He presses his back into the door and steals my attention. “So, does this mean you want to go see what Cam’s up to?”
“I’m slightly curious,” I say.
He runs his hand along the back of his neck, head bent down, then looks back up at me. That combination of movements from him, it’s alarming the fire they create in my gut.
“We should give it a minute, though. Ensure the coast is clear?” I say, pointing toward his door. He nods, takes a step into the room so we are both inches from his disarrayed bed. I survey the room some more for something to do besides staring at him. “Is that what I think it is?”I say, swiping the item from his nightstand. “You may own the last remaining Walkman. May I?”
He nods, and I start flipping through his music selection, a black nylon case of CDs slid into plastic protectors, four on each page.
“Figured this was the only safe electronic device the bailiffs wouldn’t take.”
I think of the bottom drawer of his old bedroom dresser, which held a collection of cassette tapes and CDs found at garage sales and thrift shops around town. How, despite my protests that he could listen to any song via Spotify, he preferred the tapes, painstakingly rewinding to listen to something again. I can still hear the squeaky run of the tapes. I like that he’s held on to this bit of himself from his past.
We share a knowing look before I go back to flipping CDs.
“What are you in the mood for?” he asks.
I bite at the inside of my cheek, wondering if he remembers how I used to play theHigh School Musicalsoundtrack on repeat for most of the years we knew each other. How he’d exhale with marked annoyance each time a song would repeat. How I’d sometimes catch him humming “We’re All in This Together” on our walk to school.
I feel him observing me closely as I flip the pages of his CD case, his eyes never leaving the side of my face. I pretend not to notice.
Eventually, I find the CD I want and, after amusedly directing the CD player, blast “I’m Like a Bird” by Nelly Furtado loud enough so we can hear it through the headphones.
He smirks again.
I cross my arms, and his eyes follow the gesture briefly to my chest, then back up again in a flash. We stand in silence listening, both lost in the song. I wonder if the sheer act of listening to music together takes him back the way it does me. I picture him sprawled on my bedroom floor, hands clasped behind his head, mouthing lyrics. For the four whole minutes of the song, we stand silent, listening and watching each other.
As the song comes to an end, he takes the CD player from my hands. “Hey,” I say, feigning protest.
“My turn.” He rotates his back to me as he leafs through the book of CDs, a destination seemingly in mind. He pulls out a disc. I try to look, but he blocks me with his body. I press into his side, but it takes barely a nudge for him to ward me off. Size-wise, I’m like a Chihuahua at his heels.
Once his CD of choice is in the player, he turns to face me. We watch each other for reaction as the familiar intro to “Empire State of Mind” barrels from the player.
I grin. “Are you trying to get me to sing? Because this is a great way to do it.”
He leans against the dresser, crosses his arms against his broad chest. “The stage is yours,” he says, throwing an arm out toward the strip of carpet between the bed and dresser where we stand. “Wrong Lyrics Only?” he suggests, knowing we’re both thinking it.
“Empire State of Mind” was one of our most common wrong lyric references. When my dad left after that fight where Damon stepped between us at fourteen, Damon turned around to face me, and after a minute of silence, he said, “Concrete jungle wet dream tomato.”
My tension broke with a shatter.
I shake my head. “I need alcohol for Wrong Lyrics Only.”
His face changes, hardens in knowing. I think about the last drinks we had together, at Outback Steakhouse, our legs touching under the table.
Confirming his mind has also wandered back to Outback Steakhouse alongside mine, he says, “I’m sorry I told George about what happened at the restaurant.”
I shake my head. “It was nothing, Damon. I appreciate your concern, but I promise it created more trouble than it’s worth.”
He rubs at the back of his neck, evaluating me. Finally, he says, “Even so, I guess I’ll just have to keep an eye on you. Make sure you’re safe.”
I expect a hint of a smirk, but when I can’t find one upon inspection of his lips, something inside me softens further still. Around him, I am a stick of butter melting slowly in the sun. I think I’ll say,I can take care of myself, orI don’t need you watching over me, but instead what comes out is “I guess so.”
He takes a step toward me. “Should we talk about that kiss?” he asks, and my muscles reflexively tighten.
“What? Why?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. Because it happened, and we haven’t really had the opportunity to talk about it.”
