Chapter 6 Playlist Thank Me Later #2
“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 I saved 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?”
“I—don’t really know. I’m not that into music,” he says.
Not into music? A robot in my brain announces that this does 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 the house 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’s car. 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.