Page 60 of The Idiot

Grinning, I pop in one of his ear buds and scroll through his playlists. Tuneage sounds way better than watching a show about getting shipwrecked. I haven’t heard a single rock ballad since I stepped off the plane.

What the—

ABBA.

ABBA…

And more ABBA.

Did he steal this? Maybe he picked up someone else’s by mistake. There’s no way he listens to this much ABBA and I don’t know about it.

No. That’s Auggie Doggie on his background screen.

Wow. Murphy likes ABBA? Maybe he made a playlist for Charlotte.

Okay, here we go—Seattle Road Trip playlist.

That’sgotto be his. Now we’re talking.

Grinning, I burrow deeper into my pillow. What, pray tell, does old boy listen to on his trips to Seattle? Color me intrigued.

“Hm. Dixon Dallas. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Scoffing, I shake my head when the opening notes flood through the ear buds. Country. Of course.

Alright. It’s a little catchy.

Nice beat.

Wait…

Is he…

He’s… singing about a guy.

Huh? Gay country. I had no clue.

Chuckling, I feel a big smile on my face. Good for Murph. They made something for him. It’s… kind of sweet, actually. I guess it’s a little sad too, though, if you think about it. Does Murph want some guy to say this stuff to him? Has he ever had that?

Whoa!

Did he just say…

Oh.

Oh, my!

Um… Okay.

That’s, uh… That’s a lot of bouncing.

The door opens. I rip the earbuds out of my ears so fast it hurts. Scrambling, I toss the phone onto the nightstand and resume injured-friend pose.

I feel eyes on me—mistrustful, green, intelligent Baloney eyes. Shit.

“What were you doing with my phone?”

“Huh? Nothing. Did you get some ice?”

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