Page 49 of Reverse

“Maybe, but true connoisseurs know theB-side.”

“B-side?”

“The flip side of the vinyl record, on a forty-five, the B-side is on the opposite side of the hit song, which is typically on A.”

“Oh, so are you a true connoisseur? Do you know the B-side songs too?”

“A lot of them. Some of them I like a lot more than the A-side.”

“How many of the songs on your infinite playlist can you actually play?” When he goes silent, I lift my gaze to where he runs his finger along the rim of his frosted glass.

“Easton?”

“Most of them,” he admits softly.

“Jesus . . . that’s incredible!”

“Maybe it’s remarkable to you, but I’ve been doing it my whole life, so it’s kind of an unconscious thing.”

“It’s a gift,” I say pointedly. “Ownit.”

“Fine,” he negotiates, putting both his forearms on the table, “but I bet you could just as easily name the date on a lot of key headlines.”

“Well, they coincide with US history, which I love, so maybe a few.”

“But you took the time to study it, probably just as avidly as I have music.”

“Okay, let’s put it to the test.” I wiggle butter-covered ‘hit me’ fingers.

He presses in. “Reagan assassination attempt?”

I surprise myself when the answer comes easily. “March 30 nineteen eighty-one.”

“End of the Cold War?”

“Third of December . . .” I squint, “’89.” My smile widens. “Hit me again.”

His half grin briefly dazzles me. “Roosevelt’s death?”

“Twelfth of April, 1945, eighteen days before Hitler, which I hated for Roosevelt, he deserved to know the fate of his nemesis.”

“See,” Easton reclines, seeming satisfied as I blow a wayward lock of curly hair out of my face. Hair Easton set loose a mile marker into our drive before tossing the tie out the window. Sensing my distress to keep from feasting on my hair, he leans in and tucks the cascading lock behind my ear.

Thanking him, I push my plate away and rip open another lemon-scented packet to clean my hands.

“You sure you’re good?” He glances down at my sparsely covered plate, “Or should I order another beer and reload the trough?”

“I can’t fit anything else into this mouth,” I declare in surrender, and when my word choice strikes me I roll my eyes, my couth unreachable. Ripping my bib off, I take a sip of beer.

“Feel Like Makin’ Love,” Easton delivers, and I reject a little of my beer on a cough.

“Pardon?”

“The song,” he muses, not missing a second of my discomfort. “Feel Like Makin’ Love.”

“I walked right into that one, didn’t I? Who’s it by?”

“Bad Company.” He smirks, pun fully intended.

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