Becoming Mila by Estelle Maskame

9

I help Sheri around the ranch over the next few days because, honestly, I think she’s glad of an extra pair of hands other than Popeye’s. I’ve noticed that his pride doesn’t really match his capabilities these days, which makes him tough to please and a bit of a difficult partner to work with. Sheri teaches me everything I could possibly need to know about the six horses they keep here, like what to feed them and when, and how to groom them without getting kicked in the face by a massive hoof. After some reluctance, I even help muck out the stables. We tidy up the porch too, and when Sheri returns from the hardware store with a van full of buckets of paint I jump at the chance to be the designated painter for the Harding Estate – it’s due for its annual summer touch-up. Whenever we moved into a new home in LA, Mom and I played music on full blast and painted each room ourselves rather than hiring a decorator. Our splotchy paintwork in the bedrooms made our homes feel a little more normal and down to earth.

By Wednesday, I’ve painted all of the downstairs window frames around the outside of the house and have given up in the heat for one day. I’m padding through to my room from the shower just after five when I hear my phone buzzing on my nightstand. I grip my towel tighter around my body and dive across my room because I know Ruben hates it whenever I dare to let his calls go to voicemail, so I frantically grab my phone and shove it up to my ear before it rings off. I hope he hasn’t been calling me the entire time I’ve been in the shower, because if so, he’s going to be furious.

“Ruben, hey. I was in the shower,” I splutter before he has the chance to say anything. “I’m sorry if you’ve been calling for a while.”

“Who’s Ruben and why does he need to know that you’re showering?”

I rip my phone from my ear and stare at my screen, checking the caller ID. It’s my new “friend”, Blake Avery. Warily, I tune back into the call. “Oh, sorry. Hi, Blake. Ruben is my dad’s manager. He calls a lot.”

“Sounds like he’s your manager too, then.”

“Lovely as it is to hear from you . . .” I smile to myself and sit down on the edge of my bed. “Is there a reason you’re calling me?”

“Do you remember that church you attended on Sunday? The one where that guy gave you his number and asked you to call him?” Blake asks sweetly. “Well, it’s now Wednesday, and has my phone rung? No, not once, so I thought I would call and check you’re still alive.”

“I’ve been busy helping out around the ranch,” I tell him, which is the God-honest truth. The idea of calling Blake has crossed my mind more often than I care to admit, but I have repeatedly shut it down as it made me feel nauseous with nerves. So, I decided to play it cool and hang out with Sheri instead.

“And are you busy right now?”

“No . . .” I say hesitantly, unsure of what this may lead to.

“Great. How quickly can you get ready?”

“Huh?”

“There’s this place I like in Nashville. Myles has bailed on me because Cindy Jamieson has a free house tonight and wow, how could he turn that down? But I still want to go,” Blake explains. “And you said I owe you, right? So, I’m going to give you the chance to actually have a real Nashville experience. Can you be ready in thirty minutes?”

My gaze lands on my bullet journal on my nightstand and I think of the pages I made last weekend, the one for listing all of the memories that I make here in Tennessee. If nothing else, an evening in Nashville sounds like it could help fill up some of the blank space.

“Can I ask where we’re going in Nashville?” I ask, trying not to let those pesky nerves creep into my voice.

“It’s a surprise, Miss Mila,” Blake says in a tone that makes it obvious he’s grinning on the other end of the line. “I’ll see you outside the gate.”

The call ends and I sit in my towel for a few minutes, mulling over his words. So, we’re going to Nashville – just the two of us, by the sound of it. It could be for anything, so I’m not sure how to dress. Also, I haven’t even asked Sheri for permission. I debate checking with her first before I go through the effort of drying my hair, but then I remember our pact. Sheri made it clear I’m allowed freedom as long as I keep her in the loop.

In a mad rush, I scramble around my room to be ready on time, because the sheer thickness of my hair alone is a problem that takes twenty minutes to solve. I blow-dry it straight and then pull a flat iron through the ends while simultaneously searching through the disorganized mess that is my closet. I finally put everything away the other day, but in no order, which I deeply regret now. Eventually, I find my favorite pair of fitted jeans, a washed-out blue color and ripped at the knees, which Mom never hesitates to tell me looks awful, and pick out a cherry red cropped Bardot top. I don’t wear red enough, despite how well it pops against my hair, so I line my lips with red lipstick too.

I’m applying a second coat of mascara when a text lights up my phone. It’s from Blake. He’s outside the gate, exactly thirty minutes after our phone call.

