Page 65 of When Stars Collide
***
The visit had been a waste of time. She found Thad pacing in front of the tile store, hands shoved in the pockets of his three-thousand-dollar—she’d checked—Tom Ford leather jacket. He stopped walking. “That didn’t take long. How did it go?”
“Great. They fell on their knees begging me to forgive them.”
“I like it better when I’m the sarcastic one.” He reached out as if he intended to hug her then let his arm fall back to his side. “Let’s get going. I’m driving.”
This time she didn’t fight him.
***
“Sing for me,” he said, as they passed the sign for Scotch Plains on their way back to Midtown.
“I can’t sing now.”
“No better time. You’re mad, but it won’t take long before your overworked guilt engine kicks in, and you’ll be right back where you were. Let me hear you sing before that happens.”
“I know you want to help, but this isn’t as simple to get over as an interception or an incomplete pass.”
“Just as I suspected. You know more about football than you pretend. And there’s nothing simple about an interception. Now stop stalling and sing.”
She emitted a pained sigh and then, to his surprise, began to sing. A piece so mournful he wished it weren’t in English.
“When I am laid... am laid in earth.. .”
Despite its maudlin subject, the notes she produced were so round and rich they could only have come from the throat of the best in the world.
“Passable,” he said over the constriction in his own throat when she finished.
“It’s ‘Dido’s Lament’ fromDido and Aeneas.”
“That’s what I thought.” He smiled at her and she gave him a wobbly smile in return. “It was beautiful, but kind of depressing,” he said. “How about you slay me? Right now. One of your big numbers.”
“Trust me when I tell you that you don’t want me singing full voice inside a car.”
“You don’t think I’m man enough to handle it?”
“I know you’re not.” She dug in her purse, pulled out a tissue, ripped off a couple of pieces, and wadded them into balls. She leaned over, a breast pressed to his upper arm, and stuffed them in his ears. It was a wonder he didn’t drive off the road. “You asked for it.”
And she let it rip. Even with his makeshift earplugs, her lavish, crystal-shattering Bugatti of a voice raised the hair on the back of his neck.
When she was done, all he could do was breathe a prayer. “Jesus, Liv...”
“I was holding back,” she said, almost defiantly. “It’s called marking. It’s what we do sometimes to save our voices during rehearsals.”
“Got it. Like a no-contact football practice.” He tried to figure out how he could say what he couldn’t get off his mind. “Do you feel like taking requests?”
“I’m not doing ‘Love Shack.’”
He smiled. “I was thinking more like...” He hesitated, but he couldn’t make himself say it. Couldn’t reveal how much he’d been thinking about it. “Forget it. I changed my mind.”
“Forget what?”
He played dumb. “What do you mean?”
“What do you want me to sing?”
“Whatever you want. I’m easy.”
