Chapter 15 #3
I take this to mean that he’s going to connect to the car’s speakers, so I roll my window down and then scurry over the median to the back seat of the truck, my gaze glued Alvina and Daryl’s car.
And look. I know there are people who love this kind of music. I am happy for them. But me?
This song makes me feel like my mind and soul are being attacked with particularly abrasive steel wool.
“I miss Enya,” I whimper as Dominic crawls into the back seat with me.
He doesn’t hear, of course. I very much doubt either of us will hear anything ever again.
I think the truck is vibrating.
And the two of us must look absurd, up on our knees as we stare out the window of the truck’s cab, heads up like gophers, neon foam sticking out of our ears. If anyone else saw us we would be branded perverts and voyeurs and weirdos.
But we’re none of those things. I mean, basically.
We’re just two people who are not in love, two people whose parents also cannot fall in love.
So we keep our vigil despite the admitted weirdness, our hands clenched over the tops of the back seats, our knees going numb, our bodies undergoing permanent nerve damage from the speaker-breaking music.
At least Dominic is kneeling on the fleece blanket he claims he didn’t bring for me. I contemplate stealing it from under him and then decide I’d rather direct my energy toward the task at hand.
Unfortunately…nothing happens.
Despite several minutes of waiting, we see neither hide nor hair of our parents. I know they can hear this music—my beloved father in his grave can hear this music—but the car stays put.
Why aren’t they leaving?
I look over at Dom, gesturing to their car, but his expression is as bewildered as mine. He gives a helpless shrug.
“Should we change music?” I shout at him.
“What?” he shouts back, his hands clutched over his ears.
“The music!” I yell. I point at the phone on the seat between us. “Do you have different music?”
DIFFERENT—MUSIC! I mouth when he continues to squint his eyes at me.
This finally does it. A look of comprehension enters his expression, and he nods, letting go of one ear and picking up his phone. He looks at it for a moment and then holds the screen toward me, showing me a playlist he’s apparently made for this very occasion.
He’s always been organized—much more organized than his appearance lets on, what with the delicious frayed hats and sexy torn jeans and—
Stop it! I tell myself. Cut it out.
I give my full attention to the playlist instead of the man holding the phone, and I swiftly narrow our choices down to what I think are two very promising options.
Because I don’t feel like shouting over the professional screamer still breaking me down one cell at a time, I point instead: first at the Gregorian chant tracks, then at the true crime podcast.
Dominic nods like he agrees. He taps around until the heavy metal comes to an abrupt stop, and in the sudden silence, I exhale with relief.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” Dominic says from next to me. “But this won’t be as bad.”
And sure enough, when the speakers blare to life, I find myself listening not to screamo but to…
chant-o? Infinitely better but still uncomfortable, especially when Dom cranks the volume up.
He gestures for me to cover my ears with my hands, and I do, just in time to protect myself from very loud, very intense Latin.
The monks aren’t singing anything soothing or soft; they are commanding, a swift tempo accompanied by lyrics that may very well be calling me to repentance for spying on an unsuspecting couple.
I wince when a boys’ choir joins in—lovely, actually, if it were being experienced at a different decibel. Their voices soar, reaching soprano heights I will never attempt or achieve, and I think longingly of Enya once again—
The gentle nudge of Dominic’s elbow against my arm pulls my attention, and I straighten up when I realize one of Daryl’s car doors flies open.
Something anxious stirs in my gut as Alvina emerges, smoothing her hair and frowning so deeply that a little furrow actually appears between her brows.
There’s an unkind joke somewhere in this situation, hidden amongst the deafening Latin—a joke about exorcisms and casting out demons—but I hold my tongue; the thoughts are scattered from my mind regardless when the driver’s door opens too.
Out steps Daryl, craning his neck as he looks around the parking lot.
His eyes find our truck immediately, of course. We’re the only ones here, and deafening strains of Gregorian chant are not hard to follow.
I tap Dominic on the shoulder, several times at first and then more insistently as Daryl’s expression pulls into a frown that matches my mother’s.
Words have no place between Dom and me, because we won’t be heard over the blaring Latin anyway. My head whips toward him, a silent question about what to do next, but when I see his eyes widen, I look back to our parents—and my eyes pop wide, too.
Because there, striding toward the truck with a determined expression and a smudge of lipstick on his lower lip, is none other than Daryl himself, followed by Alvina Berkeley.