Page 89 of Love Unforgettable
“That I am,” he says.
I hate country music.
“Okay, well, I know who Johnny Cash is but only because I loved Joaquin Phoenix in that movie. I don’t really know who the other guys are. Garth Brooks, that’s the friends in low places guy, right?”
“Yep, that’s him. Not his finest work, but at least you recognize who he is.” He heads north on one of the main roads through town and seems to know where he’s going. I’ve lived here going on ten years and still use my GPS all the time. I look at more of the CD spines.
“Oh, Kris Kristofferson, I loved him in the Blade movies.”
“He is quite the accomplished musician as well,” Cole says. I take the CD cover and flip it over to see the songs. “Oh, ‘Me and Bobby McGee.’ I love that song.”
“Okay, let’s play that one then.” He starts the song. The minute Kris Kristofferson starts talking about how if it sounds like country, then it is country, I know this is not going to be like the Janis Joplin song that I know and love.
“I don’t get it, he’s ruining the song,” I tell Cole. He raises his eyebrows at me.
Maybe not the best time for three shot honesty.
“You know that it’s his song, right? He wrote it, he performed it first. It’s his.”
“I did not know that. But it doesn’t make the song any better. And you said I am in control of music. So . . .” I switch to satellite radio. “70’s on seven it is! Oh, I love this song.” It’s “Lady” by Little River Band. I sing along with the song.
“Isn’t this a little ahead of your time?” Cole asks.
“Music from the 70’s is my favorite, mostly because it was my parents’ favorite and I grew up listening to it. It reminds me of happier times when they were still alive. My dad knew the words to every song to he played. He was a good singer.” I smile at the memory. “He would clean the floors on Sunday mornings, play his music loud while he swept then mopped. I just remember him being happy while he cleaned. The power of music, right? So, most 70’s rock appeals to me. Makes me happy. But I have to sing along. It’s like a compulsion.” “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown” by Jim Croce comes on next. So, I once again demonstrate my musical obsession by back up singing for the band since I know all the words.
He turns off the main road into a part of town that I’m not familiar with at all. I have no idea what’s in this direction. But as long as it’s edible, I’m good with it at this point. I’m hungry.
“Wait, are you saying I’m too young for 70’s music?” I stop thinking and singing to ask him. My three-shot infused delayed reaction hard at work.
“Aren’t you?”
“No. I’m practically thirty.”
“Practically?”
“I just turned twenty-nine. Why? How old are you?”
“Thirty-five.”
“So, almost forty.”
“I wouldn’t put it quite like that,” he says. “No need to age me before my time.”
“Really? I’m kind of excited to get old.”
“That’s certainly not the popular sentiment about agin’.”
“I just like the idea of looking back and being happy with my choices.”
“So, maybe not so much ‘bout growing old as having no regrets,” he clarifies.
“Sure, I guess. Hey, didn’t we pass this gas station already?”
“I was hoping you wouldn’t notice. I think I’m lost. I thought I knew where I was going, but I think we just made a big circle.”
“OH. MY. GOD!”
“What?” he stops the truck and turns to me, palming my cheeks and patting down my arms. “Are you okay? What happened?”
