•••••
Like is not love. I keep having to tell myself that as we cross the South Carolina–Georgia border. Why I feel the need to issue constant reminders of that fact, I don’t care to contemplate. Hollis said he likes me, but of course he doesn’t love me; we’ve only been traveling together for three days. Even I, die-hard romantic that I tend to be, will admit that no one falls in love after three days—not really. And then a little voice in the back of my head that sounds suspiciously like Mrs. Nash’s questions if it’s been three days for Hollis or if it’s been two years. But I put the kibosh on that because I’m fully aware that the sentiment might have that quiet, slightly raspy quality that I miss hearing so much, but it’s still being generated by my own brain. And my brain needs to cut it the hell out.
Besides, I barely said more than two words to him before the night he drove me home from Josh’s book release party. Even once I was in his car, I’m not sure we discussed anything beyond my address and maybe the weather. If he does love me—which hedoesn’t—it would be based on nothing but watching me across the room at a handful of events. That might sound romantic in theory, but in practice it’s delusional bordering on creepy. Now, wanting to kiss me, get me naked? That I could see being a persistent desire from afar. I mean, didn’t I feel that exact way about Hollis almost immediately after we started traveling together? And now that he’s gotten to know me a bit, he likes me. As a person. A friend. A friend-person. That is all very normal and rational andnotlove.
But what if...?
This repetitive cycle has been going through my head now for over an hour. I went to this restaurant once that had a whimsical vintage travel theme, and the centerpiece of the place was a toy train that chugged along on an oval-shaped track suspended from the ceiling. If you missed it passing by your booth, no big deal—wait a minute and it would come around again. That’s the way my thought process feels right now. It would take something pretty major to derail it.
I’m vaguely aware of the guitar opening to Hall & Oates’s “Sara Smile” coming through Ryan’s (impressively high-quality) car stereo. My shoulders roll slowly, my upper body absentmindedly swaying to the tune the way it has for every song that’s played as I’ve been lost in my stupid thoughts. It’s halfway through the first verse when I notice that Daryl Hall is not performing vocals solo.
Hollis. Is. Singing.
Thought train successfully derailed.
He isn’t belting out the lyrics by any means; his head is still bowed, eyes focused on his notebook. But when I sneak a glance, he’s undeniably moving his lips. Considering his objections to my music up until now, I am never going to let him live down this little singalong. I wait until the end of the song to say anything (ishe even aware that he’s doing it?), but as soon as the last note ends, I pounce.
“Ah-ha! You like Hall & Oates,” I say.
The way he startles at the accusation gives him away, even though his voice reveals nothing. “I don’t know what makes you think that.”
“You know every word to ‘Sara Smile.’ ”
“It’s a fairly popular song. I guess I might know some of it through cultural osmosis.”
“And you sang it!” I hit my palms against the steering wheel in triumph.
“Hmm,” he says, still managing to sound way too chill for someone who has been caught enjoying something he insists he can’t stand. “I’m pretty sure I didn’t.”
“Hollis, I saw your mouth move.”
“I was talking through a wording issue with myself.”
“Iheardyou singing.”
In my peripheral vision, I see him look up from his notebook. “Maybe you heardsomeonesinging, but it was not me.”
I let out a muted scream of annoyance. “Who was it then?” I demand. “If it was not me, and it was not you, who was singing along to Hall & Oates?”
“Probably the same person you were talking to in the bathroom last night.”
I don’t even need to look to know that the corners of his mouth are trembling as he fights off a full smile.
“We should stop for gas up here,” Hollis says, peering over at the dashboard’s fuel indicator.
I exit the highway, wondering if the offer to punch him oncewe arrive at the gas station was exclusive to the Wawa back in Virginia or if I can redeem it now.
“That song’s okay,” he admits at last as I pull up to a pump and shift into park. “I will even acknowledge that most of your music is fine. All of it except for—”
“I swear, Hollis Hollenbeck, if you start talking shit about Stevie Nicks again I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” he asks, his voice deep and husky.
“I’ll... I’ll...” For all the dirty thoughts my mind has constructed in Hollis’s presence, it’s really letting me down right now. So why on earth am I talking anyway? “Do stuff to you. Stuff you’ll like a lot. Too much even. And then you’ll be so overcome by the pleasure you’ll explode into a million pieces. I won’t bother to gather them, so all the bits of you will be at the whims of Mother Nature. A seal might eat you.”
“Wow. Can’t say I predicted that twist at the end.”
“Yeah, well. Being sexy is not my forte.”
