She shrugs. “You’re quiet.”
“That doesn’t mean I don’t listen.”
Rainey turns again, scanning the record albums more carefully this time.
“Okay,” she says slowly, pulling one free. “This feels like a test.”
“It’s not.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
She holds the record up between us.
“If I pick something terrible, are you going to judge me?”
“Yes.”
She smiles.
“Well, that's honest.”
I take it from her, setting it on the player and lowering the needle. The soft crackle comes first, then the music … low, steady, filling the room without taking it over.
She listens for a second, then nods.
“I love this.”
“Good.”
“That was not a guaranteed outcome.”
“I wasn’t worried.”
She turns toward me.
“You should’ve been.”
We eat at the table near the window, the music threading through everything without demanding attention. Conversation comes easier now. It doesn’t feel forced.
She tells me about the first apartment she ever had, how she tried to assemble furniture without instructions and ended up sleeping on the floor for a week.
I tell her about the first time I tried to plant too early in the season and lost half a crop overnight. She laughs.
At some point, I realize neither of us is rushing this. Not the food or the conversation. Not whatever this is.
When we’re finished, she leans back slightly, looking toward the record player.
“You’re full of surprises,” she says.
“I told you I grow things.”
“You've grown a huge music collection.”
“It’s related.”
She shakes her head, smiling.
