My face heats, and I turn to look out the window, watching the trees blur past. “Anyway, the music became a connection to her. After she passed, I couldn’t stop listening to it. Every song was a piece of her I could still hold on to.”
Oliver’s hand leaves the steering wheel and finds mine, where it rests on my thigh. His fingers curl around my knuckles,and he squeezes once before returning them to the steering wheel.
“Thank you for telling me that,” he says quietly.
“Thank you for asking.”
The station transitions to a new song, and I recognize the opening bars immediately—the gentle guitar strum, the lilting melody that builds into something both jaunty and wistful.
“Oh,” I say, sitting up straighter. “Mom loved this one.”
It’s “Waltzing Matilda” by Jimmie Rodgers. It’s an Australian folk song about a wandering swagman and his jolly jumbuck, a song that makes absolutely no sense unless you know the Australian slang, which Mom painstakingly explained to me when I was six.
The melody washes over me, and before I can stop myself, before I can remember to be self-conscious, I’m singing along.
The words flow out of me automatically, muscle memory encoded deep in my bones from a thousand repetitions. I know every syllable, every rise and fall of the melody. My voice isn’t remarkable—I’ve never claimed to be a singer—but it’s in tune, and it carries the emotion that the song demands.
I’m halfway through the second verse when I realize Oliver has gone very quiet. I glance over, expecting to find him focused on the road, maybe mildly tolerating my impromptu performance.
He’s watching me.
Not glancing.Watching.His green eyes are fixed on my face with an intensity that makes my voice falter. A flush creeps up his neck, and his grip on the steering wheel has tightened. “Sorry. I—you have a really nice voice.”
“It’s nothing special.”
“Ryan.” His voice is firm. “It’s special.You’respecial.”
The declaration is too sincere to deflect with self-deprecation.
“You should watch the road,” I say weakly.
“Probably. Keep singing if you want. I’ll try to maintain vehicular control.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“Best I can offer.”
I hesitate, then pick up the song where I left off. Oliver’s smile widens, and he reaches over to turn up the volume a little, letting Jimmie Rodgers’s voice blend with mine.
The park isnothing but waning light, green shrubbery, and dappled shadows. It’s the kind of scene that makes you believe the universe occasionally gets things right. Oliver pulls the Jeep into a gravel lot bordered by ancient oaks, their branches heavy with summer leaves that rustle in the warm breeze.
“This is it,” he says, cutting the engine. “Best spot on campus. Well, near campus. Close enough.”
I step out onto the gravel, and the crunch beneath my loafers is oddly satisfying. The air smells different here—cleaner, greener, tinged with the sweet decay of fallen leaves and the distant perfume of wildflowers. Somewhere nearby, a creek babbles over stones, providing a gentle soundtrack to the evening.
Oliver retrieves a wicker picnic basket from the back seat along with a plaid blanket that’s seen better days but looks impossibly soft.
“You really went all out,” I observe.
“Go big or go home.” He grins, slinging the blanket over his shoulder.
We walk along a dirt path that winds through the trees, stepping over exposed roots and ducking under low-hanging branches. The sunlight filters through the canopy in scattered beams, and I swear this has to be a dream. It’s too perfect. Too…right.
Oliver leads us to a clearing I’ve never seen before, though I’ve walked through this park dozens of times when I first started at BSU. It’s tucked away from the main trails, bordered by purpleconeflowers and black-eyed Susans nodding in the breeze. There’s a perfect view of the western sky where the sun is beginning its descent.
“How did you find this place?” I ask as he spreads the blanket over the grass.
“Alex, actually. He and Kyle come here sometimes.” Oliver smooths out the corners, then settles onto the fabric.
