Page 54 of A Duet of Darkness and Dreams

“No problem. Like I said, you needed it. Your rhythm,” he says simply. “It’s been off all day—for a while actually.”

I turn back, my head leaning on my fist to stare at him. “Explain it to me.”

“What?”

“This rhythm thing. I want to understand it better.”

He’s silent for a long time, then: “If I do, will you explain to me why you were in such a terrible mood up until a few minutes ago?”

My lips twist and I turn away. It’s quiet for a few minutes other than the sound of the road and Joel’s quiet snores.

“It’s your cycle of behavior.” Dave’s face is serious as he stares out over the dash, the setting sun behind him casting an orange halo around his face. “Your rhythm, I mean. It’s not like I assign a tap dance melody to each person.”

My eyebrows lift.

“It’s just—I can usually tell if people aren’t feeling themselves. Like right now? James is nervous, and he’s almost never nervous. If he wasn’t getting married, I’d be worried about him.”

I smile at that.

“Becks gets real stiff . . . like a mannequin, or a doll, when she’s upset. It used to happen all the time after we came out here, but it’s been less frequent the past few months. I think you’ve helped with that.”

Gazing down at my lap, I fiddle with the hem of my shirt. “Yeah, she uh . . . she told me about all that.”

Dave nods and continues. “Joel, back there? He gets loud when he feels like no one’s listening to him. And Key? Nothingreally ever bothers him much, but he gets irritable after conversations with his family.”

“Oh.”

“And you, there’s something on your mind. Am I right?”

Offering him a small nod, he smiles gently. Maybe his theory about people’s rhythms wasn’t so far-fetched after all.

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, but you can.”

Talking to Dave . . . it feels so easy. Like a lifelong friend who would never judge you. Who accepts you even when you make mistakes. Even the most horrible of them. How this same sweet man gets up on stage and beats a drum kit to music that sounds like it comes from the devil himself is beyond me. I thought I had that kind of friend in Miguel.

We dated all through high school. My mom doesn’t know, but Miguel actually proposed. That night at prom, as the two of us lay sweaty and naked in the back of his car. But his idea of a future for us was me working for him when he took over his father’s construction business. That’s not what I wanted, and even though he promised to love me through anything, my dreams weren’t a part of his plan.

“Not today,” I finally whisper, then roll down the window a little to let the cool November breeze skip over my skin and blow through my hair.

“Here,” Dave says, reaching across and pulling something out of the glove compartment. “I’ve got ABBA or Gloria Estefan. What’ll it be?”

Surprised, I stare at the two cassette tapes between his long fingers. “How on earth do you have these?”

He shrugs, looking out his window to change lanes. “I might have stocked up knowing you’d be in the car.”

“Really?”

He grins and shakes the cassettes at me. “Come on, Disco Girl, give me an education.”

I’m notsure when it happened or for how long, but when I open my eyes again it’s dark. The sun has set and the Gloria Estefan tape I made Dave listen to is over, a rock station on the radio now playing gently in the background. Blinking the sleep from my eyes, I register a subtle pressure on my calf muscle.

I must have fallen asleep. Trying not to move, I take in my surroundings. The upholstered bench seat beneath me, and a ball of fabric under my head. I turn my face inward and inhale the clean soap smell of Dave, all with a faint touch of smoke. It’s his jacket. It comes back to me then. How I mentioned I was tired and how he offered me his leather jacket as a pillow. It was softer than I expected but smelled far more delicious than I could’ve imagined. I realize then that I’m laid out across the front bench seat, my bare feet in Dave’s lap while his right hand rests on my calf.

He hasn’t noticed I’m awake yet, so I resolve to watch him for a minute. His blue eyes are focused on the road ahead and his sharp jaw has the barest hint of a five o’clock shadow forming. My eyes follow down his neck to the top of his chest, hard and tanned and just barely visible at the top of his shirt. Then his arms—good lord. Without the jacket on I can see every line of muscle, the product of his drumming. The way they stretch and flex like a marble statue that’s come alive.

Then I feel his thumb brush against my skin, and my breath catches. It’s callused, just below the knuckle. When I look back up to his face, he seems to do this absently rather than giving itany real thought, but it catapults my heart into a thrumming nervous wreck. I can’t deny all of this—I never want it to end.

“Are we there yet?” A voice from behind me breaks the silence, and I nearly jump in my seat. Joel yawns. “We have to be getting close.”

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