I grab a small shoulder purse, tossing my phone, perfume, lipstick, and wallet inside. I’ve still got the fifty dollars Sheri gave me over the weekend, so I hope that whatever Blake has in mind doesn’t cost more than that.

It only sinks in that I’m actually going out alone with Blake when I’m heading downstairs. I’ve been so focused on getting ready at lightning speed that I haven’t had time to really think about it. Honestly, I don’t even know this guy, but his mom is the mayor, so I guess it’s a safe bet that he isn’t dangerous. Annoying, sure. But most likely safe. Plus, the Bennetts are his relatives and they seem pretty normal.

Sheri is fixing dinner – or supper, as she calls it – when I find her in the kitchen. I spot Popeye through the window, sitting outside on the porch in the early evening sun, sipping a glass of sweet tea.

“Hungry?” Sheri asks, hearing my arrival.

“About that . . .”

She turns to look at me and her eyes widen, obviously surprised to see me so glammed up after three days of borrowing her old tees and with splotches of dried paint adorning my hair and my cheeks. I position my purse in front of my stomach so that she doesn’t notice my piercing.

“I’m going to Nashville with Blake,” I say in a neutral tone, but for some reason my cheeks grow hot.

“Is this a date?” Sheri quizzes, her tone one of worry rather than tease. Pots are bubbling on the stove behind her. “With Blake Avery?”

“No!” I shout. “It’s not a date,” I add more calmly. Blake needs a sidekick for the night, and I need to make memories in order to survive out here. “He’s just showing me around.”

“And what exactly are you heading into the city for?”

“Well, I don’t know, exactly . . .” My voice trails off. “But he’s already outside. I have money and your number and – oh! The correct code for the gate this time,” I say with a grin.

Finally, a trace of a smile appears on Sheri’s face. “Okay, you can go, but only because you’ll be bored spending the night here with us. Please, behave, be careful in the city and don’t be late.”

“I will and I won’t!” I say, then skip outside onto the porch. “Hi, Popeye. I’m going out.”

“With your friend from church?” Popeye wraps his hands around his sweet tea and purses his lips at me. “Blake Avery?”

“How did you . . . ?”

“Bless your heart, Mila,” he says warmly, as he looks out over the field, the sun low in the sky. “Your grandmother only ever wore red lipstick like that when we went on our dates.”

My heart feels weighted all of a sudden as I remember once more the grandma I never really knew. It’s been a long time since she passed, but Popeye must still think about her and miss her every day.

“Goodnight, Popeye,” I murmur, then squeeze my hand over his and kiss his cheek. I’ve lost out on too many years of affection.

Blake has been waiting outside for at least five minutes now, so I dash down the porch steps and head for the gate. I open it from the inside, revealing Blake’s truck. The black paintwork shines under the hazy, golden sunlight.

Blake rolls down the passenger window and leans across the seat. “Get in, Hollywood, we have places to be!”

I pull open the door and climb in, my heart annoyingly racing a bit, which I totally believe is from rushing to the truck and not because I’m even remotely nervous.

“Hey,” I say coolly, pulling on my seatbelt. I try not to fidget too much. After all, this is also the same guy who started the chain of events that ended with me almost in tears at the tailgate party, so I have a justified reason for being anxious about how tonight may go . . . But still, I don’t want Blake to notice.

“Hi,” Blake says. His brown eyes briefly run over me, but only for a second or two, and I wonder if he’s going to compliment me. He doesn’t. “Are you ready for the greatest night of your life?”

“That’s a pretty bold statement,” I point out. “Where are we going?”

Blake starts the engine, his fingertips creeping over to the dials on the truck’s entertainment system. He glances at me out of the corner of his eye, a charming grin edging onto his lips, and bumps the music up. Country rock blasts in my ears. “We, suga’, are off to a honky tonk!”

My expression is blank. What the heck did he just say? Between the excessive volume of the music and the extra emphasis he added to his accent, it makes it even harder to understand those crazy words that left his mouth.

Blake registers my indifference and lowers the volume back down. “You’re going to personally offend me if you open your mouth and tell me that you don’t know what a honky tonk is.”

I blush a little too hard. “What is a honky tonk?”

“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 the home of 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 even dare tell 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 I really want 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’s noisy. 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 seeing nothing. 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 I am a 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 in Nashville).

“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 thing ever, 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 blue Honky Tonk Central signs. 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.

“A music bar,” Blake corrects as we walk down the block. “They serve food too, so we’re allowed in. We just can’t buy a beer.”

I suddenly feel way out of my depth as we near the bustling building, so I stay behind Blake and follow his lead. After all, he says this place is his favorite and that he comes here often, so he must know the ropes around here.

