Nick & Norah's Infinite Playlist

17. NICK

Singing in the rain. I’m singing in the rain. And it’s such a fucking glorious feeling. An unexpected downpour and I am just giving myself into it. Because what the fuck else can you do? Run for cover? Shriek or curse? No—when the rain falls you just let it fall and you grin like a madman and you dance with it, because if you can make yourself happy in the rain then you’re doing pretty alright in life. As the first drops fall, she’s still on the phone and I’m watching her talk and she’s just the most amazingly complicated thing, trying on all these different expressions at once—yelling angry when she’s clearly happy, then pretending to be listening when she’s really watching me and the rain. Then she puts the phone back in Salvatore’s pocket and walks over to me. I don’t know why we say the sky is opening up when it rains—like the sky has been holding back all this time, and then this is its release. And I look at her and she looks at me and it’s like everything just opens up. I am feeling the raindrops drench my clothes. I am feeling the hair fall down in my eyes. But I’m also feeling this lightness and she is so fucking beautiful the way her mouth is uncertain about whether or not to smile. We are on the edge of Times Square with its beacon of lights and we are swaying as the sky is opening, and I reach out for her to be my dance partner and she accepts. So that leaves us on the sidewalk, my arm around her body. She presses close—is just staring at me—and even though I don’t know what the question is, I know the answer. So I say “This,” and I lean in and I kiss her right there on the edge of Times Square, the way people kiss good-bye on the street, only this is more like a hello. This.

I open my mouth and she opens my mouth and it’s like she’s breathing right through me. And her body is wet and it’s right against mine and I want, I want, I want. She pulls back to look at me and her eyes are laughing and her eyes are serious and I know exactly how she feels. It’s another question and I offer another answer, and this time her hand curves around the back of my neck and this time her body presses tighter and mine presses even tighter back. The people around us—not many, and certainly not many sober—are looking at us, and I can’t help but look around a little, and I get an idea. I tell her I have an idea and I take her hand in mine and we do that thing where you weave your fingers together, here is the church here is the steeple, and I lead her into Times Square and under the lights and past the marquees until we get to the Marquis. Suddenly she’s giving me this What the fuck? look, because what girl wants to end up at a tourist Marriott in Times Square? But I say “Trust me” and kiss her again and there are two other people in the glass elevator with us, but they get off at the eighth-floor lobby. I ask Norah what her lucky number is and she tells me, so we go to that floor. There is nobody in the halls and best of all there’s no hallway music playing, and I don’t see what I’m looking for and then I find it, but Norah can’t wait and she’s putting her hand under my collar and feeling the skin from my shoulder to my neck and that is so damn hot that I forget where we’re going for a second and I just make out with her right there in the hallway, out of sight of the atrium and the glass elevators, but still careful not to lean against any doors because that might wake up the tourists inside. Instead we press against the wall and she runs her hand down my chest then at my belt she goes right back up, only under the shirt, and her fingers feel so good there. And my fingers feel her shirt and her breasts and we are both so damn soaked and so damn ready. We kiss for about five minutes more and she’s a damn good kisser. She kisses my upper lip and then kisses my lower lip and I echo her—kiss her upper lip, kiss her lower lip. Then she tries to do something with her tongue that doesn’t quite work but it doesn’t really matter because our hands are everywhere at once and I am so into it, and after she gives up on the tongue thing I can tell she’s relaxing a little more. She’s losing herself, and I love all the more that she’s not trying, she’s just doing.

So I steer her a little down the hall until we’re in front of the room that says ICE. And she laughs and I say, “C’mon,” because where else do we have to go? And the room isn’t that cold, there’s just the noise of the soda machine to contend with. She says, “You can’t be serious,” and I agree that I can’t be. I’m not. I say, “I’m just really into you,” and then I kiss her and she finds the light switch and turns it off, and then we’re just lit in Pepsi-can colors and it’s like we’ve finally found this other kind of conversation, this conversation in gestures and pulls and pushes and breaths and grasps and teases and glimmers and rubs and expectation. “Are you okay?” I ask, and she says, “Are you?” And I say, “Yes, I am.” I am more than okay. This is a great conversation.

God, I like her so much.

“Let’s get you out of some of those wet clothes,” she says, and she pulls at my shirt and stumbles over some of the buttons and I don’t know what comes over me, but I start tickling her and that really pisses her off, but she’s laughing and then gasps back the laugh, I guess so the guests won’t hear. She finishes the buttons and she takes off the shirt. I take my jacket off her shoulders and she does the strangest thing—she pulls back for a second and folds it neatly, puts it almost reverently on the floor. Then I peel off the wet flannel, peel off the T-shirt underneath. She runs her fingers through the patch of hair on my chest, then follows the trail down to my belt. I have never, ever felt such desire. She takes off the belt, lets it drop to the floor. Then she unbuttons the top button of my jeans—only the top button. And I reach over to her jeans and unbutton the top button—only the top button. And I ask it again—“Are you okay?” And this time she says yes. She says she’s more than okay.

We kiss like it’s a form of clasping. It’s not like it was in the club, when it was like she was proving something. We have nothing to prove now, nothing except that we’re not afraid. That we’re not going to think too much, or stop too much, or go too much. Her hand traces down the zipper line and I say, “Slow.” Because this is not a rush. This is not something insignificant. This is real. This is happening. And this is ours.

I am nervous as fuck, vulnerable as anything. I can feel my chest shaking. She embraces me so her arms are behind my back, then lets her hands wander down, across that line, under my jeans, under my boxers. I wrap my arms around her, raise my hands to her back. To her neck. To her hair. Then one hand glides back, runs over her breasts, then between them, trailing down and back around. We entangle. The ice machine hums, then comes to life, the cracking crash that makes us laugh, takes us out of the moment for a moment, makes us look at each other in a naked light. That stop. That pause.

“What are we doing?” she says.

“I don’t know?” I reply.

She leans into me again, her wet pants squarely on mine, and says, “Good answer.”

I want to kiss her without counting the seconds. I want to hold her so long that I get to know her skin. I want, I want, I want.

Her hands slide to my hips. Her thumbs hook around my waistband.

Lowering.

Lowering.

I gasp.