“Don’t judge. You wouldn’t understand,” she says with a mock pout.
“Try me. Let’s see. Your mom played it while cleaning the house before you could even walk?”
Another of those fucking clouds passes through her gaze, but she quickly smiles. “Close enough. What’s your favorite piece? Wait, let me guess…” The Sphere’s display changes to a smiley, and she focuses her gaze on me, one finger on her lips.
“I don’t have a favorite,” I volunteer.
“Right. It all depends on your—”
“Mood,” we both say with a quick laugh.
Fuck. I haven’t felt so light in… a long, long time. My thumbs fly on the screen of my phone.
“Okay, but what would you say is their most iconic?” she pushes.
“Ah, I’m a classic guy—”
“Bathtub gin,” we say at the same time.
“Solid,” she says and what can I say? Her approval means something to me. Here’s one thing I’m not fucking up with her.
“How ’bout you? Most iconic?” I ask back.
“Take a guess.”
“Harry Hood?”
She tilts her head. “Truth?”
I frown. “Come on. Always.”
“Blaze.”
“Ah, yeah. I can see that. Uplifting.” I nod. That kind of suits the idea I have of Willow. Shucking a hard childhood to make something out of herself, or at least, live life on her own terms.
“It’s a good sign, right?” She turns to face the Sphere again, now displaying abstract mobile shapes, and sets her hands on her hips. “I think it’s a good sign.”
“What d’you mean, a good sign?”
“They’re from Vermont. We’re from Vermont. What are the odds?”
“That’s one way to look at it.”
“What are you doing?” she asks, narrowing her gaze on my phone.
“Trying to get us tickets.”
She stays silent for a beat. Two. “For Phish?” she asks in a whisper.
I run my thumbs on the screen and glance at her. “Yeah,” I say, smiling.
“For real?”
I laugh. “Yes.” A feeling of careless happiness bubbles up, stretching my lips in a big smile.
“Are you sure?”
I turn my phone to her, showing her our tickets.
