Before this weekend, I had doubts. Not about wanting her, but about whether she felt the same. But now?
Now that I know she bought that dress so I could take it off —
The doubts are gone.
The hard-on, unfortunately, is back.
I reach into the center console and pull out my aviators. Slide them on. Shift the SUV into gear.
“Maybe some music will help.” I nod toward my phone on the dash. “I made you a playlist last night.”
“Oh.” She sits up a little straighter.
I can’t quite tell if she’s relieved or disappointed that I dropped the subject of false memories.
Almost reluctantly, she reaches forward and takes the phone. I reach over and tilt her visor down to block the sun from her eyes before she thinks to ask.
“Eight. Five—” I start.
“Seven. Five,” she finishes, slanting me a grin. “I remember.”
That smile is a little knowing and a lot smug.
Does she mean it the way I hear it? That she’s remembering more of last night? Does she remember the promise I made?
More than one night.
I hope so.
It takes her a second to navigate to the music app, but when she finds the playlist—which I’ve named Tavey 2.0—she gives a huff of laughter.
She tilts the phone toward me. “Really? You just happen to be a big Icona Pop fan, do you?”
She hits play. Defiantly.
I flash her a grin. “After last night, yes.”
The playlist was the icebreaker I hoped it would be.
After that, things get easy. One song flows into another. She bops along, finds an artist or two to add in. At some point, she digs around for gum in a bag, offering me a piece of something violently pink. With her sunglasses as armor and her bottles of water, she tolerates the hangover better than I would have expected.
But this is one of the things I love about her. It’s not that she ignores consequences—it’s that she doesn’t let them get her down.
We drive.
The Hill Country rolls past in shades of gold and green. The morning is clean and bright and entirely too cheerful for how complicated everything is.
But she’s humming along to the playlist.
And I made her that playlist.
And somehow that feels like enough. For now.
It’s not until we’re almost back to Austin and the traffic along Highway 71 gets heavy that the mood shifts. We’re about ten minutes from her place. She starts to get fidgety.
Traffic has slowed. We’re still moving but going nowhere fast.
I reach over and turn down the music. Not off. Just down.
