Page 4 of New Year

“Chase,” I say, my throat tight as I reach for his hand.

He tenses when our skin makes contact, but instead of pulling away, he flips his hand, linking his fingers through mine and gripping them so hard it borders on desperation. He bringsour intertwined hands to his chest and holds them over his heart, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath.

“Listen,” he whispers, squeezing tighter.

I want to say something, but I don’t know the words to help him, to heal him. So I turn in the seat, letting him hold my hand like a lifeline, listening to the yearning and sadness in the music he chose, music about ghosts in grocery lines and passing exit signs and keeping driving and not finding the way home. And I realize that there’s meaning in all of them, if not to me, then to him.

Even the most hedonistic music probably means something to someone, and maybe that’s what he’s trying to tell me, or maybe he wants me to know what they mean to him, but I don’t, and it breaks my heart. I want to know because it feels like he’s trying to tell me something, to share something that maybe no one else understands, and he thinks I will because I find meaning in music, so maybe I’ll find meaning in his.

two

Now Playing:

“Mona Lisa on a Mattress”–Bishop Briggs

After four songs, Chase sits up suddenly and swings open the door, and a rush of cold, wet air invades our cocoon. A second later, he opens my door and holds out a hand, helping me out.

“Watch your step, it’s slippery.”

The mud is soft under the gravel as I follow him around to the front of the car. He slides up onto the hood and steadies me as I climb up beside him. The damp, chilly air makes me shiver even though I’m warm inside my jacket.

“What about music from the sixties?” he asks like the last fifteen minutes didn’t happen. “You can’t say that wasn’t meaningful.”

“Okay, I’ll give you that. It’s just not meaningful to me.”

He makes a sound of frustration and covers his face with both hands. “That’s because you’ve never listened to it. Have you ever even heard of the Beatles?”

“Of course. Lots of nineties musicians got inspiration from earlier music.”

“Name one song by the Beatles,” he challenges.

I lie back on the hood of his car, feeling the warmth from the engine through my jeans. I try to look casual and start rattling off the titles to Beatles songs.

He stops me after five or six. “Okay. I’m officially impressed. You like the Beatles.”

“Maybe,” I say. “Or maybe I’ve memorized an entire soundtrack to a movie about them with a hot British guy playing the lead. Guess you’ll never know for sure.”

“Totally cheating,” he says, and we both laugh, the mood finally lifting.

He lies back on the hood of the car next to me and tucks his hands behind his head. “So you think the guy from that movie is hot?”

“Sohot,” I say, trying to pretend I don’t hope it will make him a tiny bit jealous.

He’s quiet for a minute before he speaks. “Wow. I am totally not your type, am I?”

Of all the reactions I had hoped for or expected, that one isn’t even on the list.

“Every girl in school worships you,” I point out. “You’re everyone’s type.”

“Except yours.”

I don’t say anything because I’m not going to tell my friend’s boyfriend I like him, even if he needs to feel like every single person in the world loves him. Besides, some petty little part of me likes to feel like he thinks I’m special, that I’m immune to his charms, even though I know I’m exactly like every other girl who goes weak in the knees when he smiles at her in the hall.

We lie there for a while in silence, looking up at the heavy, low ceiling of clouds and watching our breath stream from our mouths separately and form one cloud before disappearing into the dark sky. It’s a nice silence, peaceful and comfortable. I marvel at how I can be so attracted to Chase and so comfortable at the same time, the exact opposite of how I was last night, which just confirms how wrong that guy was for me. The right guy is right here, but he already belongs to someone else.

“Is it because of your dad?” he asks after a while.

“Yes.” The word lifts a weight from my chest, my whole body feeling lighter now that I’ve admitted it. Gratitude swellsinside me that he guessed. I didn’t even have to tell him why. He knew. He knows me like no one else.

---