When we reach the entrance, there’s a bouncer manning the doors, which makes me panic that we’ll instantly be turned away. I check Blake’s demeanor, but his shoulders are broad, head held high, walk confident. What did his mother feed him when he was a kid? Protein shakes in a baby bottle? He looks way older than me, but still not old enough, because as we drift toward the door behind some middle-aged women, the bouncer sticks an arm out to block him.

“We start carding at eight, so make sure you kids are out of here within the next hour and a half,” the bouncer says over the music. His hardened features transform into a cheeky grin as he drops his arm to let us through. “Don’t make me come and find y’all!”

Blake gives the bouncer an affirmative, law-abiding nod and strides ahead into the bar like he owns the place. I wish he didn’t move so fast, so swiftly, because he’s dashing off across the room before I even get the chance to look around. On my left, there’s a small stage where a woman belts her heart out to what I’m sure is a Carrie Underwood song. Her voice reverberates around the bar, booming from the speakers while people sing along and cheer. A huge wooden bar takes up most of the space, bodies packed all around it while beers flow freely, and groups of friends gobble down nachos at wooden bar tables by the windows. I’ve never been anywhere like this before. Everywhere I go with my parents is glitzy and formal. This is carefree, and fun, and homely. Relaxed. It’s like an entirely different world. Even when we’ve spent time in Nashville before, Dad wouldn’t be caught dead in a place as honest as this. He has developed a taste for the grander things in life, and places like these don’t really match the A-list image.

Blake seems to remember I’m with him, because he stops and cranes his neck to look back at me. “Not this floor,” he says, his voice muffled from the noise. He points upward. “We’re going up.”

We cross in front of the stage to a stairwell in the corner and head upstairs, the music from the floor above merging with the fading voice of the singer below. Others brush past us on their way down, all boozed up and cheerful, and I can’t wipe the smile from my face. Dad would never, ever let me hang around in here, so I’m going to grab my chance to explore Nashville in all of its glory. And maybe even Fairview too, if there’s anything there worth exploring.

There’s three floors in this place, but Blake stops off on the second. We emerge from the stairwell into a floor that is a replica of the one beneath – a stage set up where a band in cowboy hats is jamming out to country rock, a packed bar at the opposite end of the room, and plenty of high tables spread out over the floor in between the bustle of dancers. I don’t know what food I’m smelling, but whatever it is, the scent is drool-worthy.

We grab an empty table near the stage and my legs are so short I have to stretch up onto tiptoes to climb onto the cushioned bar stool. Blake watches, already seated, in amusement. It’s easy for him – he must be, like, six feet tall.

“Welcome” – he spreads his hands wide and gestures around the heaving room – “to Honky Tonk Central.”

“I like it,” I say over the music, glancing over to the stage on my right. The band is young, but they’re damn good. I’m not massively familiar with the genre, so I can’t even tell if they’re covering songs or singing their own. The guitar riffs vibrate from the speaker above my head and I’ll be surprised if I leave this place with my eardrums intact.

“Wait until you try the quesadillas,” Blake says. He flags down a waitress and orders some sort of appetizer platter to share without consulting with me first. He plays that natural-born leader role well, just like his mom.

I cross my arms on the table in front of me. “How do you know I don’t have any allergies?” I ask when the waitress disappears to place the order.

He mimics my action, folding his arms and leaning toward me, brown eyes challenging. “Do you have allergies?”

“No.”

“Then relax, Hollywood – I just want to show you the best that this place has to offer. We don’t have much time here thanks to Myles dropping me at the last second, so let’s enjoy this while we can.”

He twists around in the bar stool to face the stage, one sculpted arm still propped up on the edge of the table, while I sigh at yet another of his little comments. He nods in sync with the beat of the drums and I notice the way his lips gently move as though he’s murmuring the lyrics under his breath – I guess the band isn’t playing original music – and the way the rest of his body moves. Shoulders swaying, fingertips tapping against the table, the neon spotlights flashing in his gaze. It’s like the mere sound of a rocking country tune ignites something inside of him, because I think he forgets that he has company. He is enthralled, soaking up the atmosphere.

It’s only when the food arrives that he snaps out of his happy trance andthat I realize I’ve paid more attention to him than I have to the band. My cheeks heat with embarrassment as though he has caught me in the act, but it seems that he’s none the wiser.

The platter he ordered for us, I must admit, is delicious. It’s a mixture of chips and salsa, mozzarella wedges, chicken quesadillas and buffalo wings. I try to eat as gracefully as I can to begin with, but soon I’ve spilled half a quesadilla down my shirt, much to Blake’s amusement, and we both carelessly help ourselves until there’s only one quesadilla left.

