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His laugh is easy. "Not that crazy."
I strain the chai and fix two mugs.
His fingers brush mine as he takes one. "We could listen to one of Deidre's albums, one you'd like."
"Does she have vinyl?"
"An Apple Music playlist."
"Modern," I say.
He motionssorta."Or we could do Fiona Apple. If you pick the album she'd like the most."
"Criminal is the broadest, but I'm not sure it's what she'd like, based on what you've said."
"It won't put me in the mood," he says.
"No? Thinking about your sister doesn't turn you on?" Late sister, but, for some reason, it feels wrong to mention that.
He wants to remember her, celebrate the person she was.
And I want to do that too. Because she led him, she helped him, she left him.
Because if he understands her, maybe he'll understand me too.
Are my motives pure or evil?
I don't know anymore. I don't care. I want to be here. I want to skip school and lie in bed listening to singer-songwriters and reading and making love.
Maybe there's a better term, something less cheesy, but fucking isn't accurate anymore. We're closer. More intimate.
"We could also get arrested at the pier," he says.
"I'd miss class."
"Damn. If only."
"If only." I laugh. "Okay. How about I fix us oatmeal and you pick an album. We can eat and listen. Talk or not talk."
"Oatmeal?" he asks.
"Oh, you're an oatmeal hater?"
"Is that a deal breaker?"
"It's just kind of obvious," I say. "Like making a joke about pineapples on pizza."
"Californian."
I raise a brow. "And you'd turn down a slice of pineapple pizza?"
"We've established my lack of taste."
"Try it. Once."
"All right, once. If I don't like it, I'll make you eggs next time you're here," he says.
"You cook more than quesadillas?"
