"Besides that."
"I need the distraction."
"You're going to wound me talking like that."
"I'm sure." I take a sip of my coffee. Sweet, sweet caffeine. It's enough to push away the mixed-up feelings brewing in my gut. I can focus on having fun. I can focus on today and not whenever it is that we part ways. "I'm applying to Harvard, Johns Hopkins, and Columbia."
"Those are all on the other side of the country."
"Exactly."
The server returns with Miles's coffee. We order our breakfasts.
He waits until we're alone. "I'm going to add another term to our arrangement. Anything we do together—I'm paying."
"I can pay for myself."
"I'm sure you can, but I insist." His expression is intense.
"Fine."
He smiles. It's different from the smug grin that is usually plastered on his face. It feels like he cares about me, like this is about more than a little fun.
I shift the focus to other areas of conversation. I explain the process of applying for medical school, starting with the MCATs and ending with pressing the "submit" button on my online application. If he finds it boring, he doesn't show it. He keeps his eyes on mine, wide, and rapt with attention.
He talks about Stanford, focusing on meeting Drew, starting Sinful Serenade, graduating just in time to start touring. The band is about three years old. They have two albums. According to Miles, the first is good but not great while the second is amazing. It was a crossover hit. Big on the alternative chart. Their last tour, which ended a few weeks ago, sold out in almost every date.
They're not Maroon Five, but they have the potential to be the next big thing. If they play their cards right.
He knows a lot about the music industry, about the pop machine and how true rock music struggles to make it up the charts. A lot of what he says goes right over my head, but I'm still drawn in by the passion in his voice.
He may act aloof or arrogant around his bandmates, but he's clearly committed to music and to Sinful Serenade.
After brunch, I expect a quick ride home on the accident waiting to happen, but Miles insists on walking over to Abbot Kinney. It's a cute neighborhood packed with boutiques, food trucks, and overpriced coffee shops.
We window-shop while sipping our iced green teas. There's this homemade Star Wars t-shirt in one of the boutiques. It must be infringing on all sorts of copyright laws.
Miles points to it. "Want me to buy you that?"
"I don't need any help looking like a nerd."
"You don't realize the effect you have on guys, do you?"
"I don't have any effect on guys."
He slides his hand around my hip. "You have this irresistible innocence. I'm surprised there aren't creeps trying to corrupt you twenty-four seven."
"I already have you."
"I can't be around twenty-four seven."
"Why not?" I step into a small shop and pretend to study the dresses. "What do you do when you're not torturing women with your sexy voice?"
He brushes my hair over one of my shoulders and runs his fingertips over my neck. "You think my voice is sexy?"
That blush spreads across my cheeks. I pick up a sweater and stare like I'm debating purchasing it. It's an ugly orange thing with red stripes. "You know it is."
He plucks the sweater from my hands and sets it back on the shelf. "I go to shows. Play video games with Drew or Pete. Try to tolerate Tom's bossiness."