“I’ve moved on, and I enjoy hearing stories about your parents.”
“Just tell me if it bothers you, and I’ll shut up.”
“No way. I want to hear it all, starting with something cool your dad did for you.”
“He used to volunteer to announce at my track meets in high school. He’d announce all the events, and he even snuck in music before my races to help pump me up. There was this one song, ‘Unstoppable’ by Sia, that would always get me ready for a race.”
“You ran track in high school?”
“I used to run the mile and two-mile.”
“And who’s Sia?”
“She was popular in the early to mid-2010s. Her music is way better than all that George Strait and grassroots country you listen to.”
“You take that back! You haven’t even heard my music.”
“Yes, I have. We spent a couple hours driving around town together that day you took me to Cup of Sunshine and Copper Hill. Besides, I hear the music you play in the morning when you’re cooking your breakfast before work.”
“You hear that?”
“Yeah, my bedroom is right next to the kitchen.”
“Sorry. Why haven’t you said anything?”
“I didn’t want to tell you how much I hate your taste in music.” A devilish smile paints her lips.
“Okay, that’s it. We can’t be friends anymore.”
“Oh, we’re friends now?”
“I don’t know what to call you.” A twinge of hope and fear swirls inside of me. I don’t want to put myself in the friend zone, but I don’t want to let this go too far. I don’t know what I’m doing when it comes to Olivia. It’s like I’m not even in control of myself when I’m around her.
“That makes two of us.” She smirks, and now my heart is soaring. So much for not letting this go too far.
Her smile falls quickly, and she pulls out her phone, putting on a song with a funky beat.
“What are you doing?”
“Playing ‘Unstoppable’ for you.”
I sit next to her in silence, imagining Olivia listening to this song in high school. It’s about putting on a brave face, pretending you’re okay, and pushing forward to succeed. No wonder Olivia is constantly smiling for everyone else’s sake.
When the song ends, I shrug, saying, “Eh, it’s all right. I’ll show you real music.”
I take her phone and play “Texas Cookin’” by George Strait.
Immediately I start tapping my foot, which turns into moving my shoulders from side to side until I’m out of my chair, taking her hand and spinning her around. She tilts her head back, laughing, and I wish I could hear the sound of her laughter every day for the rest of my life. I tell myself I’m only spinning her around again because she had a hard day and deserves to laugh, but when I pull her into me and feel the warmth of her whole body pressed against me, I snap out of it, letting her go and sitting back down.What am I doing?
The last minute of the song plays as we sit there, staring at each other, both our chests heaving as we process what just happened.
When the song finishes, I take advantage of this opportunity to change the subject.
“What triggered your panic attack today?”
“Do we have to talk about this?”
“I think it could be good for you. Plus, I want to know if there’s a way I can help.”
