Nick & Norah's Infinite Playlist

Playlists to be created. I'm already planning the one I will make for Nick after I get some sleep. I will call it "(T)rainy/Dreamy" and it will be all dreamy songs with either the words rain or train in the title because he is so beautiful in the rain and one day I would like to make love to him on a train, just not the Chicago El like that scene in that '80s movie Risky Business because that was way hot but seemed so unhygienic; no, we'll take a cross-country train trip with our own cabin berth with proper sheets like in an old black-and-white movie and Nick and I will call each other "darling" and read books aloud to each other at night while the train rolls through the Plains. Off the top of my head, I'm thinking my "(T)rainy/Dreamy" playlist for Nick will include "I Wish It Would Rain" by The Temptations, "Train in Vain (Stand by Me)" by The Clash, "It's Raining" by Irma Thomas, "Blue Train" by Johnny Cash followed by "Runaway Train" by Rosanne Cash (oh! I'm so clever!), "Come Rain or Come Shine" either by Dinah Washington or the Ray Charles cover (tough call-I'll decide later), and I will cap the mix off with "Friendship Train" by Gladys Knight and The Pips because that's what it's all about in the end, right?

We're walking down Seventh Avenue and I don't know if we're going to the subway or walking all the way back to the Lower East Side or what and I don't care.

"Nick?" I say.

He lifts my hand he's holding to his mouth for a quick kiss. Then, "Yeah?" he says.

I tell him, "What just happened there? I have something to tell you."

He stops walking and he doesn't drop my hand but his grip loosens a little and I can see in his eyes that he's thinking, Now she's going to tell me she has herpes, or worse, She's going to deny any of this happened at all. I can almost see the beads of worry on his forehead. "What?" he whispers.

I look him back square in the eye. I take a deep breath, solemn, and just let it out. "I'm pregnant. I don't know if it's yours or E.T.'s."

This time I don't try to hold back my smile. It's gonna come out whether I like it or not. I choose to like it.

He doesn't hold his back either. He pulls me to him, tight. He's laughing, but part of me wants to tell him to stop because that part of me is leaning against his chest and thinking, Shit, this is not funny, because I could seriously fall in love with you.

19. NICK

When is a night over? Is it the start of sunrise or the end of it? Is it when you finally go to sleep or simply when you realize that you have to? When the club closes or when everyone leaves? Normally, I keep these kinds of questions to myself. But this time, I ask Norah.

"It's over when you decide it's over," she says. "When you call it a night. The rest is just a matter of where the sun is in the sky. That has nothing to do with us."

We keep walking down Seventh Avenue, through the large swath of city that is still sleeping through the dawning of the day. Night-shift cabdrivers slow when they see us, then speed up again when they notice the way we're holding hands, the way we don't seem to be in any rush to be anywhere but here.

I am exhausted. It's even too exhausting to keep denying that I'm exhausted, so I let the weight fall on my bones and my thoughts. I am so fucking tired, and most of my energy is being spent on wishing that I wasn't.

"I love this light," Norah says. The city tinted as pink in waking as it is in orange and blue when it falls to sleep.

We're both a mess. Our hair drying out in every which way. My six-in-the-morning shadow. Our disheveled clothes, still looking post-lust no matter how hard we try to shevel them. (Okay, we don't try all that hard. We're proud of them.)

"Norah," I say, "I have something to ask you."

"Sure," she says.

"It's really personal. Is that okay? I mean, you don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

"Don't worry. If I don't want to, I won't."

"Okay." I pause for a second, and I can tell she thinks I'm serious, which amuses me to no end. "Here goes. Norah?" I pause again.

"Yes, Nick?"

"Can I-um-"

She's getting annoyed. "What, Nick?"

"Could you possibly-maybe-tell me your last name?"

Without a beat, she says, "Hilton."

"No, really."

"Hyatt?"

"Norah-"

"Marriott? Or how about Olsen? I'm the triplet they never fucking acknowledge. "

"I see a resemblance."

"Fuck you. It's Silverberg."

"Cool."

"'Cool,' as in you know who my father is now?"

The thought hadn't even occurred to me.

"To be honest," I say, "even with the last name, I don't know who he is. I guess I don't follow that kind of stuff. Is that okay?"

"You have no idea how okay that is," Norah answers. "Now-I've shown you mine, so you show me yours."

"O'Leary."

"You're Irish?"

"Not really, like in a majority way. My grandfather just happened to win the last-name lottery. I'm really Irish-British-French-Belgian-Italian-Slav-Russian-Danish. Basically, the Euro should have my face on it."

"So you're a Euro mutt?"

"With the possible exception of Luxembourg."

"Good to know."

We angle over to Sixth, then to Broadway.