“Amusicbar,” 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 motherfeedhim when he was a kid? Protein shakes in a baby bottle? He looks way older than me, but still not oldenough, 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. “Doyou 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 andthatIrealize 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 behere?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.
