The alley across the way looked deserted as we pulled onto the street. It was after work, with the shops now closed. Everyone had cleared out in the last hour, but Bradley’s truck was still outside his mattress shop. Sometimes I would watch him drive from his shop to his house directly across the street with a truck bed full of mattresses, which always left me wondering what he was really transporting. Kael buckled his seatbelt across his chest and I ignored the annoying ding my car gave, the one that reminded me to put my seatbelt on. Luckily it was an old car so it would ding only once, sometimes twice. I always waited to put my seatbelt on later, a few streets away. I’m not sure why—a little bit of living recklessly, I guess.

As I got closer to my dad’s house on post, the familiar creep of dread was washing over me. I thought about trying to start a conversation with Kael, but from what little I knew about this guy, talking wasn’t really his thing. I glanced over at him and quickly turned on the radio. I had never been around anyone who made me feel this prickly awkwardness before. I couldn’t explain what this felt like—couldn’t even be sure that I disliked it—but I just had this weird desire to talk to him. What was that? The urge to pierce the air, the need to fill the space with words? Maybe Kael had it right by choosing his words sparingly, and the rest of us had it wrong.

My Spotify was playing a song I hadn’t heard before, but I recognized Shawn Mendes’s voice immediately. I turned the volume up a little, trying to contain my inner fangirl on hearing a new song from him for the first time. Kael didn’t react at all to the music, even when I turned it louder and played the song twice in a row. He sat there, like a statue, in my car as I drove closer and closer to the impending doom of the dinner table.

My gas indicator light came on, a bright reminder of my disorganization and irresponsibility. When the Shawn Mendes song finished, it was time for an ad break: a testimonial for a weight-loss clinic, great for my psyche, and an offer for low-interest car loans. “Huge military discounts!” the voice promised, with a borderline drill-sergeant shout. Someday I would be grown-up enough to pay for ad-free listening, but that day wasn’t here yet.

“I can play something else if you want,” I told him, ever the cordial host. “What kind of music do you like?”

“This is fine.”

“Okay.” I replayed the new Shawn song a third time.