“Yeah…Especially with that.”
She reaches for her water. “You’re insane.”
I take a bite of bacon. “I know.”
A small record player sits on the edge of our table by the window. One of those diner decorations people bring back because nostalgia sells better than plastic menus. The casing is scratched, but the needle arm still sits in place.
I lean slightly toward it and look at the small playlist cards stacked beside it.
Most of the titles are the usual filler.
Then I see it.
“Lovesong”
For a second I just stare at the card.
Out of all the songs that could have been sitting there tonight, it's that one. After everything that just happened, after the fire and the blood, this is the one waiting on the table.
It feels absurd.
Then the television above the counter flashes bright and I realize something else.
It’s New Year’s Eve.
I completely forgot.
My hand moves without me thinking, slipping into my pocket out of habit. My fingers brush against something solid and familiar.
I freeze.
You’ve gotta be shitting me.
I pull it out slowly, already knowing what it is before I even look.
The ring box.
These are the same pants. The ones I shoved it into before everything went to hell and we had to leave the safe house.
I stare down at it for a second, my grip tightening around it.
Of all the times. Of all the places.
And somehow, it’s still here.
It feels like the universe lined something up just for this moment.
I reach over and press the button. The speakers crackle.
Then the opening of “Lovesong” by The Cure drifts through the diner. The steady bass line settles into the room and Robert Smith’s voice follows a second later.
Brooke blinks in surprise.
Then her mouth curls.
“Awww,” she smiles. “This is my song.”
“It’s our song now,” I tell her.
