Shuffle, Repeat(82)

He’s kidding, and he knows I know it.

“I would,” I tell him. “But you can’t drive a stick shift.”

“You could teach me.” Oliver leans across the seat to kiss my neck. I try to bat him away, but I don’t try very hard. “I should at least get to pick the music,” he murmurs into my ear.

“Be my guest.” I motion toward the console, which features an old battered radio with no jacks or wireless connections. “But our playlist isn’t going to work in here.”

“That’s okay.” Oliver gives me a last kiss. “I don’t need the playlist anymore.”

He turns on the radio and scrolls through stations until some pop song I can’t name comes on. “That’s terrible,” I tell him.

“Awful,” he agrees.

“Turn it up.”

He does. I back onto Callaway and shift into first gear. I touch the gas and the engine revs. Its power becomes my power: there all along, just waiting for me to notice.

I let out the clutch, and we head down the road, happy to listen to any song that plays.