Page 123 of Jinxes and Drumsticks

Both Wren and Satoshi lift a middle finger and I shake my head because they’re obviously perfect for each other. Damien helps me down the stairs, citing the desire to not see me eat shit, thanks to Wren sharing that bit of intel.

While I hold onto his hand and watch my stupid feet amble over the walk way, I notice a black duffel bag in his hands. I tilt my head. “What’s that for?” I ask.

“Blankets, in case we decide we want to stargaze on the beach tonight after the date,” he says.

“Ah,” I say. “Makes sense. That would be so cute!”

He helps me back into the SUV and even goes so far as to buckle me in, pausing to kiss me before coming around to the driver’s side and starting up the car.

“So, still a surprise?” I ask as he backs out of the driveway.

He smiles over at me and nods. “Yep. Still a surprise.” He fishes his phone out of his pocket and hands it to me. “DJ for us?”

I blink down at the device, seeing the photo of us from the house already set as his lockscreen. The number pad is waiting for his pin number to open the phone. “Oh, uhm, it’s locked.”

“Zero, five, zero, six, seventy-eight,” he says without any hesitation.

“That’s... almost the date we got together?”

“Seventy-eight for the number of cards in a Tarot deck,” he says. “Oren’s got me paranoid about simple passwords. I swear that shit is contagious.”

My heart warms as I pull up his Spotify. It’s strangely intimate to get a look at his listening habits. There are the usual things I would expect. A whole spectrum of metal and progressive rock and punk. But then there are the surprising things, too. Dolly Parton and Johnny Cash. Beach Boys and The Everly Brothers. Sabrina Carpenter and Chappel Roan. Even some musicals that I honestly forgot existed, Spring Awakening and RENT and Bare: a Pop Opera.

What really shocks me though, is when I scroll to his playlists and find one titled “Songs Lillith Sings.”

I tilt my head and select it and find a playlist of about thirty songs that I absolutely love. “Kaleidoscope” by Chappel Roan is the very first track. Then there’s “Kiss it Better” by Portent. “Young and Beautiful” by Lana Del Rey, and on and on. A chronological list of songs I’ve sung around Damien.

I never thought Damien paid that much attention to what I sang or listened to around him.

“Ah,” Damien says as he pulls up to a red light and peeks over at his screen. “I’ve been trying to figure out if there are some common threads between all the music you like best. Is that creepy? That I have a playlist of songs I’ve heard you singing?”

“No, not at all,” I say. “It’s honestly so sweet. I can’t believe you’ve been paying this much attention to me.”

“I love it when you sing,” he says. “It’s my favorite when I catch you doing it. I feel like you clam up when you notice me listening, so I try not to make a big deal about it. It’s like when Gloam is trying to sneak up on us, but she stops moving every time we actually look at her.”

I laugh and select the first song and sigh as Chappel’s voice starts playing through the speakers over the melancholic piano. I turn it down until it’s low enough to act as background to our conversation, but can still be heard clearly. “So, have you found a thread?”

“A few,” he says, looking forward as the light turns green. “Like that they’re mostly sad songs. Sort of bittersweet.”

“That’s true,” I say. “I blame Nan for that. She loved a sad song.”

“And sort of soft, haunting vocals seem to be your thing. Both for listening and for singing yourself,” he says.

“Wren calls them my ‘Sad Bitch Artists’,” I say.

He snorts a laugh. “She would, wouldn’t she?”

“If the shoe fits, I suppose I ought to wear it.”

“Vodka Cranberry” by Conan Gray comes on and I groan. “Oh my god, I love this song.”

He chuckles. “I know you do. There was one week that every time you took a shower you sang some random part of it. It took me three showers to figure out what the fuck the song was. It’s not bad, honestly.”

I sing along with it and Damien rolls down the windows to the car, letting the coastal air fly through the car as he turns it up. There’s a sort of euphoria that courses through me as I put my hand out the window and catch the current of the wind as the sun drifts toward the ocean. By the end of the song, we’re pulling onto the esplanade and Damien is singing with me.

His voice is... Wow. Maybe it’s not the polished instrument Oren uses. But there’s this raw musicality to it that just makes it lovely to listen to. Damien has a nice voice. And it fills the lower ends my own voice can’t reach.

Before long, we’re pulling into the business center of town and, much to my surprise, Damien parks the car outside a tattoo shop I haven’t been to yet. It’s called The Pin Cushion and the sign is cute and feminine with big, swirling letters and a painting of a rose-shaped pin cushion with a bunch of pins and needles nestled in its bloom.