The man had an encyclopedic knowledge of pretty much every subject under the sun; one of those people who read everything he could get his hands on. Even then, I didn’t think he’d be a match for Summer, a DJ with the largest personal music collection I’d ever seen.
I was wrong.
At the beginning of the drive, she’d been silent. She’d immediately connected her phone to the car’s entertainment system and put on some music. She seemed resistant to Andre’s attempts to make conversation from the front seat. She sat alone in the back, and maybe she would’ve tried to keep giving me—and Andre, too—the cold shoulder, the way some women did when they were pissed at you.
I might’ve preferred that, actually.
Instead, she turned off the music and played round after round of “name that song” with Andre. They tossed first lines of songs at each other, back and forth, for like forty-five minutes.
I didn’t say a word.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want to talk to them. I just couldn’t have kept up if I’d tried.
Then they got into a debate about the correct lyrics to Beck’s “Loser.” Which went on for a good ten minutes. They were pretty much yelling at each other—with laughter—by the time I cut in.
“How about you both agree to be losers, and we move on.”
We were in the mountains in a dead spot, no signal, so they couldn’t look it up on the internet and settle the argument anyway.
“He’s just jealous,” Andre informed Summer, “because he can’t keep up. He doesn’t even know who Beck is.”
I was jealous. At this point, I wasn’t even gonna lie to myself and pretend otherwise. Because almost an hour of music trivia, and I had no clue what they were talking about most of the time.
But mainly it was irritating the shit out of me that Andre was making Summer laugh, while I couldn’t even look her in the eye in the rearview mirror.
I tried to shoot him a look that said, Back off. I fucking lied. I slept with her last night and you need to stop making her do that sexy laugh.
Unfortunately, Andre wasn’t one for picking up on the subtleties of the complex male/female relationship variety. Maybe one of the reasons he was perpetually single.
I sighed and muttered, “I know who Beck is.”
I did. Vaguely. I couldn’t have named one of his songs if you put a gun to my head, though.
“New challenge,” Andre announced. “Songs with your name in the title.”
“What, Andre?” Summer said sarcastically. “Yeah. Millions of songs about that guy.”
“Nope. Summer. Go.”
“Holy shit, you’re gonna die. I do hope you’re kidding. I’d hate to humiliate a man…”
“Not kidding at all.”
“I am gonna mop the floor with you. Why would you even—”
“I mean, if you can’t handle the challenge—”
“‘Summer Fever’! By Donna Summer. And yes, you have to say the artist, every time, fucker. You can’t just make up songs.”
“‘Summer Days,’” Andre said cooly. “Bob Dylan.”
“‘This Summer’s Gonna Hurt Like a Motherfucker.’ Maroon 5. You’re toast, baby.”
“‘The Boys Of Summer,’” Andre replied, completely unfazed. “Don Henley.”
“‘Sweet Summer Lovin’,’” Summer said. “Dolly Parton.”
“‘Summer Nights.’ John Travolta and Olivia Newton John.” Andre glanced at me. “She vastly underestimates me.”
I gave him a cold look. He was impressing her, and it was pissing me off.
He didn’t seem to notice.
“Unlikely,” Summer said. “‘Summer Nights,’ right back at you. Rascal Flatts.”
“‘Summer In The City.’ The Lovin Spoonful.”
“‘Endless Summer Nights.’ Richard Marx.”
“‘Long Hot Summer Night.’ The Jimi Hendrix Experience.”
“Touché,” Summer said. “‘Hot Girl Summer.’ Megan Thee Stallion.”
“‘Summer of ’69.’ Bryan Adams.”
“‘Summer ’68.’ Pink Floyd.”
“Nice one,” Andre said. “‘Cruel Summer.’ Bananarama.”
“Uggggh, you didn’t. I wanted that one.”
“Should’ve said it, then.”
“You play a good game, Andre.”
“I know.”
I rolled my eyes.
“‘Summer,’” Summer said. “Best name for a song, ever, by the way. Calvin Harris.”
“‘Summer Breeze.’ Seals and Croft.”
“‘Girls of Summer.’ Aerosmith.” She was getting louder with each song, practically shouting them at him.
“‘Girls In Their Summer Clothes,’” Andre replied, cool as a cucumber. “Bruce Springsteen.”
“Damn,” Summer muttered. “He’s good.” Her eyes met mine in the rearview mirror.
It was literally the first time she’d spoken to me since we got in the car.
“You really don’t want to play trivia of any kind against Andre,” I told her. “He’ll slay you every time.”
“Fuck that,” she said. “‘Summer Love.’ Justin Timberlake.”
“‘Summer Love,’” he retorted. “One Direction.”
“Brother,” I said. “What the fuck are you listening to?”
Andre shrugged, smiling.
“‘Summer of Love,’” Summer said. “U2.”
“‘Suddenly Last Summer.’ The Motels.”
“Who the fuck are The Motels?” I said.
They ignored me.
“‘Those Lazy Hazy Crazy Days Of Summer,’ bitch. Nat ‘King’ Cole.”
“‘Summer Wind,’” Andre replied cooly. “Sinatra, baby.”
“‘Summertime.’ Ella Fitzgerald.”
“Nope. You lose.”
“What!?”
“Summertime is all one word. Doesn’t count.”
“Fuck you. Where’s my internet?”
Andre chuckled as Summer poked at her phone in vain.
“You wanna pick this up where the legendary DJ crashed and burned?” Andre asked me, rubbing it in. “Take on the champ?”
“Uh…” I cleared my throat. “‘Hazy Shade of Winter’?”
Silence.
“Guy. That doesn’t even have summer in the title.”
“I couldn’t think of one for summer. You guys said them all.”
Andre shook his head. “Amateur. Do you even know who does that song?”
I said nothing.
“He has no fucking idea,” Andre tossed over his shoulder.
“The song is called ‘A Hazy Shade of Winter,’” Summer said, sounding appalled at my ignorance. “And it’s Simon and Garfunkel.”
“Right,” I muttered. “Everyone knows that.”
“He totally didn’t know that,” Andre said.
“How about we enjoy some silence for a while,” I suggested.
“No can do.” Summer turned on the music again.
Andre laughed. “Nice.”
“What’s funny?” I asked.
“She’s trying to keep playing the game. This is ‘Cool for the Summer’ by Demi Lovato.” Then he tossed over his shoulder, “‘Summer’s Almost Gone.’ The Doors.”
“‘Song for the Summer,’” she said. “Stereophonics.”
I sighed.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Summer said, like she wasn’t sorry at all. “Are we annoying you?”
“Don’t worry,” Andre said. “Ronan would never actually tell you to shut up. He’s
