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“Look what I found,” he whispers, even though his moms’ room is at the other end of the hall, and he pulls out an iPod Classic from his drawer.
“No,” I exaggerate.
“Yes!” He smiles then sits next to me, handing me a wired ear bud. “It still works.” I still have mine I pull out for occasions I don’t have wifi, but I thought he lost his.
His bare thigh presses against mine as he holds the brick of technology between us, scrolling in a circle with the pad and clicking until he finds a playlist titled RANGIE JAMZ.
“Oh my god,” I say, shaking my head. “This was back when we had to burn CDs in order to share music.”
“Mika!” he hisses, pressing play on Grace Kelly and immediately triggering my lyrical memory. It’s the kind of memory that makes you remember every single word because you’ve sung it over a hundred times. It’s the kind of memory that makes you anticipate that the next song will be Roses by Outkast because that’s the way the CD was burned. It’s the kind of shared knowledge only Rafael has with me.
“I think they like this song,” I smile, leaning against his shoulder and placing his hand on my stomach when the babies start kicking again.
“Come. Lay back with me,” he says, shifting us into place under the covers and wrapping his arm under my belly as he lays propped up on his other arm. His fingertips play along the thin flowy fabric as he waits for more kicks. “Oh yeah, they’re fans,” he chuckles, then leans in to talk directly to them. “Do you know how lucky you are to have two parents with excellent taste in music?”
“What do you think about when you hear this song now?” I ask him, rolling my head to the side to admire him.
It takes him no time at all. “I think about listening to it endlessly with you, hunched over the computer downstairs, and which one of us could memorize all the lyrics first.” My belly bounces up and down as I giggle at his memory because it’s the same one I have.
When the song ends and starts playing No One by Alicia Keys, my heart sinks, but he must be unaware because he asks, “What do you remember when you hear this song?”
Afraid to put words to it, I deflect. “What do you think about?”
“Hmm,” he considers. “That time you failed your chemistry test and we drove to the park for lunch. Do you remember?” I nod once but keep my mouth shut. “You studied so hard and were so upset. I knew you needed to belt something at the top of your lungs to feel better.”
It was a cold and damp spring day, but we blasted the song from the speakers of his little blue Impreza as I sobbed and released all my pain. I wasn’t someone who did well with failure when it came to schoolwork. I didn’t mind being bad at extracurriculars, but when it came to my academic success, I took it personally.
I remember that day. I remember being grateful for a friend who knew what I needed more than I did at the time. I couldn’t see past my anger and self-hatred, but he could, and he made me breakdown in tears in the middle of a desolate park on a Friday. He knew it would heal me. No one else knew how hard I pushed myself to get good grades. No one else knew the struggle I faced trying to be a role model to my siblings and keeping it all together for their sake.
But Raf did.
He could remind me to let go and scream until I could feel other emotions again. That it was okay to be mad, but to remember grades did not define me. He did it then, and he did it throughout college too.
But No One by Alicia Keys doesn’t trigger that memory for me.
“Is that what you think about when you hear it?” My best friend asks, scooting up to lay his head next to mine, his hand still caressing my belly.
“No,” I admit.
“Then what? I thought for sure it would be that.”
Maybe it’s because of that park memory and what Raf can pull from my emotional bank, but since our crush conversation earlier, it seems fitting.
“I think about you dancing with Abigail at prom when I hear this song.”
“Did I?” he asks, his face serious.
“Yeah. I was standing with Will near the entrance and I watched you dance together.”
“Why weren’t you dancing with him?”
“Because I didn’t want to slow dance with him,” I whisper. I wanted to slow dance with you, I think to myself.
“I don’t remember what happened that night much, to be honest,” he says in a low tone that captures my full attention, and then he glides his warm hand to the nape of my neck. “What I do remember, was how beautiful you looked and what a fool I was for not asking you myself.”
Oh fuck.
Let me just step off this cliff and—yup—fall to my death.
