Page 24 of My Unscripted Life

“You keep sayin’ you’ve got something for me,” I sing, my voice starting out shaky, missing all of Nancy Sinatra’s confidence and swagger. I’m rooted to the ground as if my lyrical boots are buried in cement, one hand on my hip, the other clutching the microphone for dear life. But as I raise my eyes to scan the crowd, I can see that I’ve picked the right song. The dozen or so heads in front of me immediately start bobbing along to the piano, and a hoot rises up from one of the tables in the back. It makes my voice even out, and the little shake I had on the first line disappears. When I get to the chorus, I can see the head bobs turn into almost full-body chair dancing, and a couple patrons are even clapping along. And before I know it, I’m dancing too. I start with a toe tap, then a short, shuffling walk, but by the second chorus I’m strutting across the tiny stage, pointing into the audience and playing to the intimate crowd.

It’s not until I get to the bridge that I let myself look at Milo, still at the picnic table in the back corner. He’s standing now, his foot up on the bench of the table. He’s one of the clappers. And his grin is as wide as the Mississippi, practically shining a spotlight on me down front.

I shimmy and strut and belt the lyrics right up until the very last “One of these days these boots are gonna walk all over you.” And when the piano hits the last chord, I take a bow to what amounts to thundering applause from about fifteen diners.

And I. Feel. Awesome.

I take a final bow and replace the mike, then hop off the stage and skip toward the picnic table. Milo is grinning and laughing, but notatme, which is good. When I get to the table, he raises his hand for a high five, which I happily givehim.

“Damn, girl. You may not think you can sing, but you sure as hell canperform.”

“This from a man who did a late-night TV performance with a double horn section and fireworks,” I reply. “Whatcha got for us today?”

Milo’s face breaks into a mischievous grin. He stands and climbs over the picnic table bench, his lanky body unfolding gracefully. He crosses the floor in five long strides, and once onstage he lifts the acoustic, the frayed strap going over his head as he gives the strings a tentative strum to check for proper tuning. He takes a second to adjust a few of the knobs, then steps to the mike.

The opening chords sound familiar, pinging a spot in my brain that tugs for the title. But I can’t quite place it. It’s not until he opens his mouth, rasping out the opening lyric, that I recognize the tune.

“Fast Girl,” his first and biggest hit. Only instead of upbeat synth pop, this acoustic version somehow further emphasizes the, well,sexin the song. And I gasp.

I was right. This songisdirty!

Milo knows I’ve got it, and he shoots a wicked grin toward me. When he launches into the chorus, slow and soulful and somehow evenmoresensual, he winks at me.

And that’s when something in my chest cracks open, raining sparks all the way down into my toes.

Screw the photographers and the fans and the Internet insanity. I want him. I unabashedly want him, and I don’t think I can play it cool anymore.

Milo strums the last chord, and a smattering of applause comes from the audience. Milo’s song choice is not the right one for this crowd, that’s for sure. But as he places the guitar in its stand and hops off the stage, I realize that maybe the halted applause isn’t just for the song. A woman with bleached-blond hair in a messy pile on top of her head two tables away from us leans over to her companion and whispers something, her eyes on Milo.

I’m immediately on alert. And as he weaves through the tables and chairs, I can see that Milo is, too. He ducks his head and pulls his cap a little lower over his eyes, and he’s not even to the table before he’s pulling out his wallet. When he finally gets here, he deposits way more than two Reubens and two Cokes costs onto the table.

“I’m sorry, but we need to—”

“Yeah, of course,” I say, jumping up so fast I bash my knee on the bottom of the table, sending a fork clattering to the floor.Good one, Dee. So much for a stealthy exit.

Milo is a step ahead of me, heading toward the door, and I quickly follow. As I pass the last table of diners, I hear someone mutter, “Hey, isn’t that that boy-band kid?”

Just before he’s out the door, Milo turns, a giddy grin on his face, and calls over his shoulder, “I was never in a boy band!”

And then we’re out the door.

The rain is quickly turning the gravel parking lot into a lake, and I feel water pool around my ankles as my sandals slap on the water. The air feels heavy, like I could reach out and part it like a curtain. I swipe the back of my neck where my curls are wet and sticking. A flash of lightning illuminates the sky. Milo starts counting. “One, two—”

He’s barely said the words before he’s cut off by a rumble of thunder that sounds like it’s ready to bowl us right over. It’s followed quickly by several more flashes and more rumbles. I can’t tell if the ground isactuallyshaking or if I’m just imagining it, but I don’t have time to figure it out. The storm is close. The sky opens up further with a loud crack, and the rain pours in big fat drops and wide sheets, coming down more like an amusement-park water feature than an act of nature.

The rain feels good, like it’s dissipating the hot air all around me. For a moment all I can hear are rumbles of thunder amid the pouring rain. We run to the truck, Milo’s long legs letting him beat me there. He gets to the passenger-side door a few steps before I do and fumbles in his pocket for the keys. I’m breathing hard and so is Milo, so I watch his chest rise and fall in front of my eyes. I’m reminded of the Diner just the other day, when I couldn’t believe I was so close to him. Now, it feels like I shouldn’t be anywhere else. Without even thinking, I lean into him and feel sparks shoot through my chest at the contact.

Milo looks down at me. “Cold?” he asks, but instead of waiting for an answer, he wraps his arms around me. He doesn’t pull me closer, though. Instead he pushes me back just a bit. At first I worry that I’ve invaded too much of his space. That I’ve been too forward. He may be single, but it’s not like he’s available. And even if he was, I’m no Lydia Kane. I’ve definitely violated the just-friends portion of our unspoken agreement, and my mind immediately starts spinning an excuse that will put things back the way they were. I want him, but above all else I don’t want to lose him. I don’t want to go back to cold, distant, hate-the-world Milo.

But when he dips down, I know why he needed the space.

All I see are eyelashes as he leans in to kiss me, and instead of shrinking back or being shocked, I rise up on my toes to meet him. We crash together with a force that’s almost as shocking as the bolts of lightning happening all around us. I look down and watch Milo’s hands grasp my hips, then one travels up my side in a way that would be ticklish and probably make me yelp were I not distracted by the action up north. His palm comes to rest on my cheek, and I lean into it. I feel his guitar-player calluses brush just behind my ear, and I let a sigh escape my lips. We kiss, and suddenly everything melts away with the rain. He’s not sad or lonely. I’m not lost or uninspired. We’re not worried about art or music or exes or cameras. We’re not worried about hiding from anything or anyone. He’s just Milo, and I’m just Dee. Together.

When we part for air, our chests are heaving in time with the rain, which seems to be tapping out a perfect rhythm on the roof of the truck. I tilt my head back into the window, look up, and laugh. Milo pulls me back in, and I lean my cheek into his chest like I could crawl in for warmth.

Milo pulls back a little. The rain is still coming down, but neither one of us are paying a bit of attention. At this point we’re already soaked, so why bother? “Was that okay?” he asks.

I laugh as raindrops run down my nose and cling to my eyelashes. “Okay? Seriously? That was so much more than—”

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