"This better be worth it," she said, grabbing a coat from a hook by the door. "I had plans today."
"What plans?"
"Doing nothing. Gloriously, deliberately nothing. It’s called bed-rotting and I was looking forward to it.”
“You can bed-rot tomorrow."
“No I can’t.” She locked her door, stuffed the keys into her pocket. “I work tomorrow, remember?”
“Let’s go, we’re wasting daylight.”
We descended the stairs, emerged onto the street, and I opened the passenger door of my car for her. She paused, eyeing me.
"You know I'm capable of opening my own door, right?"
"I'm aware."
"Just checking." She slid inside, and I caught the faintest hint of vanilla as I closed the door.
Not her perfume. Probably her shampoo. Or lotion. Or whatever products women used that made them smell like dessert.
I walked around to the driver's side and told myself to stop noticing how she smelled.
Twenty minutes into the drive, she'd already commandeered the radio.
"This is what you listen to?" She flipped through my presets with undisguised horror. "Classical. Jazz. More classical. NPR. Callum, this is the musical equivalent of beige walls."
"There's nothing wrong with beige walls."
"There's nothing right with them, either." She connected her phone to the Bluetooth without asking permission. "We're fixing this."
The opening bars of a song I vaguely recognized—pop, early 2000s, almost definitely featuring choreographed dancing in the music video—filled the car.
"This is worse," I said.
"This is a classic."
"This is noise."
"This is Britney Spears, and you will show respect." She turned up the volume. "Everyone loves Britney."
"I don't."
"Everyone with a soul loves Britney."
"Are you questioning my soul?"
"I'm questioning your taste." She settled backin her seat, satisfied. "Where are we going? And don't say 'surprise' again or I'll open this door and tuck-and-roll onto the highway."
"It's not the highway yet. You'd just roll into a bus stop."
"Answer the question, Hayes."
I considered maintaining the mystery, but the look she was giving me suggested she might actually attempt the tuck-and-roll. "There's a town about an hour north. Hartfield. It has a skating rink, decent restaurants, and enough charm to satisfy even your aesthetic standards."
"Skating?" Her voice pitched up. "As in ice skating? On ice? With blades attached to my feet?"
"That's generally how it works."
