Subject: Take It Easy
I figuredyou could use something light this week.Comfort music.
The playlist is attached.(Or, well, “attached” in theory—one day we’ll figure out how to beam music through a screen, I swear.Even when I still don’t believe in cell phones and I hope that CDs go out of style.)
It’s all about Hall & Oates, obviously.I don’t care what anyone says; their music feels like a good mood in stereo—like someone wearing white sneakers and clapping offbeat but still managing to look cool.It’s joy, plain and simple.
“You Make My Dreams”
You already know.It’s the sonic equivalent of a wink and a coffee refill.
“Private Eyes”
Clap.Clap.You have to.It’s a rule.
“Out of Touch”
Melancholy wrapped in synths.For when you miss someone and don’t know how to say it.
“Rich Girl”
It’s petty.It’s bitter.It’s catchy as hell.A breakup anthem for when you want to judge just a little.
“She’s Gone”
Their heartbreak era.Bleeds a little more with every listen.
Otis might approvesome of the choices (probably the ones with more percussion).Let me know yours.I feel like you’re either a “Maneater” guy or secretly obsessed with “Say It Isn’t So.”Don't deny it.
Also—how’s the cooking class going?Did you graduate from boiling water to toasting bread?
P.S.Yes, Allegra blinked slowly at me while “Don’t Stop” played.Cat approval granted.
ChapterOne Hundred Four
Roderick
October 3rd, 1997
I push through the door.The bell above gives a halfhearted ding, barely louder than the low hum of the speakers behind the counter.It smells like dust, vinyl, and time that hasn’t been kind or cruel—just indifferent.
Kit’s standing in the middle of the store, surrounded by worn-down cardboard boxes.Her brows are scrunched as she hunches over a stack of old vinyl, flipping through them like she’s touching memories instead of records.When I get closer, I see why—these aren’t just any albums.They’re ours.Or were.
“Do you need help with that?”
She jolts, shoulder twitching beneath my hand, and I realize too late she’s wearing headphones.The moment she turns, tugging them down around her neck, her entire face shifts.That familiar smile blooms—soft, surprised, unmistakably her.
“I didn’t see you there.”
“You seemed busy,” I say, my voice catching between sarcasm and sentiment.
“I’m trying to figure out something.But now that you’re here, maybe you can fix this.”She gestures to the chaos—pile of albums at her feet.“Barret brought them a few months ago.These are all the ones you left at the old house.But ...some of Alec’s are in here too.”
I squint.“Who in their right mind would do that?”
“Do what?”
“Mix his shit with anyone else’s.He’s going to combust if he finds out.”I pick one up.
