Be With Me

two

We sit in silence for a while, and I don't mind. It's weirdly comfortable, not awkward, and now that he's not driving like he's trying to set a speed record, the lull of the car's motion is relaxing.

A new song plays, and I eye the dashboard to figure out how I can change the station. As I wonder if that constitutes "touching everything," the boy beside me groans and selects a different station before I can.

He shoots me a glance. "I hate that song."

"Me too. I don't mind Siren of the Heart, but I can't stand that one song."

"'Always Be There'? It's their biggest song."

He's right, it is their biggest song, which means it's on the radio the most. It was the song that was playing years ago in the car when Mom dropped us off at Aunt Julie's and never came back. Ironic how a song about always being there for the person you love was playing as my mother decided she was tired of being there for her kids. I've hated it ever since; it always brings me back to that moment in the backseat of Mom's broken-down ten-year-old Mustang, knowing deep down that she was deserting us but not brave enough to call her out on it.

I'm not going to tell the boy in the driver's seat that, though, so instead I nod and say, "Yeah, that's why I hate it, it's way too overplayed."

He chuckles. "Tell me about it. My oldest brother's girlfriend used to play this song all day every day, it drove me insane. Plus, Thea can't sing for shit, so that was extra fun. Now I can't hear this song without cringing."

"That sounds . . . sweet though." I wish my memory of this song was cute like that.

"Sweet? Wait until you hear it on repeat 24/7 with what sounds like a screeching chalkboard singing, then get back to me on how sweet it is."

I laugh. "Well, you're being awfully harsh when you probably aren't the greatest singer out there either."

There's a challenge in his smirk. "As a matter of fact, I'm the best singer around. Could probably get a record deal if I really wanted."

"Is that so?"

"It is."

I shift in my seat to face him better. We have a long drive ahead of us; I might as well be entertained. "All right, now I need to hear this angel voice you apparently have."

"Your words, not mine," he says.

"Come on, let's hear it," I say, more for the principle of it than actually caring about his singing voice. I turn up the volume on the radio as high as it can go. It's playing Taylor Swift's "Lover." He gives me an eye roll despite the quirk in his lip, and just to be extra annoying, I sing at the top of my lungs.

He says something but I can't hear over the music and my own singing. It helps that the stereo in the car is so loud I can barely hear my own voice. I roll down the window more, letting wind whip into the car, and feel a settling in my chest. Maybe it's because I can't remember the last time I let loose singing like this, or maybe it's because the wind is freeing, or maybe it's because there's a stranger sitting beside me who can't possibly judge me any more than he already has after today's events, but I feel good.

When he doesn't sing, I go even louder, and finally, finally, he relents and joins in, barely hitting the notes.

When the song ends, he lowers the radio to a reasonable volume and clears his throat. "Remember how I told you Thea sounds like a screeching chalkboard? I think you're a close second."

"I do not sound like that!" I exclaim, but I can't do it with a straight face, because he has a point. "And you're no better. Record deal my ass."