really liked, but I knew I wasn’t going to remember it. I had one of these.” He picks up a gold Sharpie out of the center console. “It was from a school project, so I just scribbled the song’s hook down on the dashboard. I liked how it looked, and I kept going. Voilà.”
“Wow.” The contrast of metallic gold and silver against the dusty black of the dashboard is messy and beautiful. I recognize most of the lyrics, but not all of them. I fight the urge to pull out my phone and start googling the unfamiliar words, to hear the melodies that must elevate these broken phrases from flat nonsense to something profound.
Killian ducks his head and glances at me. “It’s just another way my quote obsession manifests itself. If I hear a lyric I like, I write it down. If I’m upset or sad and I know the perfect lyric to express what I’m feeling, I write it down and then listen to the song to get all my angst out.”
“I love this,” I say, running my hands over the words again, my fingers narrowly missing Killian’s as he reaches to adjust the stereo volume. I love it, and I would have never thought to do it in a million years. Writing on your dashboard is the kind of thing people who don’t believe in regrets do. You can’t go back. You can’t wipe it away. Everything Killian felt while he was writing each lyric is right here on display for anyone to walk past and see.
Killian turns on the radio, already tuned to the ubiquitous Top 40 station. “I love it too. But it means I’ll never be able to sell this damn thing.”
What the hell am I doing here?
Sometimes when I miss you, I put those records on
And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make
Take me to church
“What’s the last one you wrote?” I ask.
He ducks his head a little. “Um . . . I don’t remember.”
“You’re lying!” Without thinking, I smack him lightly on the shoulder, but then I quickly fold my hands in my lap.
Killian shakes his head as the Jeep accelerates. “I’m not just going to tell you. Try to guess.”
Seems to me if you can’t trust, you can’t be trusted
I’m bringing sexy back
“I have no idea.” I lean forward and look more closely. Some of the words run into each other, lines crisscrossing back and forth across the hard plastic. “I can’t even tell which ones were written first.”
“Then I guess you’ll never know.”
“Come on, Killian!” My hair whips against my face as we barrel down the road. “Just tell me.”
“Okay, fine.” He reaches over and points to short lyrics written right above the glove box: You really got me
“The Kinks!” I say. “I love that song. Who did you write that about?” I ask, teasing him. “Beyoncé?”
Killian turns to me, not saying anything. His gaze lingers so long, I grab the wheel. “Whoa, eyes on the road.”
We drive toward Trawley, the radio turned up loudly enough that we don’t have to talk. Killian pulls into the parking lot of a small hot dog stand off the side of the road. “We’re going to need food we can walk with. Hot dog or grilled cheese?”
“A hot dog is fine,” I say. I can’t remember the last time I ate one, but pretty much anything with mustard and a pickle on it tastes delicious.
Killian is back in moments, two hot dogs and a giant box of fries balanced in a cardboard takeout holder. He hands it to me and hops back into the Jeep. “Onward!”
We blow right through Trawley, three green lights in a row letting us pass the entire downtown in less than a minute, and soon we are back in the country. Killian drives north, through deep swathes of pine forest and over roads that get increasingly rougher. If I were with any other guy, I would be seriously worried about getting abducted, but it’s hard to be scared of Killian, who bops along to the radio, the wind making his blond hair stand up in a soft little mohawk.
“Almost there,” Killian mutters a couple of times, glancing down at the clock
“Wow.” The contrast of metallic gold and silver against the dusty black of the dashboard is messy and beautiful. I recognize most of the lyrics, but not all of them. I fight the urge to pull out my phone and start googling the unfamiliar words, to hear the melodies that must elevate these broken phrases from flat nonsense to something profound.
Killian ducks his head and glances at me. “It’s just another way my quote obsession manifests itself. If I hear a lyric I like, I write it down. If I’m upset or sad and I know the perfect lyric to express what I’m feeling, I write it down and then listen to the song to get all my angst out.”
“I love this,” I say, running my hands over the words again, my fingers narrowly missing Killian’s as he reaches to adjust the stereo volume. I love it, and I would have never thought to do it in a million years. Writing on your dashboard is the kind of thing people who don’t believe in regrets do. You can’t go back. You can’t wipe it away. Everything Killian felt while he was writing each lyric is right here on display for anyone to walk past and see.
Killian turns on the radio, already tuned to the ubiquitous Top 40 station. “I love it too. But it means I’ll never be able to sell this damn thing.”
What the hell am I doing here?
Sometimes when I miss you, I put those records on
And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make
Take me to church
“What’s the last one you wrote?” I ask.
He ducks his head a little. “Um . . . I don’t remember.”
“You’re lying!” Without thinking, I smack him lightly on the shoulder, but then I quickly fold my hands in my lap.
Killian shakes his head as the Jeep accelerates. “I’m not just going to tell you. Try to guess.”
Seems to me if you can’t trust, you can’t be trusted
I’m bringing sexy back
“I have no idea.” I lean forward and look more closely. Some of the words run into each other, lines crisscrossing back and forth across the hard plastic. “I can’t even tell which ones were written first.”
“Then I guess you’ll never know.”
“Come on, Killian!” My hair whips against my face as we barrel down the road. “Just tell me.”
“Okay, fine.” He reaches over and points to short lyrics written right above the glove box: You really got me
“The Kinks!” I say. “I love that song. Who did you write that about?” I ask, teasing him. “Beyoncé?”
Killian turns to me, not saying anything. His gaze lingers so long, I grab the wheel. “Whoa, eyes on the road.”
We drive toward Trawley, the radio turned up loudly enough that we don’t have to talk. Killian pulls into the parking lot of a small hot dog stand off the side of the road. “We’re going to need food we can walk with. Hot dog or grilled cheese?”
“A hot dog is fine,” I say. I can’t remember the last time I ate one, but pretty much anything with mustard and a pickle on it tastes delicious.
Killian is back in moments, two hot dogs and a giant box of fries balanced in a cardboard takeout holder. He hands it to me and hops back into the Jeep. “Onward!”
We blow right through Trawley, three green lights in a row letting us pass the entire downtown in less than a minute, and soon we are back in the country. Killian drives north, through deep swathes of pine forest and over roads that get increasingly rougher. If I were with any other guy, I would be seriously worried about getting abducted, but it’s hard to be scared of Killian, who bops along to the radio, the wind making his blond hair stand up in a soft little mohawk.
“Almost there,” Killian mutters a couple of times, glancing down at the clock
Similar Books
