices and the tinkle of music. I inhale the scent of sizzling meat and my mouth waters.
It’s so nice to look up and see buildings leaning over me, rather than staring out across the ranch and seeingnothing. Despite starting out in Fairview, I think I was always destined to be a city girl. I love the commotion, the sea of new faces, the endless opportunities that present themselves. Sometimes, my friends and I back home just head out without any plans in mind, ready to roll with the tide and see what LA has in store for us. The city is full of possibilities and that’s what is so enchanting – you never know exactly where it will take you.
It’s been a couple years since I visited Nashville, and although it’s an entirely different world to LA, it still holds that promise of home to me. My passport states Nashville as my place of birth, so I guess Iama Tennessee kid after all.
My steps are perfectly in sync with Blake’s as I follow him on autopilot while my head is on a swivel, eyes wide to take in my surroundings. We turn onto Broadway and are suddenly thrust into the heart of the city. The Bridgestone Arena stretches out in front of me and I glance down the street, pulled in by the quirky neon signs that illuminate the evening sky. There’s an array of different musical genres blending together, emitting from rooftop patios, and I see the endless choice of grills and restaurants where that delicious smell of food wafts from. Groups of friends mingle on the sidewalks, their laughter the soundtrack of happy summer evenings. Downtown Nashville has a unique buzz, its own little bubble filled with good spirits (everyone is happy), good food (I assume), and good music (obviously – we’re inNashville).
“Huh,” Blake says, and I snap out of my engrossed daze.
“What?”
He regards me with a faint smile, like he has been watching me for a while. “Nothing.”
We keep moving, heading down Broadway, until I’m drawn to a sharp halt by a life-size Elvis Presley figure outside a souvenir store. It’s the most Nashville-y thingever,so I pull out my phone to snap a picture. I’m mentally preparing a witty caption and hashtag in my head when I remember that I have no access to my social media accounts anymore. And even if I did, it’s not like I could post anything, anyway. Low profile, head down and all that. What a fun summer vacation, thanks to Ruben and, well. . .Dad, I guess. He did after all agree with Ruben that sending me here was the best decision. Not for me, but for his public image.
That thought runs through my head a little too intensely, stalling me. I don’t really think that. I don’t believe for a second that Dad really cares about his career more than he cares about me, but the tightness in my chest makes me wonder. . .
Wow, where did that thought come from?
“I think it’s kind of unfair to count Elvis Presley as a country icon when his heart was mostly in rock and roll,” Blake comments next to me. We are still standing by the figure, the photo I took displayed on my phone. I swallow and shove the device back into my purse. At least Blake is oblivious to my momentary standstill, and I welcome the distraction, even if it is only him babbling on about music again.
“You really love your country music, don’t you?” I ask.
A flash of color rises in Blake’s cheeks and he holds up his hands in surrender. “I’m a born and bred Nashville guy. What else do you expect?” He cracks a smile, then nods ahead. “There. On the corner. That’s the promised land.”
I follow the direction of his gaze and on the corner of the block Honky Tonk Central is bustling with revelers. The orange brick building is lined with balconies where people mingle in the fresh air, flashing lights flicker from inside, and I’m pretty sure a lot of the music I hear right now is coming from there. Groups spill through the front doors beneath the electric blueHonky Tonk Centralsigns. It’s clearly the prime social hotspot, smack dab in the middle of Nashville’s main street, but. . .
“It’s a bar.” I can’t hide the deflated look on my face when I turn to Blake in confusion. Last time I checked, I was still only sixteen, and him seventeen.
