When in Rome(66)

Over these last few days, I feel parts of me coming alive again. Like when you’ve been sitting on your foot too long and then finally walk around. It’s tingly and uncomfortable at first, but then you shake it back to life and can move normally again.

Our comfy moment suddenly slices in half when a different song comes on and changes the whole vibe of this drive. It’s a song by Faith Hill and Tim McGraw. One so sexy I want to die. “Let’s make love…all night long…until all our strength is gone…” I snap my eyes open and look at Noah. His hand is tightened on the steering wheel but otherwise not betraying that he feels as prickly as I do all of a sudden. I wonder if he’ll make a move to change the station, but he doesn’t. Whether it’s because he doesn’t want to tip me off to discomfort, or because he wants to see if I’m affected by these lyrics or not, I have no idea. Or maybe he finds it hilarious.

Either way, I lurch forward and change the station. “Whew!” I say loudly, trying to cover the awkward moment and that I nearly just broke his radio dial from the force I used to turn it. “You don’t mind if I surf the radio a bit, right? I’m not really in the mood to listen to country today.”

The corner of his mouth hitches up. “Shame. That’s one of my favorites.”

I give him a side-eye look and keep scrolling, making him chuckle. “So sorry to disappoint you.”

I finally settle on a commercial about a men’s hair loss remedy. Perfect. Zero sexual tension here. And at each new point the radio announcer makes, I give mock encouraging eyes to Noah. “Well, see there, Noah!” I swat his bicep playfully, desperate to recover the levity from a few moments ago. “There’s hope for your bald spot after all.” He contains his amusement so I push harder. “I bet you didn’t even know you had one. But you do. It’s back there. A gaping shiny bald spot. And you know what? I’m a good friend, so if you want, I’ll buy this cream and apply it for you. I won’t even expect anything in return other than pancakes made for me daily with whipped cream and chocolate chips on top.”

“I’ll gladly make you pancakes every day if you’ll quit trying to burn my house down.”

I’m just about to respond with something sassy and delightful, when my own voice stops me in my tracks. It’s my latest chart-topping single. When it plays through the speakers, I freeze. My joy dims, and a boulder settles back over my chest. It’s a reminder of the real world that I don’t want or need.

“You’re about to tour for this album, right?”

I nod and swallow the lump in my throat.

Noah nods, too. After another pause, he asks, “How long will you…how long does the tour last?” His voice sounds suspiciously light. Like he’s working extrahard to convince me that he could care less and is just making small talk. But I know.

I fidget with the hem of my shorts. “Nine months. I’ll have a break between the U.S. leg and the international leg, but it’ll be short.”

Again Noah nods slowly. And this time, he’s the one to abruptly end the song. “Okay, enough with the radio. Besides, I hear that singer is a real diva. And wants everyone to like yogurt for some reason,” he says with a smile before clicking the CD button.

“You would have a CD in there. Who still listens to CDs?” Says the woman who owns and continues to watch DVDs.

He gives me a look. “Just be glad it’s not a cassette.”

I settle into the bench again, looking out the window, excited to learn what is in Noah’s personal music library. I don’t know what I’m expecting to hear, but I can promise you I never in a million years would have guessed Frank Sinatra. “Love Me Tender,” Frank’s version of Elvis’s classic song, croons through the cab of his old truck and it’s so lovely that even the sun swoons. Of course he would have this. Of course because he’s the classic man. My classic man, my mind wants to tack on, but I swat that thought away like a pesky gnat.

I turn sharply to look at Noah. “This is not your CD?”

“Why?”

“Because you’re a thirty-year-old man living in Rome, Kentucky.”

“Thirty-two.”

“Fine. Thirty-two. You should be listening to…I don’t know, some weird rock music from your youth. Or since you like classic things, maybe Hank Williams. Johnny Cash! I don’t know…anything but this!”

He glances at me and then back to the road. “Do you not like Frank?”

Frank. He would be so familiar with him that he feels inclined to be on a first-name basis with the man. Like I am with Audrey. It physically hurts now how smitten I am with Noah. I can’t take much more.

“I love Frank Sinatra.” I say this in a tone similar to a person trying to speak while their insides are being squeezed. “As well as the other greats of that time like Ella Fitzgerald, Bing Crosby, and—”

“They’re on here, too,” Noah states casually like this doesn’t completely floor me. At my silence he looks at me with an amused smile. “It’s a compilation CD. My grandma bought it for me a long time ago.” He chuckles and turns his eyes back to the road. “She bought it for me because I was listening to too much of that weird rock you talked about. Said I needed to know the classics if I had any hopes of growing into a good man.”