Nick & Norah's Infinite Playlist

"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 fucking 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 fuck 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.

Nick asked for my phone number, but he never said when he was going to call me. We've only known each other a few hours, yet we've, um, gotten to know each other pretty well I'd say, so I would hope it would at least be implied that we're going to see each other again soon, but he never said when. And I don't like waiting to find out.

I pull my phone from Salvatore's pocket and review the call log. I see Nick's number. I debate whether to assign a name to his number. If I commit to that, then I will truly be heartbroken if he never calls me again; my heart will knot each and every time I use this phone and see his name in there. I would probably end up having to trash the phone entirely. Then I hear the song on the radio at the counter and it's Dad's beloved ol' Alanis and I think how in one night Nick inspired what Dad calls my "Norah-as-Alanis teenage transformations," in which Dad says I am capable of instantly converting from raging wildcat "You Oughta Know" Alanis into tender pussycat "Thank U" Alanis, and I decide to program Nick into my phone anyway, despite my misgivings. I consider assigning his number the name NoMo, but suspect that would really piss him off. Salvatore's babydaddy would take too long to get in there. So I just key in Nick. So simple. So sweet. And I call him.

"Did you find anyone in there with jumper cables?" he asks, hopeful.

"Didn't ask anyone yet. So, like, if you're going to call me, can you let me know when that would be?"

"You're not leaving me room for the element of surprise."

"I hate surprises."

"I don't believe you."