“I—don’t really know. I’m not that into music,” he says.
Not into music? A robot in my brain announces that thisdoes not compute. Now that I think about it, though, he didn’t mention the soundtrack change at Pearl’s today. How it’s possible someone wouldn’t have picked up on that auditory improvement, I’ll never know.
“I listen to it, obviously,” he clarifies, probably freaked out that I’m staring at him like he’s an alien who was just beamed down from a spaceship. “I like having it on when I’m driving or working out, or whatever. I just don’t pay enough attention to even know what I’m listening to.” He points to the radio, which plays Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’.” “Like, I have no idea what genre this is.”
“It’s eighties pop,” I say without thinking. “I mean… sorry. I just—I love music.”
Myles snorts good-naturedly. “Yeah, I think that record player is perfect for you.”
We turn onto my street, and I realize I’m running out of time to learn what Myles nerds out about. Who knows if I’ll have a chance to talk with him this much again? “What’s your thing like that? That you’re unreasonably knowledgeable about?”
He taps his fingers absently on the steering wheel. “You know, I’m not sure.”
“Basketball? Your favorite movie franchise? Ice cream flavors?”
He scrunches his nose. “I know a normal amount about all of those. Felt like you were going for, like, prodigy level with that question.”
“Absolutely I was,” I agree.
He pulls into the single-car driveway, getting as close to thehouse as he can. It’s still pouring, and I’m going to have to make a run for it when I open the door. But he puts the car in park and crosses his arms as if he wants to answer my question before I go.
When a wrinkle forms between his eyebrows, I pat his arm—who am I?—and say, “It’s okay, buddy. You don’t have to tell me now.”
It takes him a long second, but he finally drops his hands into his lap. “Yeah, okay. I’m gonna figure it out and tell you the next time we work together.”
“Sounds good.” I gather my purse and pull the strap over my head so it’s across my body. I don’t want to risk dropping it in the mad dash I’m about to make. “Thanks for the ride.”
“Anytime,” he says, smiling. “See you later.”
I get out and run up the steps to my front door, and once I’m safely out of the rain, I turn back and wave. I step inside the house and lean back against the door, closing my eyes and covering my mouth with my hand. My phone vibrates in my purse, and I pull it out to find a text from Kat, the first one in a while. Trying to be optimistic, I sent her a photo of Margarine and me curled up in the dog bed by the fireplace this morning with a caption that said,we miss you!and she never replied. Now she’s complaining about the view from her bedroom window, which is a neighboring building where she swears the family inside can peek into her room. I roll my eyes and type out a response as I head to the laundry room, preparing to strip and throw my clothes into the dryer.
She asks if we can FaceTime in an hour, but doesn’t call for three, and when she does, she’s in the passenger seat of some guy’scar. It’s hard to have a conversation because she keeps laughing at something someone’s saying from the back seat.
We only talk for seven minutes, and during that time she doesn’t ask about my day.
I don’t tell her who drove me home.
7PLAYLIST:this is not a cry for help
I DON’T WORK ATPearl’s on Friday, which means I sleep in. Way in. Around noon the sun streams through the sheer curtains straight onto my face, so I finally rouse myself, and within moments of stepping out of the bathroom, I pause and frown.
My house smells all wrong.
And by “wrong” I mean it smells like nothing. Margarine slept in my room last night, and she follows me down the stairs. I head to the kitchen and, not finding what I’m looking for, go back to my room for my phone. For most of the year my mom works with Dad at the grocery store, but during the summer months she spends most of her days at the art gallery located in the stretch of retail shops downtown.
Me: No sloppy joes tonight?
It’s Friday, and on Fridays we have Crock-Pot sloppy joes.Always. Mom browns the meat and puts everything together before she goes to work (allegedly—I’m never awake for that part, especially not in the summer), and by midday the house smells like beefy, tomatoey, spicy goodness.
She calls me, and I sigh.
“Why does this require a voice-to-voice conversation?” I mutter to myself before I answer. “Hi, Mom.”
“I’m so sorry, honey,” she says. “I just thought… Well, maybe I should have asked you about it, but I wasn’t sure you’d want them if Kat wasn’t here.”
I stop so suddenly, Margarine bumps into my legs. I didn’t even realize I was pacing. “Oh.”
It hits me like a ton of bricks. Friday night sloppy joes without Kat? My mom’s right, because in what world?
