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Eighteen
Watching the ETA on the GPS fluctuate from 8:17 p.m. to 8:42 p.m. then down to 8:23 p.m. feels as obnoxious as someone hovering their finger near your face saying, I’m not touching you. I’m not touching you! Who knew sitting on your ass could be so exhausting? It’s been over four hours since we left the burger place. I spent at least half that time working on material, setting up gigs back in the city, and checking in with Imani—keeping the details of the tour light and breezy.
I glance at the dash again. Not to seem ungrateful for the free ride and opportunity, but if I hear Mötley Crüe’s “Girls, Girls, Girls” one more time I’m gonna toss his phone out the damn window. All I want is to climb in bed with a set of Reese’s cups from the vending machine and fall asleep watching reruns of Friends—something I haven’t had time for in a while.
Nick rolls the back of his head on the headrest and wiggles in the seat. “Oh my god, are we there yet?” The guy’s been so chill with his this is how we road attitude that I was beginning to think he legitimately enjoys driving for hours on end.
Relief spills over me. “You’re sick of the road too? I thought it was just me.”
“No, I’m over it.”
My ears perk up. “Over it enough to let me drive?”
He turns to me with an in your dreams glare. “As tempting as that sounds... no.” So much for changing his mind in a weak moment.
“Maybe we should pull over and stretch our legs.”
“No, we already lost forty-five minutes because your bladder’s the size of a lentil.”
“Hey, that’s bladder shaming.” I huff.
“Yeah, well, I think we need to limit your coffee intake,” he says, rolling his shoulders.
I stretch my arms out and rub my face, checking the ETA again. 8:24 p.m. “You know what, we need a rally.” I grab his phone and find a song better suited for a much-needed pick-me-up.
“Has it been an hour since you made me listen to Taylor Swift already?”
“Yep, but don’t worry. I’ll play something from your favorite decade.” The song trickles in with feel-good beats and electronic hand claps. I roll up the volume dial so we can breathe in Whitney’s mighty voice. Soon I’m singing the verse and dancing in my seat, using my fist as a mic. This is the song Imani and I used to blast in my dad’s Jeep when I would drive us to the mall where we’d cool off in the summer, eating Dippin’ Dots ice cream.
Nick’s body stiffens, reluctant to join the party. “What is this, Carpool Karaoke?”
“Yeah, don’t be such a hard-ass. Sing with me!” It’ll get him eventually. I’m pretty sure this is one of those songs even metal lovers can’t resist. At least, I’ve seen a couple at my dad’s auto shop mouth the lyrics when they thought no one was looking. “Dance with somebod-ay!” I belt and my voice cracks at the top. “C’mon Nick!”
“With somebody who loves me,” he sings, flat as his tire yesterday.
The ETA on the navigation hasn’t changed but I’m having a lot more fun than I was a few minutes ago. My buddy isn’t enjoying himself as much as I hoped (even with me asking, “Don’tcha wanna dance? Say ya wanna dance!”). But he hasn’t stopped me yet.
After nearly five minutes, the song begins to fade and Nick rescues his phone. “Okay, my turn.” A moment later, a familiar piano-and-bass hook dances out of the speakers and Steve Perry’s unmistakable voice croons on about a small-town girl.
Yeah, even hard-core pop lovers can get into this one.
“ ‘Don’t Stop Believin’,’ huh?”
Without an answer, he gazes past the steering wheel to the road ahead, singing along like he’s alone in the shower. It’s way out of his range but that doesn’t hold him back. He’s kind of adorable when he sings. That catchy-as-hell pre-chorus starts and soon both of us belt out, “Straanngers. Waaaaitin’.” Nick keeps the beat on the steering wheel while I pick up air bass. We make a good band.
“Now this is carpool karaoke,” he says.
—
Another handful of songs later, we pull into the motel parking lot in the heart of Atlanta. I practically leap out of the Jeep. I didn’t want to say anything after Nick clowned my bladder, but I’ve had to pee for the last twenty minutes. With the sun far behind the buildings, the sky is a twinkling twilight blue. A steamy mist in the air settles on my skin, fogging up my glasses and frizzing up my hair.
“Ah, home sweet home,” Nick says, unloading the luggage. Is he going to say that about every stop?
“Come here often?”
“Oh, yeah, Atlanta’s a fun city. Sometimes too much fun.” His words invoke an image of Nick escorting two waitresses back to his room instead of just one, and a sliver of jealousy creeps up. Then he pops a cigarette in his mouth. I wait for it to spook my attraction but it’s not having the same effect as before.
Uh-oh. Those ciggies were my feelings fail-safe.
