Unfortunately, my ankle is getting worse. I keep it pressed lightly on the gas pedal, rotating it whenever I can use cruise control. The ibuprofen is wearing off, and I can’t take more without him noticing. Every time I have to brake or accelerate, a sharp pain shoots up my calf.
I don’t tell Oliver. What would I say? “Hey, funny story, I actually twisted my ankle this morning and have been hiding it all day. Lol!” He’d insist on driving, even though he genuinely doesn’t fit in the driver’s seat. His knees are practically up around his chin, as it is.
Besides, we’re almost to Columbus. I’ve been smiling through the pain most of my life.
If the road to Columbus is paved with stubborn silence, the soundtrack is punctuated with ignored phone calls.
Seriously, Oliver’s family is obsessed with him. He keeps grumbling and tsk’ing as he gets a new message from one family member or silences a call from another. Each buzz makes his jaw tighten a little more. How many times can a grandfather call in one night?
Seven.
That’s right, he’s called seven times in two and a half hours. It’s 10:30 p.m, his grandson is getting married in two days, and he runs that big baseball academy that sponsors half the rec teams in Rochester. Doesn’t the man have anything better to do?
“Do you need to take that?” I ask. “I don’t mind.”
“No, I’m not taking it. He’s just mad I’m missing events for his academy and wants to make sure I know how embarrassing it was to have ‘Ollie Fletcher’ on the program when Ollie Fletcher wasn’t there.”
I feel my forehead scrunch. “Man, Oliver.”
“Tell me about it.”
He silences the call. In the background, Toto’sAfricacomes on, and we both reach for the dial at the same time. The warmth of his hand zips through mine, and we share a half-smile.
“You’d better not turn that off,” I say.
“No way. We turn Totoup.”
I crank the dial as Oliver drums his fingers on the dashboard. Then he starts humming under his breath.
I hold back a gasp. It’s quiet, but he’s absolutely humming along to the melody. And when the harmony kicks in,he sings along.
Oliver Fletcher is singing the harmony.
I join in with the melody, singing just loud enough that he can hear me, too.
Oliver looks at me.
I look at him.
And when the chorus starts, we rock out.
He turns the radio up even louder, and we belt it at the top of our lungs in the dark night, blessing the rains down in Africa.
We sing our hearts out, and I shimmy in the driver’s seat while Oliver is drumming his own knee. The car fills with our voices, too loud, sometimes off-key, and absolutely perfect.
“Doo doo doo da-doo doo doooo,” he sings.
“Doo doo doo da-doo doo doooo,” I sing.
And when he hits the falsetto, I can’t hold back my grin. I sneak a glance at him and bite my lip at the way his headis thrown back, eyes closed, with a completely unselfconscious smile on his face.
And my word, what a smile.
I never realized he had so many teeth. He’s so handsome and broody all the time that this handsome, happy version feels almost foreign.
Yet, fitting, too.
He has a gorgeous smile.
