“Ah.” I type in the code and his home screen pops up. “And sister golden hair is … a kind of pasta?”
He snorts. “My favorite song. America is a band.”
I shoot him a blank look.
“They’re better known for ‘A Horse with No Name.’”
“Oh! I know that one!”
“I bet you’ll recognize ‘Sister Golden Hair.’ Go ahead, open up the music app and play it.”
I follow his directions, and a few minutes later, the cab fills with a familiar guitar riff. “Oh, you’re right. I do know this.” As the song plays, I scroll through his music library like the nosey creeper I am.
At some point I make a humming noise and he asks, “What?”
“This is very … eclectic.”
“And?”
“And no playlists? Just albums? That’s so weird.”
“You’re saying I’m weird?”
“No, I’m saying your taste in music is weird. I haven’t even heard of half of these bands.”
“You’ll recognize the music if you play it. It’s mostly classic rock.”
Once he says it, I start recognizing some of the bands and the songs. Van Morrison. Fleetwood Mac. Supertramp. Kansas. I set to work making a playlist on his phone for our drive, pulling songs from his recent listens.
“Why all the classic rock? No, wait! Let me guess. You’re a closetSupernaturalfan?” I tip my head to the side as if considering. “No. It can’t be that. You were working that decade.”
“Very funny.” He glances in my direction, that gentle, amused twist to his mouth. “I do have a TV.”
“Oh, thank God! I was worried I was going to have to get you one for Christmas. The stocking would have been enormous.”
His lips twitch into something that’s almost a full smile. I feel a burst of pride at my accomplishment.
“You never said why you’re so into classic rock.”
“It’s what my mom listened to when I was a kid. It’s the music of my childhood.”
“That’s surprisingly sweet.”
“I guess I’m a sweet guy.”
“It’s not nice to brag.” I roll my eyes. I keep working on the playlist, digging a little deeper. There’s some nineties grunge, so I layer in someCounting Crows. I toss in a few Chris Stapleton songs for the fun of it and then …
I sit up. “What is this?”
“What?”
My outburst must surprise him, because he takes his foot off the gas as he looks over at me.
“Taylor Swift!”
“Oh.” He jerks his attention back to the road.
I keep scrolling. “This is her entire discography.”
