“Oh, a little of everything.”
“No you don’t.”
She gives me a confused smile. “Yes, I do.”
“Really? Fine.” I find a Screamo playlist—an awful blend of hardcore emo punk music.
Chaotic, dissonant tempos assail us, making me feel like my ears are bleeding. And that’s before the screaming vocals start.
“I take it back!” Poppy cries, swatting my arm in a way that makes me chuckle. “Turn it off!”
I turn off the song. “Want to try again? What kind of music do you like?”
She glares at me, her hazel eyes playful and piercing and her lips puckered, like she’s biting the inside of her cheek. “You’ll just make fun of me,” she says.
“I won’t,” I say, though we both know that’s probably a lie.
“‘80s New Wave.”
Funny. Grace likes New Wave. I pull up a song she told me she loves. It’s from one of those old John Hughes movies where the cute overlooked girl wishes the cool, aloof guy would love her, and at the end of the movie, he realizes he’s been an idiot all along and that he can’t live without her. Poppy sways to the music, more relaxed than she’s been for hours with that far off look on her face.
“So?” she asks, batting her long lashes slowly, like she’s still waking from a dream.
“It’s not what I’d pick, but it’s not bad,” I say honestly. In fact, I’ve come to like this song. It reminds me of Grace.
“What would you pick?” she asks.
“We’re not close enough for that.”
“What?” she laughs, her full lips stretching into a disbelieving smile. “I told you what I like!”
“Hey, a playlist is a personal thing,” I say. “Just because you overshare with strangers, doesn’t mean I do.”
She flares her nostrils as she breathes out a laugh that somehow fills the car. “You are unreal.”
Two semi trucks are taking up both lanes, driving at the exact same speed and acting as a very slow-moving roadblock. Poppy might be anxious about the weather, especially now that the sun has set, but she doesn’t look like she’s happy driving this slowly, either.
“What if I can guess?” she asks.
I think for a second. I don’t actually mind telling her what kind of music I like, but I’m tired and she’s tired and it’ll be easier to keep her alert if she’s engaged in some back and forth. On top of that, she already knows me as an ornery guy. No need to change her opinion of me.
“All right, give it a try,” I tell her.
“Stadium rock.”
“No,” I say.
“Metal. Hairband, that kind of stuff.”
“Meh,” I say. “Not the worst, but it’s not my style.”
“Classic rock,” she says.
“Who doesn’t like classic rock?”
“Is that your answer?”
“No. I like it, but it’s not my go-to.”
