“That’s okay,” I say, because it feels like maybe I shouldn’t have asked that question and I want him to smile again. “I don’t know either.” Technically it’s not a lie. I have it narrowed down to three schools with marine biology programs. I’ve known from the start that I’ll need loans or a scholarship wherever I go. That meant knocking most of the fancy private schools off my list.
When I was eight years old, molded to the couch as I watched my firstShark Week, I announced to my parents that I wanted to be a marine biologist. I think they figured I’d eventually grow out of it, but I never did.
Everyone in the Ford family has gone somewhere important, so I just assumed Myles is headed in the same direction. I wonder how I’d feel with Ford family expectations weighing on me. “Do you have an idea of what you want to major in?”
“Actually…” He glances over at me, just for a second, and I get the sense that he’s about to tell me some sort of confession. “I kind of want to take my first year to figure that out. Maverick, he’s my oldest brother”—I almost snort at the notion that he thinks he needs to tell me who Maverick Ford is, but also it’s kind of endearing that he doesn’t assume everyone knows everything about his family—“said I should just major in something generic like business or philosophy to start. I can always change it when I figure out what I want to do. But that feels like a waste. I want to be inspired.” His cheeks turn a little pink, and I feel my heart give a little squeeze.
“I love that,” I say. “And since you don’t have a specific program you’re looking for, you could just focus on places in the Pacific Northwest. At least that way you’d have all the rainy days you want.”
He keeps his eyes on the road but loosely shakes his pointer finger at me as he nods. “Amelia Madden, that just might be the best idea you’ve ever had.”
“I’m not sure you’ve heard very many of my ideas,” I point out.
“Maybe I should start,” he says, and I blush. I’d let Myles run his problems past me any day of the week. “Where were you last night when my parents were pressuring me to make an application list?”
I almost remind him that he could have texted me—he does have my number, after all. But I’ve never been that forward, and I’m not about to start now. “Just hanging out at home.”
Wow, that sounded pathetic.
Myles may be more perceptive than he lets on, because he says, “I bet you miss Kat, huh? You two came to every Pearl’s training session together. Seemed like you were pretty tight.”
“Yeah.” I swallow and look down at my lap. It feels like since he gave me something honest about being unsure about college stuff, I can give him something true too. “It kind of sucks, honestly.”
“I can’t imagine moving during the middle of high school,” he says, lowering the speed of his windshield wipers as he slows down. “How’s she doing?”
“She’s okay.” Better than okay, probably. “Still adjusting, I think.” Better than I am, that’s for sure.
He stops at a red light and looks at me. “Sorry. We can talk about something else. What about your summer plans? Anything exciting?”
“Not really. Just working,” I reply, thankful he knows how to read the room. Or car, as it were. I tuck a lock of damp hair behind my ear. “Trying to save up some money, you know?”
“For something specific?”
“Sort of,” I hedge. The answer is absolutely yes, but a normal sixteen-year-old would probably be saving for a car. Kat’s told me a thousand times how weird I am to have deferred having my own vehicle ever since turning sixteen four months ago. When I turned fifteen, my parents told me they’d match whatever Isaved to put toward a car, and if I’d cared enough to, I could have picked up extra shifts at the grocery store or saved every penny of my allowance. But where would I even go? I can walk or bike to anywhere in Kingfisher Cove. Driving is just not a big deal to me right now.
“Is it a secret?” he asks, looking more interested by the second.
If it was, I’m not sure I’d tell him. It’s probably a pact violation to have secrets with Myles. “No, you just might think it’s weird.”
“Or I might think it’s the coolest thing ever.”
I mean, that’s how I feel about it. I grin. “Okay. It’s a vintage record player.”
“Like… that plays music?”
“Yeah.”
“Huh. That’s…”
“Weird?” I supply after a moment.
“The coolest thing ever,” he finally says, grinning.
I laugh, shaking my head. “I don’t think you actually believe that.”
“I mean, I wouldn’t buy one for myself,” he allows. “But if that’s what you want and you’re making it happen, that’s what matters. What are you going to listen to on it?”
I sigh, mentally sifting through the library of records I’ll have one day. “God, anything. Everything. Indie rock, nineties grunge, piano ballads, singer-songwriter. The sound quality of vinyl is out of this world.” I glance over at him. “What kind of music do you listen to?”
