Page 47 of The Making of Mila and Blake
Blake narrows his gaze. “But do youwantto go to San Diego?”
My stomach twisting with nausea, I take a deep breath. This is the question that has haunted me for months, the San Diego State University versus Belmont University debate. I chose to apply to San Diego, so of course some small part of me knew I’d be happy going there if I was accepted, but it has never felt quite right to me. My heart longs for Nashville, for Belmont, but I couldn’t bring myself to accept my place at the same school as Blake.
But that was back then, before we were standing together on Broadway, our gazes intensely locked. If I had to make that same decision now, my choice would have been different. I would have picked the Harding Estate, Popeye and Sheri, the lights of Broadway, laughter with Savannah and Tori. And I would pick Blake. Choosing Belmont is choosing a lot more than just school.
“It doesn’t matter anymore,” I whisper.
“Are you free Friday?” Blake asks, and I nod. “I’ll show you around campus. I just want you to imagine yourself there, and don’t say no. Now c’mon. Can you hear my voice? I sound like I’ve been strangled to death.” He points to his throat, but I don’t dare admit that I think the scratchy, hoarse tone of his voice is incredibly seductive. “This way for ice cream.”
Although the discussion of my college choice is over, it still gnaws at me as Blake rounds the corner onto 2nd Avenue. I haven’t explored much of the downtown area other than Broadway, but the avenues are just as buzzing with commotion. More bars, more restaurants, and there’s of course a store specializing in cowboy boots. Our destination, however, is a small store named “Mike’s Ice Cream” with giant, plastic ice cream cones on the sidewalk outside.
“Get ready for the best ice cream of your life,” Blake says.
We join the line extending out of the store, but it moves quickly and soon we are at the counter, presented with an abundance of flavors. Blake orders a s’mores sundae without a moment of hesitation, but I spend what feels like five solid minutes staring indecisively at the menu before playing it safe with a hot fudge sundae. We get them to go, and we use Dad’s cash to pay.
“There’s a nice spot down here,” Blake says as we squeeze our way out of the narrow store and back into the humid evening air.
We cross over the block toward the Cumberland River, descend the grass and sit down on some concrete steps overlooking the water. The river is still and calm, the pink of the sky reflecting on its surface, and the glow of a nearby streetlight casts a shadow over Blake’s features. He stretches out his long legs and picks the cherry off the top of his sundae, tossing it into his mouth. A few seconds later, he presents me with a knotted stem on the tip of his tongue.
“You know what this means, right?” he teases, and I roll my eyes. I already know how good of a kisser he is, and if he wishes to prove it, he certainly doesn’t need to tie a cherry knot with his tongue. He can demonstrate on me.
“Have mine,” I say, flicking the cherry from my sundae over to him and gathering a spoonful of whipped cream and nuts for myself. The sundae is ice cold against my hands, sending a shiver down my spine even in the warmth of the July evening.
Blake polishes off the cherry and then heaves a sigh as he leans back on the step behind, staring into his ice cream, too entranced by his thoughts to dig in before it melts. “I can’t believe my mom came.”
“But you’re happy that she was there, right?” I ask through a mouthful of whipped cream, then wipe my mouth in embarrassment. I doubt Blake and I will ever consume food elegantly around each other, so God help us if we ever go out for a classy dinner.
“Yeah. I just find it hard to believe that she didn’t get up on stage and rip my guitar straight out of my hands,” he says with a laugh. He sits forward again and circles his spoon around his sundae. “I’m dreading going home and seeing her.”
“Why?”
“Because my mom and I being nice to one another is beyond normal,” he says, rolling his eyes. I know he’s only joking, but there’s still an element of truth to this statement. “Maybe one day she’ll even start to like Bailey too.”
“Poor Bailey,” I say, pouting.
Blake finally makes a dent in his sundae and together on the steps by the river under the calm of twilight, we silently enjoy each other’s company. Just being together is enough for now considering there was a point when I thought I would never be able to look him in the eye again.
Scraping the remnants of my sundae from the bottom of the cup, I lick my lips and set the cup down next to me. Blake is still trucking through his, unbothered by me watching him intently. And when I can’t keep my opinion to myself any longer, I shrug and say, “I don’t think you should be mad at your dad for trying to support you tonight.”
Blake bites down hard on the plastic spoon, deliberating. On the riverfront path in front of us, people wander by, enjoying the fresh evening air as the noise of Broadway pulses behind us. “I’m not mad that he came,” says Blake. “I’m mad that he gave me no choice but to make him leave. If things were different. . . Ifhewas different. . . I’d have got him up on stage with me for a couple of songs. I’ve always had this image of the two of us entertaining a crowd together, you know?” The corner of his mouth twitches with a pensive smile.
“I bet he imagines that too.”
Blake scoffs. “Yeah? Well then he needs to get his life on track and haul that guitar of his out of his closet. Can we not talk about him right now?”
“What do you want to talk about?”
“Us.”
Our gazes connect in perfect sync and the fragility in his eyes gives me chills. Suddenly, I realize just how close we are to each other, my knee touching his thigh. I tense with anticipation.
“What about us?” I whisper.
Blake presses his lips together, his eyes smoldering. He reaches for my hand, flips it over, and traces circles on my palm. “What are we doing right now, Mila?”
His touch is so feathery, so light it makes my skin tingle. I swallow hard, my voice emerging as a squeak. “What do you mean?”
“What arewedoing,Mila?” The tips of his fingers hesitate over my palm and he angles his jaw toward me. “All of this. . . Are we just getting caught up in old feelings for a couple of weeks because we both happen to be in town at the same time? Is that what we’re doing here?”
