“‘Never Gonna Give You Up,’ by Rick Astley?” His eyes widen comically.

More laughter. “No, but you’re in the right decade.”

“Challenge accepted.” He rubs his palms together. I can tell his interest is piqued. “Let’s see.” He gives me a slow once-over, taking me in, like the answer is written across my shirt. “I’m going with ‘Where Is My Mind?’ by the Pixies.”

“You would be wrong, my friend.” I turn my phone around to show him the iTunes app still dancing on my screen. “‘Save a Prayer,’ by Duran Duran.”

“Shit. That’s a really good song.”

“My mom’s favorite.” My smile feels like it’s about to split my face.

“Your turn.” He raises his phone in the air, then scrolls and picks a song. “What’s on my iTunes right now?”

“Give me a decade.”

“Nineties.”

“That barely narrows it down.” I lean against a row of lubricants. “I want to give you the credit for listening to something that’s not ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit.’”

“Why, thank you for indulging me. Think British.” He grins.

I frown, thinking. “‘Don’t Look Back in Anger,’ by Oasis.”

“Final answer?”

Hesitantly, I nod. “Yes.”

He turns his phone around, and I see that I was right. Whoa. Holy crap. Have I just met the male version of myself?

“How’d you do that?” he says, looking at me differently. Like I’ve passed some sort of test.

“By the power of deduction. In the war between Blur and Oasis, you are definitely for the working-class band. And also that guitar solo.”

“I just think it’s funny to find a fellow American Anglophile . . . in Spain.”

“My mom’s English. What’s your excuse?”

“Don’t have one.” He shrugs. “Sometimes you’re just born in the wrong place. And decade. And era.”

“Too true,” I hear myself say. “Now your turn to answer my question.”

His face fascinates me. It’s like I’ve never seen a human before. This is not normal Everlynne behavior. Typically, when I meet another person, I count back the minutes until I can say goodbye to them. It’s not that I hate people. I even like some of them. But I prefer to spend my time with my carefully curated books, music, and pets. Those three have rarely let me down.

“I—” Smoker Dude starts, but Pippa barges into our conversation, waving two plastic bags in her hands.

“Here. I bought a crapload of chocolate. I’m PMS-ing. Are you PMS-ing? Ever since our cycles started to sync, I feel like I—” She stops when she notices Smoker Dude (what’s his name, anyway?). I’m yet again mortified that now he not only knows my entire sexual history but also all about my menstruation cycle.

“. . . Hi?” She cocks her head in confusion.

He reaches into her plastic bag, grabs a chocolate bar, tears the wrapper, and eats it in one clean bite. “Hello, cigarette snatcher.”

Pippa’s mouth is agape. “What else do you eat like that?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”