“Sure.”
We settled on the floor by the wall near the kitchen. “I brought songs we liked back in the day. I know your amnesia is complete, but I thought it would be interesting for you to hear them. See if it makes you feel anything.”
“Like a big ol’ Ava experiment.”
I hesitated. “Or you can choose. I have a subscription. We can make a new list.”
“No, it’s cool. Queue up our greatest hits.”
I passed her one of my earbuds and pulled up my Ava playlist. I didn’t want to start with “Highway to Hell,” even though it matched her current personality. I went with Lizzo.
Her eyes lit up. “I love this one. The first time I heard it playing at the shelter, I knew it was my jam.”
Of course. Many of the songs were so popular that she would’ve heard them since her memory reset. I didn’t know why I thought this would work. And it’s not like I needed the help of her old memories. Things were going pretty great.
But when she jumped up to dance, there was something I noticed immediately. Parts of Ava hadn’t changed.The way she moved, the way she held out her elbows and closed her fists, was the same as before. She closed her eyes and angled her head exactly as she had in the art room over a year ago. I knew it. Ava was still Ava.
The song ended, and she opened her eyes and drew in a breath, as if she might ask me to play it again, but then she paused.
The first notes of the next song had already begun, and she plunked down onto the carpet.
This one was Taylor Swift, one of the obscure songs from the1989album that never got much airplay. We had listened to it over and over again when she was stuck with her mother.
She placed her elbows on her crossed legs, concentrating.
After a moment, she pressed her hands to her cheeks, her eyes glistening. “It’s Taylor Swift, isn’t it? What’s happening?” She wiped a finger under her eyes and stared at the wetness.
“We listened to this album a lot on the nights we couldn’t get together.”
“What’s it called?”
“‘You Are in Love.’”
“It’s the sappiest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Oh. I reached to move the playlist forward, but she stopped me. “I want to hear the rest of it.”
We kept listening, and it got hard for me not to tear up, too. As great a song as it was when we were a couple, it had become tragic for me in the months I couldn’t find her, then the period when she wouldn’t see me.
“You can’t tell anyone at work that I’m a secret Swiftie. It’ll destroy my reputation.” Her voice shook.
“I won’t.”
“Here I am, crying like a lovesick schoolgirl.” She wiped her eyes. “I’m supposed to be a badass bitch.”
I slipped my arm around her shoulders. “Songs are supposed to make us feel something.”
“What am I going to do about you? I’m not supposed to feel this emotional! I’m supposed to avoid feelings. Repel them. Make fun of them.”
“Maybe there’s more to you than you’ve let yourself be since you left your mom.”
She laid her head on my shoulder. “Maybe.”
We stayed like that for quite a while, but when she lifted her face to mine, I knew exactly what she wanted. We were on our third Taylor Swift song, back in that sacred space we’d always found in those moments we stole together last year.
Connected. In tune with each other. Like gravity existed to draw us together.
Her lips were as I remembered, soft and inquisitive. She kissed like she was always asking a question. What now? What next? How is this possible?
