Page 51 of The Making of Mila and Blake
“Are guys allowed to visit female dorms and vice versa?” I ask, stealing a quick glance at our hands. We haven’t let go the entire time we have been exploring, and at this point the feeling of his hand against mine feels so natural I forget I’m even holding it.
Blake raises a thick, dark eyebrow at me. “God, Mila, you’re already thinking about sneaking me over to your dorm? Slow down, Hollywood!”
Cheeks blazing, I bury my head into his bicep. I can’t even deny the motives behind my question, because he is exactly right. If I do make the decision to rethink my college choice and Belmont miraculously accepts my pleas for a place on their nursing program, then it’s important that Blake and I can spend quality time together. And by quality time, I donotmean studying together.
He plants a quick kiss on the top of my head as I remain huddled into him. “You can visit my dorm, and I can visit yours. We just have to sign in. Now let me show you my favorite place on campus.”
“That place where you perform?” I guess, lifting my head from his arm once the color fades from my face.
“Yeah. The Curb Café,” he reminds me. Tugging my hand in the opposite direction of Maddox Hall, he steers us toward the events center. “And just so you know, I will expect you to be there every time I perform.”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Around the back of the huge events center on the very edge of campus, we reach the entrance to the Curb Café. There’s shaded outdoor seating and even a Chick-fil-A inside the building; the smell of fried chicken fills the air as we head inside. Like the rest of campus, the Curb Café is pretty much empty thanks to summer break, and there’s only a handful of students loitering around. The venue is dim and painted in subtle brown hues, and in the corner against the windows, there’s a stage cluttered with instruments and cables. It also functions as a restaurant.
“I promise you, this place is packed during the school year,” Blake says, directing me into a booth. My feet ache from traversing the huge campus and I’m thankful for a seat. “The stage isn’t just for musicians. Comedians, poets. . . It’s real fun in here at night. You never know what you’re gonna get.” His hand closes around mine across the table like a magnet. “Can you imagine yourself here? At Belmont?”
“I’ve always imagined myself here,” I say, taking his hand. “I just. . .”
“Didn’t want to be near me,” Blake finishes, and the atmosphere grows somber. He looks over to the empty stage, to the unattended mic that longs for a performer, and frowns. He grips my hand a little tighter. “I want you to reconsider Belmont, not for me, but for yourself.Take me out of the equation. Where doyouwant to be, Mila?”
I stare down at the threaded hem of my jean shorts as my head thumps with stress, the importance of the decision prodding at my skull. Whichever school I pick, San Diego State or Belmont, it will determine my future. But it’s not a decision I need to make with my head; it’s one I need to make with my heart. And my heart has been swelling with a sense of belonging all afternoon.
Releasing a breath, I say, “I want to be here.”
“Then here is where you need to be,” Blake says. His gorgeous features brighten with relief and his dimples deepen with joy. But only for a moment, because the door swings open and a group of friends bundle inside. Blake’s jaw slackens as he watches them enter.
Puzzled by the abrupt change in his expression, I crane my neck toward the door. The friends jostle one another, fizzing with laughter as they make for the stage. It’s three guys, one carrying a guitar case, and one petite girl with rounded glasses. “Is that Olivia?”
Blake doesn’t respond. Olivia leaps onto the stage and circles the drum kit, but freezes when her eye catches Blake’s. For a very brief moment as she walks off the stage, I think she is about to storm straight out of the Curb Café, but she heads toward us instead with an awkward, reluctant gait and her drumsticks in one hand.
“Hey,” she says, adjusting her glasses on the bridge of her nose. I whip my hand back from Blake’s and tuck it safely in my lap as she casts me a quick look.
Blake clears his throat and sits up. “Hey, Liv. What’s the band doing here? You aren’t performing, are you?”
“Heck no! It’s dead in here,” she says. “We just thought we’d drop by for some practice. We’ve already booked to perform on the night of the first day of classes.” She drums a quick beat against the edge of the table and the playfulness of the action makes me instantly feel much better. “I’m glad I ran into you. We’re cool, right? I don’t want things to be weird around here when school starts.”
“No, things won’t be weird,” Blake says, but his exhalation of relief makes it clear hedidworry that things might just be awkward. The Curb Café is both of their stomping ground, and it would be a shame for either of them to miss out on performing simply to avoid bumping into each other. “Thanks for not being. . .”
“Mad at you? I just want us to still be friends. We were friends first, anyway,” Olivia teases, poking a drumstick into his chest. She casts a more solemn look at me and I’m waiting for her to shoot me a look of hatred for being here with Blake, but she only smiles. “Hey, if you’re still in town by the end of next month, maybe you could check us out on our first show back?” She glances over her shoulder to her bandmates as they set up their equipment on stage.
It’s a peace offering, a sign that there won’t be any animosity, and I thank God that Blake’s ex is immensely cool and nothing like the uber-jealous Lacey Dixon he dated before me. Bumping elbows into one another every time Blake performs is not a habit I wish to take up. That’s so high school. We’re college students now, and Olivia sets the bar high when it comes to maturity.
“I’d love to,” I say, and Olivia smiles and scuffles back to the stage.
Blake and I share a surprised look. Now Belmont is more enticing than ever, because there won’t even be his ex to worry about. All signs point to Nashville, and my heart picks up speed again, pulsing with anticipation.
“Okay. I’m going to do it,” I say.
“Do what?”
“Write a very, very lengthy personal statement to the Belmont admissions office stating that I made a mistake and would love to accept their offer if they’d be kind enough to renew it.”
Blake fist pumps the air. “Yes!” Suddenly, his expression turns thoughtful as though a light bulb has just gone off inside his head. “You know what? I have something that might help your case. How about a visit to city hall?”
“And by city hall, you mean. . .?”
His smirk is sheepish. “The mayor’s office.”
