“Are you okay?” my dad asks, and Jacob coughs harder.
“Yes, Uncle,” he sputters. “I’m fine.”
I hide a smile. Guess I’m not the only one affected after all.
I wrap up the chocolate and my sandwich, take another sip of my coffee, and put the car in gear.
“Everyone ready?”
They nod, putting their seat belts back on, and I head back onto the main road.
I’m feeling much better, refreshed by the break, the food, and the knowledge that Jacob wasn’t able to flip a switch as easily as I’d thought. That night, that chemistry, thatwhateverwas between us is still there. No matter what he says, or how he acts, he felt that too.
It was real.
I follow the directions on the GPS and turn the radio back on. Ilet the generic pop play for a while, but soon grow bored of it. I scan a few channels and stop when I hear bagpipes.
Jacob looks over at me, then shakes his head. He lifts his hand toward the knob, but I stop him.
“I want to listen to this,” I say.
“No, you don’t.”
“I do.”
My dad doesn’t add his opinion. He’s fallen aleep again.
Jacob pulls his hand back, and the music continues. It’s a familiar tune, but it takes me a while to recognize it.
“This is Lady Gaga,” I say, a little surprised.
“Yeah,” Jacob says. “That’s what this band is famous for. They do covers of popular songs.” He pauses. “They’re called the Red Hot Chilli Pipers.”
I snort. “That isnottheir real name.”
His mouth twitches as he fights a smile. “I promise it is.”
We listen in silence until the song is over. I don’t recognize the next one that plays.
“So, how did you get into this?” I ask, the question spilling out of me. “Bagpiping?”
He shifts in his seat, sending me an odd look. “Are we making small talk now?”
I lift a shoulder. I didn’t plan to voice that question, but I’ve always been like this, endlessly interested in people, in the things that make them tick. And though I’m still angry with him, still upset about the way he spoke to me, I don’t want to spend the rest of this drive silently stewing in it. Not when I can try to figure him out instead.
“We don’t have to,” I say lightly. “I just wanted to know.”
A wrinkle forms between his brows. “All right,” he says. “But it’s not that interesting of a story. I just learned it in school. I had a friendwho really wanted to do it—his dad was a piper—and I just started going with him. We ended up joining the school band, and…well, that was it.”
There are a few threads he’s left dangling here, and I’m tempted by all of them, wanting to pick each of them up and follow where they lead. But I resist, only taking hold of the simplest one.
“And that’s what you do for work now? Bagpiping?”
“Uh, no.” He doesn’t offer anything else, and I wave a hand in his direction.
“I thought it was a fair assumption. You know, given the kilt and all.”
Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t—I can’t resist. I peek at his legs, at his exposed knees, wondering how soft the fabric of the kilt is. How it would contrast with the coarse hair on his skin.
