Page 42 of The Making of Mila and Blake
As the evening draws closer to seven, Blake’s set time, the sun sits low on the horizon and the atmosphere vibrates with energy, an undercurrent of electricity beneath our feet. Tourists pass by in waves, all beaming smiles and laughter, and the usual rich scent of grilled meat fills every breath I take. Just the mere tinkle of a musician’s performance spilling from a nearby bar makes my heart feel full. Broadway is so vibrant and colorful, so full of life, and no matter how many times I walk this street, the feeling of homenever ceases to hit me strongly. God, I love Nashville.Somuch.
“She’s in a trance again,” I hear Savannah remark, and I break my focus from the Elvis Presley figure I still, to this day, remember snapping pictures of when Blake first took me to the city. “You do that everytime, Mila.”
“Do what?”
“Stare in fascination as though you haven’t been here a gazillion times before,” Savannah says, and she purses her lips. For the first time tonight, I notice her earrings are a design of two tiny humans embraced in a hug. “I know you’re tired of me saying it, but I really think you should have chosen Belmont. You should move here.”
“San Diego awaits,” I remind her.
“Ooooh, San Diego,” Tori says with great sarcasm and dramatic jazz hands.
I roll my eyes and push her hands away, but the doubt I already have about choosing San Diego State over Belmont University here in Nashville only increases. I’ve kept it at the back of my mind while I’ve been here, prioritizing enjoying my vacation rather than stressing about such a huge life decision, and I mentally tell myself torelax.There is no point worrying over it now. The decision is already made, and I chose San Diego.
Honky Tony Central rises in the distance, the red-bricked building with the open-air patios luring me in like a long-lost friend. As usual, the weeknights are always a little bit quieter than the weekends, but there’s already a decent crowd. Groups of friends chat over beers on the upstairs patios and downstairs the stage lights shine. There is always a bouncer on the doors, and tonight is no exception as he blocks our path. But it’s the friendly guy with the toothy grin, whose muscular shoulders are the only intimidating thing about him.
“Evening, girls! Here for food or for Blake Avery’s gig?”
“We’re here for Blake,” I answer.Butterflies.
The bouncer sidesteps to let us pass. “He finishes at eight, so leave promptly, okay?”
The three of us nod in agreement and make our way inside. We know the rules: No minors after eight.
Honky Tonk Central, I decide, is my favorite place in the world. It remains consistent over time, never changing. The twang of a guitar and the drawl of Southern voices beats from the speakers as a two-man band rocks out on the small stage by the door, drawing revelers to the dance floor, and waitresses swiftly maneuver around tables with plates of delicious nachos, wings and Blake’s favorite, quesadillas. Everything is so alive in here, so pumped with energy and fast-paced, and there’s still two whole other floors above. Blake plays down here on the first floor, where his performance will be heard even by those passing by outside. Tori is quick to snatch us a table. Not that we’ll need it; we’ll spend all of Blake’s gig on the dance floor.
I clock Blake by the overcrowded bar. With his arm propped up on the bar top, he laughs in ease as he banters with the bartender who passes him an ice-cold bottle of water. There are only fifteen minutes until his set begins, and he ought to hydrate like hell before he gets up beneath the burn of the stage lights.
“I’m going to talk to Blake before his set starts,” I tell Savannah and Tori, but before either of them can reply, I am already dancing my way through the honky tonk, shimmying around the crowd and full ofallthe happy vibes. I refuse to let anything ruin tonight’s show.
Stealthily, I sneak behind Blake and cover his eyes with my hands. “Guess who?”
“Hi, Mila.” Blake reaches up to touch my hands, then skims his fingertips down my arm before I finally grant him his vision back. He twists around to face me and despite all of the buzz surrounding us, the moment his brown eyes meet mine, it feels like we are the only two people in the room. “You made it.”
“I did,” I confirm with a grin, “and I promise I willnotmess this up for you.”
His mouth twitches with a smirk and he steps closer, his chest pressing against mine as he sweeps my hair back behind my ear, his hand hovering over my cheek. “Come grab my guitar with me,” he says by my ear, his warm breath tickling my skin. His hand travels down my body from my cheek to my wrist and shockwaves zap through me as he laces our fingers together.
He guides me away from the bar, through the crowd and toward the stairs. I catch Savannah and Tori watching us with suggestive, teasing expressions as we head up to the second floor, and then the third, and then through a tiny door at the back that leads into a cramped room. In here, the noise outside is muffled, shutting us off from the world.
“Staff room,” Blake says, releasing my hand.
Lockers line the rear wall, yet bags and pieces of clothing remain scattered all over the couches. On the counter, among a mess of deodorants and lipsticks, sits Blake’s guitar case.
“It’s been so long since I last saw this,” I muse with a wistful sigh. I run my hand over the hard case and glance at Blake. “Are you still playing your Gibson Hummingbird?”
A sense of amazement flickers across his face that I’ve remembered the guitar he plays. How could I not? He never ceased to remind me that it was a “Gibson fucking Hummingbird,”as though I was supposed to know what that even meant.
“I sure am,” he says, moving to join me in front of the case. He undoes the latches and lifts the lid, revealing the mahogany wood guitar inside. “I’ve tried out a couple of others recently, but nothing ever comes close to how the Hummingbird feels when I play.”
He removes the guitar from its case, swings the strap around him, and then leans back on the arm of one of the old couches. With his tongue between his teeth in concentration, he strums a few notes and then fiddles with the strings, obsessively fine-tuning before he goes on stage in approximately ten minutes.
“I have to get something off my chest,” I say in between his test rifts.
Blake flattens his palm over the strings, abruptly silencing the tune. He lifts his head and eyes me warily.
“It’s nothing bad,” I reassure him with a wavering laugh. “It’s actually super embarrassing.”
“What?”
