A pop song comes on the radio and I switch it off, scrolling for anything not boy-band adjacent. I land on some Vampire Weekend.

“Do you miss singing?” she asks.

“I sing all the time,” I say, crooning along to “This Life” and obnoxiously snapping my fingers just off beat.

She swipes my hand out of her face and snickers. “You know what I mean. Of the three of us,” she says meaningfully, “you always had the best voice.”

I shrug. She’s right, but talent isn’t everything. “I don’t play any instruments. Can’t write lyrics. Didn’t seem like a solid career choice, honestly.”

“Broadway?”

“Can’t dance.”

“Oh, please, Mister Taps Like Gene Kelly!”

“Used to, maybe. Who even knows, I haven’t done a flap-ball-change in probably a decade. I just wanted out. Wanted to be normal for a while. Go to college. Have a roommate. Meet girls,” I say, waggling my brows.

She grins at my expression. “And so, you met Kevin.”

“I did. We were both ditched before the school year began. Our respective roommates dropped out and we were paired up last minute.”

“Did he know who you were? Were you recognized in college?”

I nod. “Freshman year, I was. After that, everyone got over it.”

“I bet it got you laid a lot freshman year.”

My face grows hot, and I clear my throat.

“YOU DID!” she says, gleefully. “Shy little Cameron Riggs using a kid show to get some tail.”

“Yeah, well. I guess the singing and dancing did help in some areas. I was always a hit at frat parties.”

She shakes her head, still smiling. “I can just see it. Unreal.”

“Kevin met Beth pretty much the first day of school, and they were inseparable. So, he spent four years living vicariously as my wingman. His favorite trick was pulling out ‘Best Girl,’ cuing it up, and then sitting back and watching the girls swoon.”

“Swoon,” she repeats mildly, a smirk teasing around the corners of her lips. I have the most intense urge capture it in my mouth.

Instead, I slowly lift a shoulder, my eyes flicking to hers. She arches a blond brow behind her mirrored frames.

“It had a solid return,” I admit.

“I can imagine,” she says, softly. Too soft, something delicate in her near whisper. “That song has always made me think of you.”

I place my hand on her knee and squeeze, not saying anything, even though I know how she feels. There were times at parties when her new pop hits would come on the speakers. The sorority girls would jump on tabletops and sway their hips seductively, pretending they were her.

But they never were.

I go to remove my hand, but she grabs it. “Hey,” she says. “Are we … good?” Her voice goes up a notch.