He takes a drink of his water and doesn’t answer.
“What song?” I demand, laughing.
“You’ll find out when I sing it.”
“What?”
That gets him a little closer.
“You’ll find out when—”
“No, you’re supposed to tell me these things as your fake girlfriend.”
“You’re supposed to keep it quiet that you’re my fake girlfriend.”
He has a point there. I tilt my head, adjust my glasses, and look up at him.
“If I guess, will you tell me?”
“You won’t guess,” he says, a challenge if I’ve ever heard one.
I give him a long, searching look, and he watches me back.
“What’s something that a white guy in his late thirties—”
“Mid thirties.”
“—Mid-to-late thirties would think is cool to sing at karaoke with a bunch of younger people?”
Silas drinks more water and doesn’t acknowledge my very good question.
“Eminem,” I guess.
“That requires skills I don’t have.”
“Michael Jackson.”
“No.”
“Garth Brooks.”
“No.”
“That Alan Jackson song about the river.”
He snorts.
“No. Are you done yet?”
“I don’t know, am I close?”
“Not even.”
I sigh dramatically and lean back against his arm, even though it’s too warm and too his arm, the muscle solid behind my head.
“How much longer do I have?” I ask, and I get a faint twitch of his lips in response.