“Come on, let’s go.” I slam my books shut and stuff them into my bag. Jake pushes back in his seat, confusion painting his expression.
“Go where?” he asks as I stand.
“Just come on.” I sling my bag over my shoulder and start heading for the library exit. There’s a fifty-fifty chance he’ll follow me, but I keep moving forward, not looking back once, if only for feigned confidence.
I land at my car, opening the back passenger door and swinging my bag into it. I get into the driver’s seat and start the engine, waiting for the passenger door to open.
When it doesn’t, a sour twist of rejection climbs up my spine, much like it did the very first time I met Jake Cooper.
He’s going to come, I tell myself, but I only half believe it.
When the passenger door does, in fact, swing open, relief washes over me. Jake folds himself into the front seat of my Sonata, and my heart sings in a way that should warn me this is destined for trouble.
He clicks his seat belt and rests his head back on the headrest, his eyes on mine, watching but guarded. “Where are we going?”
“To loosen you up, Tin Man.”
He huffs and shakes his head, giving me a half grin as I hit play on my phone, letting the music pour in through my car’s Bluetooth speakers. When the singer’s voice enters the car, Jake’s face twists in bewilderment.
“Nat King Cole?” he asks in disbelief.
“What, are you not a fan of my music choice? Does the tin man not like Nat King Cole?”
He laughs, unamused. “I mean, I’m impressed it’s not Taylor Swift, but no. I am not a fan.”
“First of all, there is nothing wrong with Taylor Swift. And second, that’s crazy. How can you not like one of the most famous musicians of all time? That’s like not believing in love, or like, hatingairor something.”
“Exactly,” he says with a smirk.
“You hate air?” I deadpan.
“No. Air I’m fine with.”
I ignore the hidden meaning in his words. “Well, whatever. You can’t hate Nat King Cole. That’s illegal in at least four states.”
He chuckles. “I highly doubt that.” He looks out his window and leans an elbow on the door.
“Whatever.” I roll my eyes. “Sounds to me like you have bad taste.”
“Ihave bad taste?” His eyes dart to me, then to the radio. “The man built an entire career convincing people love is some magical cure-all for life, which it’s not.”
I gasp.
“Come on. He might be an amazing jazz artist, but the picture he paints is a lie, without a doubt.”
“Oh my gosh, do you evenlikemusic?! You cannot hate love songs! They’re literally half the reason music exists! Do you hate puppies and butterflies, too?”
“Oh, please. They’re not even comparable,” he snorts. “And half the reason music exists is because people can’t figure out how to deal with their disappointments, so they just whine into a microphone and claim it’s art.”
I gasp in mock offense. “Whine? Excuse me, sir, but Frank Sinatra, Etta James, Whitney Houston! That’s not whining, that’s—”
“Romantic delusion set to a musical note,” he says matter-of-factly.
“Okay, I’m very close to classifying you as clinically insane, but I’ll settle for the clear fact that you’ve never listened to any songever, so I’ll let you off the hook.”
He lets out a breathy laugh. “Whatever you say.”
We’re quiet for a second. Given his clear stance, I should probably drop it, but I’ve never been too good at that.
