More Than Want You
Page 45

As the tune fills my ears, my brain kicks in. It seems kinda familiar, so I pick up again and sing something about the whine before managing most of the next line. But when I gear up to belt out the last word in the verse, I vaguely recall the note is much higher than my limited range can handle. If I even try this, my voice will crack like a thirteen-year-old boy’s.
I fall silent. More panic grips me. The sweat is coming faster. My heart chugs uncontrollably. I’m getting dizzy now and brace myself on the deejay’s table. I look to Keeley for help.
She grabs her stuff and runs up to save me. But by the time she makes it to the stage, I’m blinking at the audience like an idiot. I’m trying to get it together but the words seem to be scrolling even faster across the screen. I swear to fuck my knees have locked and I’m about to pass out.
Suddenly, she’s beside me, purse dangling from one shoulder, her other arm around my waist. She takes the mic from my hand and starts singing about needing and wanting me for all time.
I always thought this song was nonsensical. But hearing it for the first time in easily two decades—with Keeley’s voice dripping emotion—I’m experiencing these lyrics through a whole new filter. When did this seemingly stupid cowboy song get so damn yearning and full of devotion? So poignant?
Keeley manages to salvage this musical train wreck, though singing an octave higher than I’ve ever heard the song. After another verse, I can finally breathe again. My vision is righting itself. She’s solid beside me—a rock. I’m good. I even chime in a word here or there. Then the chorus comes around to rip my chest open again. The gut-churning lyrics roll through my head.
Suddenly, the lights come up. I hear applause. The crowd is lauding Keeley, but I feel enormously better that it’s over.
She grabs my hand and leads me back to the table, takes care of the drinks, and guides me to the car. “Keys?”
“I got it.”
“You don’t.” Keeley shakes her head. “You look white as a polar bear.”
I open my mouth to argue but stumble over my own two feet trying to reach the car door. “Fuck.”
“You were saying?”
With a huff, I hand over my keys. “Do you know where you’re going?”
“Of course. Sit back.”
She escorts me to the passenger’s side and helps me sit. A moment later, she’s next to me, starting the engine. I’ve never been a passenger in my own car. It’s not a feeling I like.
As she pulls away, I’m glad the top to the SUV is down. The wind whipping across my face is both helpful and sobering. “I don’t know what happened back there.”
“I think you had something between stage fright and a panic attack.”
That’s ridiculous. “I don’t have panic attacks.”
“It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. My mom had them for the first few years after my dad died. You’re just wound up…and emotionally closed off. When you try to tamp your emotions down, sometimes the body can’t adjust and this happens.”
I want to call bullshit. I don’t have emotions.
On the other hand, this has happened before. One time, a few years back, I even woke out of a deep sleep feeling like I couldn’t breathe or must be having a heart attack. I called 911, and the paramedics took me to the hospital. I was shocked when they told me nothing was wrong with me. I’d had an “episode,” whatever that means. They prescribed me a few tablets of something I couldn’t pronounce. I was supposed to take one if it happened again and call if the symptoms persisted. I didn’t need another pill for months, then one night I was on the couch watching a horror flick… I got wound up. It had to be the movie, right? I thought so, and I took a pill, but it made me so sleepy I was conked out for twelve hours. The hangover the next day made me feel like a zombie. I flushed the rest of the prescription down the toilet.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Her face softens as she grabs my hand. “It’s not abnormal. There’s nothing wrong with you. You just need to be aware of yourself. And I hate to sound like a broken record, but meditation would help. Really.”
I shake my head. “I’ll be fine.”
Keeley doesn’t seem thrilled by my pronouncement but lets it go. “I give you a lot of props for getting on stage and trying at all. The first time I sang in public, I was so nervous my voice shook. I thought I was going to throw up.”
Despite the awful night, having Keeley beside me is soothing me. Her story lightens my mood. “I relate.”
“Sorry I put you in a position to be uncomfortable. You poked. I teased back. I didn’t think it would upset you.”
I hear her sincerity. I squeeze her hand in return. “Thanks. I…um, missed you last night.”
The admission comes out of nowhere, and before I can cover it up with a joke or try to change the meaning, she glances my way. “I missed you, too.”
Hell, I think she’s serious. Suddenly, the employer-employee barrier that she put in place a couple of weeks ago isn’t so impenetrable. I sense her breathless thoughts, almost as if they’re a tangible thing between us.
Silence stretches across the next two minutes as she pulls into the lot and drives toward my unit. Some invisible tug is pulling us closer together. I’m fantasizing about the moment I have her upstairs, alone, behind my closed door. I’m so ready to be with her in every way I can.
Keeley presses the button to lift the top on the SUV, then rushes out of the cab. I do the same, and she locks the car door. We meet again at the front of the vehicle and stop. Stare. Breathe. Does she feel this weird rush, too? Like she can’t wait until we’re alone? Like she’s impatient for me to hold and touch her? Like she’s eager for me to strip her down and make love to her all night?
I could swear she does, and I can’t take the wait anymore. I tug on her hand and dash for the stairs. She’s right behind me, heels clacking as she runs up the flight and sprints down the hall with me, all the way to the front door.
With trembling hands, I shove the key in the lock. It takes a few tries, but the door finally opens. I fling it against the wall and nudge her inside. As I follow, Keeley tosses her stuff on the bar. I secure the door behind us. Then I turn to her.
Her back is against the wall. Her breaths are heavy between us. She’s staring at me with hunger, eating me up with her eyes.