“Take it,” Blake says, pushing the dish toward me.

I push it back. “No. You can have it.”

“I won’t argue.”

He grabs the quesadilla and shoves half into his mouth with as much grace as a toddler eating spaghetti while I watch in repulsion. Ew.

“What?” Blake asks innocently as he swallows the food in his mouth.

“Do you have to eat it like that?”

“Like what? Like this?” There goes the remainder of the quesadilla rammed into his mouth and his chewing is exaggerated this time, all sloppy and loud while he looks me straight in the eye. He is definitely smirking in between all the chomping.

I can barely watch. “Gross, Blake.” Even my cheeks hurt from how hard my face is scrunched up in disgust.

“Remind me never to take you out for ribs then,” Blake says, rolling his eyes as he wipes a napkin over his lips. He scoots his bar stool in closer and rests his elbows on the table, hands interlocked in front of him as though he’s ready to interview me. And, apparently, he is. “So, Miss Mila, what’s the deal? Tell me one thing, because I can’t figure it out. Are you happy to be here?”

I glance around the room and soak in the atmosphere all over again; the music that’s full of energy, the smiles on everyone’s faces, the free-and-easy laughter from those who are on their fourth beers, the rhythm of the dancers. I meet Blake’s patient gaze. “I already told you I love it. It’s different from what I’m used to, and the music isn’t so bad—”

“No,” he interrupts, shaking his head. “I mean are you happy to be here?In Tennessee. In Nashville. In Fairview.” He pauses and the corner of his mouth twitches. “Home.” The word carries a lot of weight and I wonder if it’s so obvious that although Tennessee is where I was born, it doesn’t feel like home.

“I . . . Of course I’m happy to be home,” I start, though my voice wavers from the lack of a single ounce of confidence. “I missed my grandpa a lot, and my aunt too. I thought it would be cool to visit them for a while. And there’s always something special about coming back to that place where you spent your childhood.”

“Nicely played, Mila,” Blake says, pressing his lips together. “But you’re lying.”

“Excuse me?” I blink at him, my tone sharpening with indignation.

“You’re lying,” he repeats. “You aren’t here by choice. You said so at church.”

Damn, I forgot about that. It was such a minor thing, simply saying I’m here for as long as I “have” to be, instead of “want” to be. I knew he’d picked up on my careless word choice at the time. I didn’t realize it would have alerted him that there’s more to my story, but clearly he’s been waiting for the opportunity to dig deeper.

“Okay. So what if I’m not here because I want to be?” I snap back defensively. “What does it matter to you?”

Blake narrows his eyes at me, either surprised by my abrupt retaliation or the fact that I haven’t bothered to deny his claim that I’m lying. He studies me with what I think is fascination, but I have no idea why he thinks I’m so interesting. “I think you’re here for a very specific reason, and I’ll hedge a bet that it isn’t a particularly positive one.”

“Hey, Sherlock. Stop sticking your nose into my business,” I say, teeth gritted. I fold my arms and angle away from the table, locking my eyes on the band instead. My face is blazing and my heartbeat thumps in my ears; there’s a pressure building up inside my head that’s so intense the band goes out of focus.

But Blake keeps on pushing. Over the sound of the music, I hear him say, “You might think you’re super important just because the world knows who your dad is, but trust me, no one around here actually cares that much. So how about you be normal and just tell me why you’re really here.”

“Super important?” I whip my head back around, stunned. “I don’t think that!”

“Then why freak out when I told people who you are? Why be so secretive and defensive?”

He’s waiting for an answer, fully aware that he’s got me cornered. He presses his lips together and cocks a brow. I’m so furious I could smack him. How dare he push me on this? He doesn’t know a single thing about me. Arms still crossed, my hands balled into fists, I glare at him across the table.

“Because I’m under a lot of pressure, okay?” I finally respond. “I’m trying to do the best I can in a bad situation, and you aren’t making it easy.”

“So, you admit you’re in a bad situation?” Blake says smugly, knowing yet again he’s got me tripping over my words.

“Okay, I’m done talking.”

Suddenly, someone clears their throat next to us, but even that isn’t enough to pull Blake and me out of our stare-off. Neither one of us wants to crack first. Blake’s gaze is challenging, and I know mine is dark and threatening.

That someone clears their throat again. “It’s after eight, folks,” the voice of the bouncer says. “Can I see some ID?”

“Don’t worry,” I mutter churlishly, grabbing my purse and sliding off the bar stool. “We were just leaving.”

Eye contact broken.

