Chapter 4 – “Sleep Like a Baby Tonight” — U2 #3
“That’s a bit too obvious, and I wouldn’t want you to think I’m taking the easy way out. Gavin Friday and Bono are friends, does that count?”
“Sure. You and I meet in person.” Unbidden, the tune in my brain immediately switches to “Stop the World I Wanna Get Off With You” by the Arctic Monkeys, and the hazards of this honesty thing—wanting something I shouldn’t have—become painfully apparent.
Bad Henry, bad. I refuse to tell her that, so we need to change the song. Evade, evade, evade. “I’ll need more data. Where, when, are we happy, sad, bored, on a date, are we divorced and handing off our feral poo-throwing pet monkey per our custody agreement?”
Dear god, I never used to say things like this until I started talking to Kait on a regular basis. She’s rubbing off on me, and, oddly, I kind of love it.
“You’re expecting to meet me, awesome and amazing me, and I show up and I’m a goth girl with a lip piercing and black nail polish and lipstick…” She pauses and giggles. She’s up to something.
“I’m not one to judge based on physical appearance, Kait.”
“—and I’m fifteen.”
“No, Kait. No. ‘Every Day is Halloween’ by Ministry. Truly a horrifying thought. And, you know, prison and all.” I give an involuntary shudder.
“Okay, okay, seriously, we meet-cute, stumbling into each other at a coffee shop one morning, and you think I’m weird because I’m in a coffee shop talking about how much I don’t like the smell of coffee.
” A kettle starts whistling from her end, then the rattle of her fussing with a fresh cup of tea.
“Do you really hate the smell of coffee? We can’t be friends if you hate the smell of coffee.” Crap. I’m not supposed to lie when we do this truth thing, and I’d give up coffee for her, despite my lifelong committed relationship with it. “Meet-cute?”
“I love coffee, and a meet-cute is a super-cute meeting that only happens in movies or books, because everyone knows most people meet on phone sex hotlines.”
I laugh. Sometimes I smile so much talking to her that my cheeks get tired. Without taking a second to think, I answer. “That would be ‘Cupid’s Chokehold’ by Gym Class Heroes.”
“That makes no sense, Sterling.” After a pause, she asks, “What’s your middle name?”
“I’ll tell you as soon as you tell me what you’re going to study for your master’s degree—that’s the first thing everyone shares with the world when they go to school, and you’ve been suspiciously quiet on the topic.
” Why am I smiling over this absurd conversation?
Or more importantly, why do our silly chats give me such joy?
“And does too make sense. It samples ‘Breakfast in America’ by Supertramp. I warned you that it doesn’t always make sense to anyone other than me. ”
“Got it. Okay. We meet up, in Chicago, and I’m me—endlessly charming and well within legal age.”
“Happiest Days of Our Lives,” Pink Floyd, obviously, but the words stay internal.
It’s a nearly endless list of songs. But I say, “Not enough info—that is still a list of songs. You will have to narrow it down.” What I said is true: there is a list in my brain, but there’s a most correct answer. Eeek. This truth pact is hard.
“We’re ecstatic to meet after a year of talking on the phone, and we decide to see if we’re meant to be, uhm, friends in real life.”
I brace myself for radical honesty. “‘Adventure of a Lifetime’ by Coldplay.” My neck stiffens, vulnerability settling over me, uncomfortable in my skin like a cold, moist blanket. “And that is two secrets: my music synesthesia and the song playing if we meet.”
“Henry, what aren’t you telling me, aside from your middle name?”
How does she do that? I didn’t say a thing. “This honesty thing makes me feel exposed. And that’s three.” Ugh. Tent of transparency, whatever you call it, it’s already biting me in the ass. “The other song is ‘A Girl Like You’ by Edwyn Collins.”
“Would you like to tell me why, or should I listen and try to figure it out?”
I agreed to this trap? What was I thinking? “There’s a line in the song about making a man crawl. You’re the kind of woman who can humble a man. In fact, he would pay for it, or I should say, they—we—do pay.”
She is dangerous. My satisfaction with a content, quiet life could be over if I’m not careful with her. There should be a warning: Beware of Intelligent, Funny Women with Sexy Voices.
“Henry, babe, flattery will get you everywhere.”
Did she pet name me?
I slow down and force the words to come out the way I intend, forming each sound carefully.
“It’s true.” Men line up for her. Every time I call, there’s a wait. And I’m not jealous. I’m not.
There’s a long pause before she speaks, leaving me wondering if I’ve overshared. “Let’s get you to sleep, sugar muffin,” she teases. “It’s eleven in Chicago.”
“Sounds great, sweetie poo,” I respond in kind.
“Okay, babe, deep breaths.”
I close my eyes, and my stomach gives an odd little clench. Her words are almost affectionate, but we both know that she’s gifted at making a guy feel special. It’s good business.
My body doesn’t seem to agree.