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“Hold up,” Jason interrupts, “You worked for the Polaroid Boys?”
Donovan lifts a palm. “Am I supposed to know who this is?”
“You know them—hold on…” Jason starts flipping through his phone.
I groan, “Please don’t…”
But it’s too late. He finds their one-hit wonder—a high-octane pop bop—and starts to play it.
Donovan shakes his head. “Still doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Dude! That’s so cool!” Jason looks at me, and the wide grin almost makes it worth it.
I shrug. “Sort of. They’re teenagers, so it was more like…glorified babysitting. I quit my job to come here. Sold most of my belongings. So. There’s that.”
“But you did it,” Donovan presses.
“Did what?”
“You loved music growing up. And you got a job in music. That says something.”
“You’re tenacious,” Jason agrees. “And they are a big deal. You should be proud of it.”
I’m not going to lie—I’m not accustomed to having hype men. The people I hung out with at work were mostly disaffected. Then there were the moms at the park, who always treated me like a black sheep—too young, too American. I had a roommate, for a while, when money got tight, but our conversations barely went beyond rent and who took the trash out last.
It’s strange to have not one, but two guys willing to sing my praises. I feel my face go hot under the attention, and I instinctively duck out of it, dropping my head to slide my hair behind my ear.
“Enough about me,” I say. “Someone else talk.”
Donovan upends the bottle of red into his glass, but there’s only a swallow left. “We need more wine for this conversation.”
“Stay put. I’m on it.” Jason pats Donovan on the shoulder and rises instead. He points to me. “You need a refill, too?”
I lift my glass. “Yes. Thank you, kind sir.”
He bows dramatically in front of me as he takes my glass and steps away to the kitchen.
We’re alone now. Mostly. I turn to Donovan and wiggle my eyebrows.
He narrows his eyes at me. “What’s that look?”
I shrug innocently. “It’s just…cute.”
“What is?”
“The two of you. Being so cozy.”
He scoffs. “Cute isn’t the word I’d use.” He sips from his glass gingerly.
“What word would you use?” I prod.
He looks off, contemplates, and then settles on, “Temporary.”
38
Donovan
It’s strange how not-strange this is. The three of us. Together again.
