RYAN
“You okay over there?” Oliver asks, glancing at me as he pulls out of the dorm parking lot. “You’re gripping that door handle as if it owes you money.”
I force my fingers to relax. I don’t know why I’m so nervous. This is Oliver. Oliver, who held my hand under the stars. Oliver, who kissed me on a Ferris wheel. Oliver, who apparently spent yesterday making sandwiches for a picnic because he wanted to do something nice for me.
I still can’t quite believe this is my life.
The afternoon sun cuts through the windshield. Oliver’s hands are steady on the wheel, his forearms tan and muscular. I catch myself staring and quickly look away, focusing on the dashboard instead.
“Hey,” Oliver says, reaching for the radio. “I’ve got something for you.”
He fiddles with the dial, bypassing pop stations and rock stations until finally landing on a frequency that crackles with static before resolving into crystal clarity. The Andrews Sisters pour through the speakers, their harmonies tight and bright, singing about boogie-woogie bugle boys.
“Oh,” I breathe, unable to stop the smile that spreads across my face. “You found an oldies station.”
“Figured you’d appreciate it.” Oliver’s voice is casual, but the corner of his mouth quirks up just enough that a dimple appears. His eyes flick toward me for a split second before returning to the road. “I remember you mentioned liking this stuff. At the diner, and before that too.”
The fact that he remembered, that he paid attention, that he cared enough to seek out a station that plays music from seven decades ago because I enjoy it, is nothing short of wonderful. “Thank you. That’s really thoughtful.”
“Yeah, well.” Oliver shrugs, but his ears have gone slightly pink. “Couldn’t have you suffering through whatever top forty garbage is playing these days.”
“You sound like an old man.”
“I’m channeling your energy. Is it working?”
“Disturbingly well.”
The music fills the space between us. The Andrews Sisters give way to Glenn Miller, trumpets swelling and making me think of dance halls and victory gardens. A world I’ve only ever experienced through records and stories.
“Can I ask you something?” Oliver says as we turn onto the main road.
“You just did.”
“Smartass.” But he’s smiling. “I mean a real question. About the music.”
“Go ahead.”
“What got you into this stuff? Most people our age probably can’t name a single song from before the eighties.”
His question shouldn’t make my throat tighten. It’s simple, innocent, the kind of getting-to-know-you inquiry that normal people handle without emotional crisis. But the answer leads back to the same place everything leads back to, and I’m not sure I can talk about her right now without falling apart.
Then again, I already told Oliver about Mom on theastronomy tower. He held my hand while I shared her dreams of space, her constellation lessons. If anyone can handle this, it’s him.
“My mother,” I say, and my voice only wavers a little. “She’s the one who introduced me to it. Her parents, my grandparents, were peak fifties people. Sock hops and soda fountains and all that. Mom used to say she was raised on a steady diet of Buddy Holly and Patsy Cline.”
The memory surfaces unbidden: Mom in the kitchen of whatever base housing we were occupying that month, a portable radio perched on the counter, her hips swaying as she stirred something on the stove. She’d grab my hands and twirl me around, laughing when I stumbled, teaching me steps I was too young and too clumsy to master.
“She played this music constantly,” I continue. “In the car, in the house, while she cooked dinner or folded laundry. She said it reminded her of a simpler time. Before the world got so complicated.”
“That makes sense.”
“I think…” I pause, choosing my words carefully. “I think she felt out of place in the modern world. She was old-fashioned in many ways. Very proper, very polite. She believed in handwritten thank-you notes and holding doors and addressing people as sir and ma’am.”
Oliver’s lips twitch. “That explains a lot about you.”
“I know. I’m aware I come off as a time-traveler from the past.” I smooth my hands over my khaki shorts, suddenly self-conscious. “Jackson calls it my ‘vintage aesthetic.’ I prefer to think of it as honoring her memory.”
“I think it’s charming.”
