She tilts her head. “I know of said technology. I’ve just never met anyone besides the occasional DJ who still buys records. And my grandma.”
I stay quiet. I know what’s coming.
“Wait. Are you a DJ?”
Silence.
But Max is immune to silence. “Bear? Come on, this is way too cool. Tell me.”
I sigh. “Used to be.”
Her eyes light up like I just handed her a secret. “Favorite record?”
“Whitney Houston.Whitney.”
I know most DJs—most men—would’ve rattled off something hip-hop. And don’t get me wrong, I’ve got favorites that start at Run-DMC and end at Common and DMX. But I grew up a mama’s boy, and I guess her taste rubbed off on me more than I ever admit out loud. Which makes me wonder why I just admitted it to Max so easily.
I brace myself for the teasing, ready for some joke about me being soft, when instead she leans in a little and asks, “Which song?”
It’s the easiest question she could’ve asked me.
When I was a kid, every Saturday morning, my mom would crank up that album—Whitney—loud enough to shake the walls. It was her way of getting me and my brother Elliot out of bed to do chores.
My dad was usually off working, but me, my brother and my mom would dance around the house like we were on stage. Her and my brother would sing into a wooden spoon, I’d try to keep up, and Whitney was always the soundtrack.
Those mornings are stitched into my memory—laughter, soap bubbles, and that voice. Always that voice.
I nod, letting a rare smile touch my lips. “Which song?Everysong.”
She nods like I just earned points. “I dig that.”
I glance over. “Youdigthat?”
“You can listen to vinyl, but I can’t say the word ‘dig’?”
“I’m older than you. It makes sense for me to say things like that.”
“You’re notthatmuch older than me. I’m thirty-two. How old are you?”
“Older than you.”
She groans. “We’re back to this again?”
“What?”
“You keeping secrets and being a terrible road trip buddy.”
“This isn’t a road trip.”
“We’re in a car. We’re driving longer than an hour. If you let me stop and buy gummy worms, it’s officially a road trip.”
“Seriously, what iswrongwith you?”
“You’re such a grumpy bear. I thought Canadians were cuddly.”
“I’m gonna need you to stop stereotyping Canadians.”
“Sorry,” she huffs as we pull into the lot of thePeppermint Elephant—Canada’s answer to Spearmint Rhino, only slightly more polite and with fewer thongs.
