"Ha, we did that too. Different music."
"You know Milli Vanilli was also from Munich."
"Ohmigod, I forgot about those guys. What a disaster."
"Yeah, that was a total bust. You remember the scandal? You were like what? One?"
I laugh. "Two." I clear my throat. "I obviously don’t remember anything in real time. I found out later. Saw a documentary on MTV. I think I was twelve or thirteen. It was so disappointing because my mom loved ‘Girl You Know It's True.’ But I suppose the key takeaway after watching the documentary is not to lip-sync. People will find out sooner or later."
"Why are you looking at me?" Cruz frowns playfully. "I just play bass. You saw our show. We’re fully authentic."
"Authentic, haha. You’re totally out there."
"That’s right. The best damn live band in the world today."
"Arrogant much?"
"That’s not arrogance," he counters with a smirk. "That’s a fact. Just read any music magazine or ask the critics."
We continue to spar words for a few more minutes until we take an exit and head toward what appears to be a diner. It looks like a windmill-style house made of dark-red brick. It’s weathered, and the windmill is spinning slowly. Cruz points at it as he pulls into the parking lot. It’s full of potholes and he takes a moment to maneuver the car into a less bumpy spot. "Sorry, I don’t have an umbrella." He kills the engine.
"I’m sure we’ll be fine."
"For you. Not for me."
"Just because I’m short doesn’t mean I’m weak." I push the car door open and rush over to the building, water splashing underneath my boots and across my ankles.
"Wait up!" Cruz shouts, then falls into step behind me.
No one pays attention to us as we walk inside. The woman behind the counter gestures for us to sit anywhere we’d like.
I flick back the hood of my sweatshirt as I slide into the booth in the corner. The old vinyl feels cool against my legs.
Cruz’s hair is a wet mess under his cap, dripping into his eyes as he looks at me. Then he glances at the menu, shakes his head, and gives me a small, easy smile.
"Hope you like sauerkraut."
"Only if you’re buying," I say.
The place smells like pancakes, sausage, and cold cuts, and I realize I’m super hungry.
The waitress comes over and speaks in broken English to take our order. Cruz asks for coffee, and she brings a pot almost immediately.
He picks it up, pours, and sets the cup in front of me while I wipe the rain off my face.
"They got good coffee here," I say after taking a couple of sips.
He grins. "You thought they’d have shitty instant?"
"You never know," I say.
"Food in Europe is way better than back home."
"Yeah?"
"You’ll see."
A couple of minutes later, the cook shouts something in German in the background, and it sounds like it could be our order. Cruz looks at me, serious, then amused. I watch his dark eyes, wondering what’s really there, what he wants.