I want out of here, away from Blake and his nosy interrogation. I brush rudely past the bouncer and storm across the bar without even bothering to check over my shoulder if Blake is following or not.

Lesson learned: If a guy is such a jerk the first time you meet him that you end up in tears from his actions, never ever give him the chance to redeem himself. What was I even thinking, agreeing to come here with him in the first place?

I rush down the stairwell two steps at a time to the first floor. It’s gotten busier since we arrived an hour ago and there’s such a dense horde of people dancing in front of the stage that I have to barge my way through, but I finally make it outside into the night. The entrance is chaotic with people coming and going, so I disappear around the corner and find a quieter spot to steady myself. I press my hand to the wall of Honky Tonk Central, squeeze my eyes shut, and suck in a breath of warm, humid air.

“I’m guessing those great drama skills are in your genes?”

My eyes flash back open to find Blake standing a few feet in front of me, shoulder resting against the wall, hands in his pockets. The electric blue of the neon Honky Tonk Central sign shines in his glowering eyes.

“Because that was kind of dramatic to storm out like that,” he finishes. “Not to mention damn rude.”

“Rude? I’m rude?! Just leave me alone,” I spit, barging my shoulder into his as I set off along Broadway. There’s nowhere to go besides back to his truck and although getting in a car with him is the last thing I want to endure right now, I have no other choice. It’s either get a ride home from Blake, or find a cab to take me back to Fairview since there isn’t a direct bus service.

I hear Blake’s footsteps behind me, his pace fast to keep up with my quick cadence. “Mila. Mila, c’mon,” he tries. “Mila, wait.”

Damn, that boy is persistent. I stop short and spin around, and he’s following so close that he collides straight into me. We both stumble, and he grasps my wrists, steadying us both. Aggressively, I snatch my hands from him, but don’t turn away. I realize his body is mere inches from mine, our chests almost touching. Neither of us steps back, and I stare up into his eyes, giving him the chance to prove that it’s worth waiting to hear what he’s got to say.

“Hey, come on,” he says, releasing all of the air in his lungs. “Don’t be like that. I’m honestly not trying to upset you.” Up close, his brown eyes are scattered with lighter flecks, almost like dots of caramel. “I’m just trying to figure you out.” He gazes up for a moment, as if searching for words. “You know, because I’m probably the only person around here who might understand you.”

I tilt my chin, drawing my face up even closer to his. “Why?” I demand, still fuming. “You think you understand a single thing about my life just because you’re the mayor’s dumbass son?”

Blake’s eyes darken, and I almost flinch at the shift in his mood. He’s the one who steps back first. “Exactly,” he says flatly.

“You and me” – I motion between us, shaking my head, my voice rising as I storm on – “we are not the same. Our lives are completely different, so back off, mayor’s kid.”

“Mayor’s kid?” some passing guy echoes, coming to an unsteady halt. He jabs an angry finger out at Blake. “You’re Mayor Avery’s kid? Tell your mom to stop calling out for gun reform. The quicker she gets bounced from that office, the quicker . . .” His slurred words trail off as the woman he’s with drags him away, mouthing hasty apologies to us.

“Thanks for that,” Blake says bitterly, turning his attention back to me. We are still standing on the sidewalk in the middle of Broadway while people weave all around us, but we both seem to have forgotten for a second that we aren’t alone.

“You’re welcome,” I say, holding my head up high. “Just take me home. Please.”

“Fine! But you deserve to be left here to take your chances with a cab.” He pulls his truck keys out of his pocket and strides off, muttering, “God. I should’ve fucking invited Lacey.”

I don’t know who Lacey is, but I wish he’d invited her instead too, because this has turned into a disaster. We are both walking too fast, fueled by our aggravation at each other. Our mouths are set in rigid lines and anyone who sees us now must surely wonder what the hell is wrong with us. We don’t fit in with the easygoing, energetic atmosphere. I’m energized all right, just in all the wrong ways.

“You can delete my number from your phone after this,” I add hotly, unable to resist the pettiness.

“Now see? That’s dramatic,” Blake says with a sneer. “Get over yourself.”

We turn the corner off Broadway and the parking garage is in sight. It’s less busy here, and I cut in front of Blake and block him off from going any further.

“Look, Blake,” I tell him, my tone dialed down a bit, “I don’t trust you enough not to get me in trouble. So please just let this go and believe me when I say I’m here by choice, because I missed my grandpa, because I missed Fairview, and there’s nothing else to it. Okay?”

“Even though I know you’re lying?”

I swallow back the venom in my voice, and nod. “Even though you know I’m lying.”