“Likewise.”
He laughs. “Dad put in a new stereo the year before he—”
He stops talking and turns out onto the main road. The car springs forward with a throaty little rumble.
“It’s a beautiful car,” I say to fill the awkward silence. I hate that he hurts, that he misses his parents. “I’m glad you have it.”
“I am too.” He’s quiet for a moment, then smiles softly. “When I finally made straight A’s, he let me use it on dates. It became my personal quest to get laid in here.”
“Nice.” I wrinkle my nose. “And you’ve just put the kibosh on getting any from me in here.”
I flush hard the moment the words are out of my mouth, and Drew snorts. “Damn, there goes my plan.” He sends me a sidelong look. “Actually, the backseat is ridiculously small for a muscle car. Can’t do anything back there but get a leg cramp.”
Much to his amusement, I glance over my shoulder. The seat is small. Annoyed at myself and at Drew’s smug chuckle, I pull out my phone. We’re heading for a large stretch of empty road now, and I know he’ll let the car go then. “This radio work with my phone?” I ask.
Drew nods. “I like old cars, but I have my standards.” He reaches down and hands me an input wire as I download a song.
It’s my turn to smile. “I think you’ll like this one.” I hit play.
His expression is priceless, his nose wrinkled in confusion at the twangy plucking of a guitar and two guys conversing in a beatnik style. “What the hell?”
“Just listen.”
He does and his mouth twitches. The guys are making fun of The Doors now, and Drew snorts.
“It’s the Dead Milkmen,” I say.
One guy asks the other what car dude’s dad got him. My gaze catches Drew’s and we’re both grinning.
“Don’t tell me,” Drew says, just as the band launches into a hard and fast punk rock riff about a Camaro. It’s manic, all drums and guitars and screaming singers.
“Bitchin’ Camaro, man,” I say with a laugh.
And Drew takes off. We’re flying, my back presses against the seat, and I’m laughing so hard my sides hurt. Drew’s laughing with me. We’re mad on speed and ridiculous lyrics. And I don’t want it to end. Little Red eats up the road, gray asphalt is a blur. I ought to be afraid, but I feel alive.
We race along until the song ends and then Drew slows. “That was excellent,” he says.
“So’s the car.” I rest my head on the seat and smile at him. I’m sore from laughter, little aftershocks of giddiness quake though my belly.
Everything is quiet except the steady hum of the engine, and that’s okay. The realization steals over me. We can sit together in silence and feel comfortable. When had it happened? Before I can brood on it any longer, Drew’s stomach growls. With insistence.
“Why do I get the feeling that your stomach likes talking to me?” I ask him.
The corner of his mouth quirks. “Kind of your fault.”
“Oh, really?”
“You fed it once. Naturally it’s going to come asking for more.”
“Naturally.” I snort and then grab my bag. “I don’t know if I should be enabling this development, but I happen to have a sub—”
“Hand it over, Jones.”
“You sure? You’d let us eat in Little Red? I mean this interior is pretty pristine.”
Drew looks at me sidelong. He’s fighting a grin, but he manages to look pseudo threatening. “Hand over the food and no one gets hurt.”
I pull out an eight-inch long section of the party sub I’d taken from the catering kitchen, and he makes an exaggerated groan. “Oh, baby, it’s so big.”
“That’s my line.”
“Yes, it is.”
Snorting, I help myself to a small section of sandwich then hand him the rest.
His groan is real and appreciative as he starts to devour the sub, one hand on the wheel the other lovingly holding his food. “Italian,” he says between bites. “Bless you.”