I push at his shoulder, gently. It’s the way I’d touch a closer friend, and it feels so strange that my stomach flips over. I’m not even sure if McNair and I are capable of being friends, or if it even matters. We’re leaving in a couple months anyway. I don’t exactly have time for new friends.
“Why do you hate them so much? Romance novels?”
He gives me another odd look. “I don’t.”
UPPER CRUST PIZZA
June 12 03:18 PM
ORDER #: 0102
SERVER:JENNIFER GUESTS:2 TABLE:9
DINE IN
1 VEGGIE VENGEANCE
$2.99
1 PEPPERONI PIZZAZZ
$3.49
SUBTOTAL
$6.48
TAX
$0.65
TOTAL
$7.13
TIP
$2.50
VISA CARD XXXXXXXXXXXX1519
MCNAIR, NEIL A
THANK YOU!
3:40 p.m.
THE TEMPTATIONS ARE playing inside Doo Wop Records, one of a handful of things that makes me feel as though I’ve stepped back in time. The whole place is a tribute to the 1960s, with vintage concert posters on the walls and private listening booths in the back.
“You fit right in,” McNair says, gesturing to my dress.
“I—oh.” It’s such an un-McNair-like thing to say that it takes me a while to form a sentence. “I guess so. I like old clothes and old music. Are you… into music?” It seems like a basic fact to know about a person: brown hair, brown eyes, would do questionable things to have been able to see the Smiths play live.
“Am I into music?” He scoffs at the question as we head down an aisle marked ROCK J–N. “Was Hemingway the greatest writer of the twentieth century? Yes, I’m into music. Mostly local bands, some that made it big and some that haven’t yet. Death Cab, Modest Mouse, Fleet Foxes, Tacocat, Car Seat Headrest…”
“Did you see Fleet Foxes at Bumbershoot a few years ago?” I ask, ignoring the Hemingway comment. Just for that, I’ll pick an extra steamy book for him to read when I win.
His eyes light up. “Yes! Such a great show.”