Page 10 of Truth or More Truth
“Huh. Who’da thought you’d be a closet Whitney fan?”
“Not sure I’d say I’m a fan.” I’m totally lying. I’m a fan.
“Agree to disagree. Anyway, I have more tapes in the glove box and even more in a shoebox behind your seat. Help yourself. I mean, you can’t go wrong with any of them, because I chose them.”
I chuckle and rub my hands together before popping open the glove compartment. It’s now Melissa’s turn to laugh, since my knees block it from opening more than an inch. I adjust my legsso I can get my hand into the compartment and pull out a handful of cassettes.
“Paula Abdul, Metallica, Bon Jovi, and the Pet Shop Boys,” I say as I shuffle through them. “I like the variety.”
I shake the Bon Jovi tape out of its case, switch it out with Whitney, and turn up the volume. The chorus of “Livin’ on a Prayer” blasts out, and I decide to surprise Melissa by singing along.
She turns to me with wide eyes before giving me the biggest grin I’ve ever seen on her. I give her one right back and start playing air guitar. Her responding laugh is the best thing I’ve heard all day.
“You’re really not going to tell me about your girlfriend?”
We’re sitting at a Steak ’n Shake in Effingham, Illinois, eating lunch. I suggested we get the food to go and eat on the road, but Melissa insisted we’d make a mess of her car. How she thinks burgers are worse than Cheetos, I’ll never know.
I also don’t know why she’s hung up on the girlfriend thing.
“I’m a private person,” I say. “I don’t talk to many people about my relationships.” Not that I’m in one—at least not the type of relationship she’s talking about.
“I see.” She pops a handful of shoestring fries into her mouth and chews it before continuing, “You’re one of those types.”
“One of what types?”
She points another fry at me, and ketchup drips off the end onto the table. “The type of man who can’t talk about his feelings.”
I use a napkin to wipe up the ketchup. “I can talk about my feelings.”
“Prove it.”
The Melissa sitting across from me right now is nowhere in the ballpark of what I thought the Melissa I see in the Chicago Cubs front office was like, based on our limited interactions. There, at work, she’s the epitome of professionalism and politeness. Even atthe pre-wedding events for Ash and Leslie’s wedding and all the events surrounding Randall and Wendy’s wedding in the fall, she seemed pretty buttoned up. Here? She’s nosy, snarky, and a little bit rude. I have to admit I like this Melissa better, even though I have no intention of answering her probing questions.
“Nope.” I take a bite of my burger.
“Then I don’t believe you.”
“I don’t need you to,” I say with my mouth full, wondering if she’ll call me out on it.
She doesn’t, which leaves me a tad disappointed.
Instead, she asks, “Why were you in Chicago today instead of in L.A.with your girlfriend?”
Why won’t she let this girlfriend thing go?
“Maybe that’s none of your business.”
“Here we go again. You can trust me, you know. I’m not going to go blab all your dirty secrets to anybody.”
That’s exactly what I’m afraid she might do, which is why I’m keeping my mouth shut about things she doesn’t need to know.
“What makes you think I have dirty secrets?” I ask.
She flutters her hand toward me. “You have that whole mafia look going on.”
“Mafia look? What mafia look?” I hold my hands out to my sides. “I’m wearing jeans and a sweater, and I’m not even Italian.”
“You don’t have to be Italian to be in the mafia, Bobby Joe. That’s just insulting to the Russian mafia.”
