“That sounds like carnage,” Nathan says.
“It’s curated carnage,” Liam corrects.
Owen leans in. “It’s like Netflix but for music. Only people judge you based on your choices,” he says. “Which is honestly half the fun.”
That does not help. I shrug my shoulders as Nathan leans back slightly, also unimpressed. “That sounds weird.”
“It’s not weird,” Liam says.
“It’s a little weird,” Nathan counters. “And untrustworthy.”
“Untrustworthy?” Liam repeats.
“I don’t know,” Nathan says. “Feels like I’m giving strangers insight into my personality through song choices.”
“That’s exactly what you’re doing,” Owen says.
“Yeah,” Liam adds. “That’s the point.”
Nathan shakes his head. “Hard pass.”
“It’s great for dating,” Owen says, cutting in. “I’ve met, like, two of my last dates here because of the playlist.”
I look at him. “Two?”
“Two recent ones,” he says defensively. “It works.”
“For you,” Nathan mutters.
Liam’s already nudging the phone toward me. “Come on, Ty. You’re up.”
I hesitate for half a second.
“Fine,” I say, grabbing it.
It’s simple enough. Sign up. Create username. Preferences. I begin scrolling, checking out a plethora of artists. Genres. Recently played. A list of songs pops up, already queued by other people in the restaurant.
I scan it, not expecting much until I see…Okay. Whoever’s running Benson Boone right now, I can’t be mad at that. Solid choice.
I scroll a little further. An old Eagles track slides into view. I pause. Alright. Respect. That one earns a nod I do not give out lightly.
I keep going. It’s only a matter of time before I land on the Swifties. More than one Taylor Swift song appears, and the corner of my mouth tips before I can stop it.
I don’t hate it.
I glance around the table like I’ve just committed a minor crime by thinking that. Then, without really meaning to, my fingers brush against the bracelet still wrapped around my wrist.Peace.I let out a quiet laugh.
“What are you laughing at?” Owen asks, already suspicious.
“Nothing,” I say quickly, scrolling again like I wasn’t just having a full internal moment about my music preferences.
“Didn’t sound like nothing.”
“It was nothing.”
I tap a song into the queue—safe, neutral, unremarkable.
“Look at you,” Owen clucks. “Building a musical identity.”
