My heartbeat accelerates. I am in the here, in the now. I am also in the future. I am holding her and wanting and knowing and hoping all at once. We are the ones who take this thing called music and line it up with this thing called time. We are the ticking, we are the pulsing, we are underneath every part of this moment. And by making the moment our own, we are rendering it timeless. There is no audience. There are no instruments. There are only bodies and thoughts and murmurs and looks. It’s the concert rush to end all concert rushes, because this is what matters. When the heart races, this is what it’s racing toward.

20. NORAH

I can keep the jacket, I can keep the jacket, lalalalalalalala, Nick loves me, or at least he really likes me, lalalalalalalala, Salvatore and I are so happy, this jacket will only be dry cleaned, no inferior detergent shall ever besmirch it, lalalalalalalalala.

Here we are, back in Jessie. Yugo! Lalalalalalalala.

I’m sitting in the passenger seat next to Nick and it’s just like before when we sat side by side in this car, except not. I’m no longer vague as to whether I even want to be spending my time with this person, in this “vehicle,” but Jessie, like earlier, has doubts about whether to allow me to be Jessie’s Girl. Jessie, once again, is not starting. Nick turns the key and floods the accelerator and even says a couple prayers, but no, Jessie ain’t putting out.

Nick stops the key motion and turns to look at me. “Shit,” he says.

I can’t help but laugh at the sight of him, rumpled clothes, his hair spiked from the rain and the mad earlier rummage of my hands through it, eyes glazed over from the fallout of lust and fatigue, jaw jutted in frustration with Jessie. I tell him, “You look like that Where’s Fluffy song, ‘You Have That Just Fucked Look, Yoko,’” which I believe was on the breakup desolation playlist Nick made for Tris, and in my opinion is the band’s best song from their pre–Evan E. days, when Fluffy’s drummer was a guy called Gus G., who left them in a fit of rage when Lars L. dumped the band’s manager, who also happened to be Gus G.’s girlfriend.

“Oh, be still my heart, Norah,” Nick says. Then, seriously, he says, “Dev claims ‘I Wanna Hold Your Hand’ is the ultimate song because it captures the essence of what every pop song is really about, what we all really want—simply, I Wanna Hold Your Hand.” Nick takes his right hand from the stick shift and clasps my left hand. “I think Dev might be on to something.”

“I hate The Beatles,” I state. “Except for that song ‘Something.’ Now that’s a f**king love song. And John or Paul didn’t even write it. George did. George was the shit. But The Beatles as a whole? Completely overrated.”

Nick drops my hand. He looks at me as if either I’ve just had a mental breakdown, or he’s about to have one. “I’m gonna pretend I never heard that.”

Musician boys and their Beatles love—what are ya gonna do? I lean over to place a make-up kiss on his neck. Then I ask, “Did you really write a song for me?”

“Yeah. But it’s not finished. And don’t ever speak of The Beatles with such condescension again or I may never finish it.”

“So do I get to hear it, even the unfinished version?”

“No.”

“Never? Or just not now?”

“Just not now. Don’t be so greedy.” He knows me so well already.

He turns the key again. And again and again and again. “Shit,” he repeats.

“What are our options?” I ask.

“Well, we can try to find someone to jump the car. Or we can just leave her here and find our way home on the train and worry about Jessie after some sleep. I could come back later today with Thom and Scot to jump her. Or, you know…I could always admit that Jessie has broken my heart for the last time, and give her away to charity already.”

Poor Nick. Tris broke his heart. Jessie broke his heart.

I whisper in his ear, “I promise I will never break your heart.” Because without a doubt, I will f**k up many things in this whatever-we-have-here, but that, I will never do.

“Uh, thank you?” Nick whispers back.

I’m probably wading close to stalker territory again, so I decide to shut up. Then he leans over and places his hand around the back of my neck and pulls me to him to kiss me again. It’s amazing how often captives start to associate with their captors. And I try the tongue thing again, the yin, the yang, the sucking and pulling, and this time he finds my frenulum all on his own, and check us out, we’re starting to find our rhythm with this. My chakras feel very, very open and Jessie’s windows are looking very, very steamed.

But I pull away because if we don’t stop this already, we’ll never get home. “Tell you what, Nick,” I say. “You keep trying to coax a start out of Jessie, and I’ll go into the Korean grocery and see if anyone in there can help us.”

I step outside the car and some bum is singing “Ride Like the Wind” against a wall and I give him my very last buck to stop. I go inside the store, where I’m supposed to be finding someone to help us with jumper cables, but I’m really standing around debating whether to just call Dad—or better yet, Dad’s assistant—and ask for a call to be placed to a car service to come get us; that method has gotten Caroline and me home on many occasions. With one phone call, I could make this so easy for me and Nick. And if I’m not placing that call as I stand here with my teeth chattering in the freezer section, I’m not sure if it’s because I don’t want Nick to think I’m a princess or because I am trying to buy more time with him.