Page 36 of Sire
“I agree.”
“You weren’t evenborn.” More sarcasm.
The breeding beast, turned sweet escort, has become Mr. Grumpy again, and I don’t know why. All I’ve done is his laundry.
“Yeah, and they invented bread before I was born, too, but I know how to bake it. Some things are ageless.” I pull out a shiny, new case with a handwritten insert. “What’s this?” I don’t recognize the titles.
He glances at it, wincing. “Don’t play it.”
“What is it?”
“SomethingWEareNOTplaying,” he barks.
“Speaking in plural for me?” I pop the cassette in. “That’s mighty male of you.”
While he glares at the interstate before us, there’s a crackling sound, a cough, the strum of a guitar, and then it’s him. I’d recognize his voice anywhere after hearing him sing to the kids. But this song is darker, in his deepest register, like the pain he’s singing about.
I watch his face. Every heartbreaking wince and agonizing flinch. I know not to ask him about the haunting lyrics. Not now. Not like this.
“You have a beautiful voice.” I just share the truth. “Really beautiful.”
He swallows. “Thank you.”
“Sorry.” I press the pause button. “I shouldn’t have played it when you asked me not to.”
“Sorry. I shouldn’t be a dick and speak to you in that tone. It’s just…” He glances at me. “You look breathtaking, Wren, and I don’t know how to feel about it.”
“Thank you. You look really handsome, and I knowexactlyhow I feel about it.”
He shakes his head, a smile playing with his lips.
I eject the tape, trying to lighten the mood. “Got any Dolly?”
“Actually,” he grins, “check the eighties love song mix.”
I fish through the cases. “You know, I’m dying to make old man jokes right now.” I find the case and Dolly’s song number on the insert.
“Tell you what...” He checks the rearview mirror. “For a handsome, older man who gets grumpy, and a breathtaking, younger woman who keeps asserting her power, maybe we should stop talking about age.”
“Deal.” I press the cassette in and click the forward button until it starts playing the best love song ever, in my very biased opinion.
It’s a duet with Dolly, featuring Kenny Rogers. I belt his opening lyrics, and Sire laughs, pressing pause.
“Whatdo you think he just said?”
“Duh…” I scoff. “He says, ‘Baby, when I met you there was peace on earth’.” Laughter shakes Sire’s chest. It’s contagious. He makes me laugh back, “What? That’s what he’ssaying.”
“Uh, no, it isn’t but sing it with me anyway. Be Dolly, and I’ll be Kenny because you’re fucking cute fucking up the song.”
“I’mnotfucking up the song.”
He winks. “Whatever you say, Angel.”
But it is cute, if not the happiest moment of my life, belting the duet with him.
Sire’s voice is sexy, the lyrics feel prophetic, and each time he snickers, I know I fucked them up again, but he doesn’t correct me. He sings with me and smiles even bigger, which I didn’t think was possible.
By the time our duet is over, he’s pulling into an almost empty parking lot beside a three-story brick building with its big windows painted black. I glance around and see a wide river in the distance, along with other huge buildings with no signs on them.
