“Yeah, when this seat is reclined, it’s pretty comfortable.”
She was a taller-than-average woman, I’d estimated about 5’7”, but when she snuggled down into the pillow and blanket nest we’d set up on the passenger seat, she looked small. Defenseless. Vulnerable. Some Cro-Magnon part of part of me stirred in response to it and a surge of protectiveness rushed through me. I stared ahead at the swath of road revealed by the bright headlights while my frontal cortex gave my lizard brain a good talking-to about modern humans and toxic masculinity.
“You can turn on music,” she offered. “Anything you like.”
“Maybe later, but I’m good for now. Sometimes, I like the quiet.”
“Okay, but don’t worry about waking me. Once I’m asleep, I’m out.”
“Noted,” I said. “I’ll be sure to crank the death metal to cover your snoring.”
“Hey, I don’t snore! At least, I don’t think so.”
“If you do, I’m sure it’s adorable.” I immediately wished I could snatch back the words, but they hung in the air between us.
“Do you really listen to death metal?” she finally asked, breaking the awkward silence.
“No,” I said. “I like some pop music from lots of eras. We’d probably find some common ground there. And singer-songwriters. The aughts were a great time for that. Cat Power, Norah Jones, Elliot Smith.”
She lifted her head. “You like Cat Power? You’re full of surprises, Nick Roman.”
I didn’t tell her about the music I loved most, the music my mother had taught me. That would really shock her.
A few minutes later, after I thought she’d gone to sleep, she said, “I’m sorry.”
“Like I’ve already said, no need to apologize for the asshole ex. Not your fault.”
“You can call him Riley.”
“Nope, not going to show him the respect of using his name. He’ll always be the asshole to me.”
“Thanks for that,” she said. “I wasn’t talking about him, though. I’m sorry for playing all those Christmas songs. I wish I would have realized sooner that they’re triggering for you.”
Being called triggered was a new one for me. It didn’t fit, but I appreciated the sentiment. “Thanks for saying that, but it wasn’t all bad. I’d actually missed a few of the songs.” It was true, but I hadn’t realized it until that moment, talking quietly with Cara in that dark car, feeling like there was no one else in the world. “Just a few, like George Michael’sLast Christmas.”
“Love that one,” she said.
“Of course you do. It’s from the eighties.”
“One thing about avoiding Christmas songs for years is you’ve probably missed the hundreds of bad covers ofLast Christmas. Consider yourself lucky.”
“Noted,” I said. “And I like the Mariah Carey one.”
“All I Want for Christmas Is You.”
I knew she was quoting the song title, but her words gave me a cheap thrill. Christ, I was hard up. Or maybe it was worse than that.
“Any other songs?” she asked.
“There was one on your playlist this morning. A newer group, kids. I can’t remember the name but I think they’re brothers.”
“The Jonas Brothers?”
“That’s it.” I glanced over to see her peering at me with half-open eyes.
“Thosekidsare in their thirties and they’ve been around like twenty years.” She closed her eyes. “Geez, are you forty-one or ninety-one?”
I grinned. “Some days, could go either way.”
