“Oh shit.” He tried to blink his way out of the brain fog. “Do you need me to take you home, or—”
“Do you want me to make dinner?” Jem asked at the same time.
“Youcook?” River asked.
“I mean, I prefer not to starve, so….”
“Marry me.”
Jem laughed. “I’ll take that as a yes on dinner.”
Can I take that as a yes on marriage?“It’s a yes,” River said. As if in emphasis, his stomach growled. “I can help?”
“You can keep me company and stay out of the way,” Jem offered.
River knew better than to say no to a deal that sweet. He grabbed his guitar and made to follow, but an idea occurred to him halfway down the hallway. “Be right there,” he said and pulled out his phone.
It only took a minute to arrange what he wanted. Then he shoved his phone back into his pocket and pulled up a stool at the kitchen island to watch Jem work.
“Do you take requests?”
River did a quick tuning check. “Depends if you flatter me.” As though he’d ever miss an opportunity to affect Jem the way he’d been affected earlier. Of course, that would make it difficult for him to cook, but they could order takeout.
“You want me to give you a challenge, or am I limited to the Flat Tires’ greatest hits?”
River played a few bars of “Dueling Banjos” just to be a dick. “Do your worst.”
He spent the evening singing bad power ballads in the kitchen while Jem cooked and occasionally joined in, head thrown back as he immersed himself in the moment. That segued seamlessly into setting the guitar aside—normally a hated necessity—as they ate and talked, guessing at each other’s secrets.
“Your favorite album—that youhaven’twritten yourself,” Jem amended. “Those don’t count.”
“Bold of you to assume I’m that self-absorbed,” River teased. “Go on, then. Guess.”
“Hmm.” He narrowed his eyes. “It’s got to be something old—”
River kicked halfheartedly at him under the table.
“Like Blink 182—”
River clutched his chest and pretended to fall off the barstool. Jesus Christ. “I am crumbling into dust.”
Jem propped his chin on his hands. “Californication,” he said finally.
“Not old enough,” River said wryly. “Although I want it on the record that my choice is actuallyolder than I am.” He paused for a moment. “It’sRumours.”
“Oh, of course.” Jem smiled. “An album made by a band in the middle of a breakup.”
“Hey!” River protested. “It’s not a breakup album. I mean, okay, the relationshipswithinthe band were disintegrating, but they made a lot more good music after this.” He paused, trying to organize his thoughts. “The record was my dad’s, actually. I still have it. Listening to it made me feel close to him. But that’s only half of what I love about it.”
“Tell me.”
“It’s—timeless, I guess. The album tells a story, and the story resonates. Almost every song has a powerhouse lyric that hits you like a punch, even almost fifty years later.”
He didn’t realize he was rhapsodizing until he caught Jem’s fond, indulgent expression. “So how come you didn’t play me one of those?”
River huffed. “You think I’m going to be out here trying to cover Stevie or Christine?”
Jem blinked at him. “I don’t know what that means.”
