But he doesn’t quite hear me. Ricky—or Richard?—makes a joke and pulls out a flask, and then they’re all laughing with one another.

We climb into the front seats of the SUV while the rest of the guys pile into the back. Just as Wyatt ignites the engine, there’s a knocking on my window. I almost jump out of my skin, it scares me so badly.

But that’s nothing compared to how I feel when I realize who is on the other side of the window.

Josh.

Wyatt rolls the window down.

“Hey, sorry. I was getting changed,” Josh says.

“You’re coming?” I ask.

“Yeah! I was invited.”

Josh’s brother cheers from the back seat, which then gets the other guys cheering, all while Josh opens the door to the back seat, squeezing in beside Michael.

Great.

Just fucking great.

“Okay, so let’s figure out how this works.” Wyatt presses the touch screen a few times, trying to get the GPS to work, but he keeps opening up menus and settings and radio station lists.

“You don’t even need that. I know where the restaurant is,” I tell him.

“Just in case.”

“Tap there.” Josh leans forward, his fingers nearly touching the screen.

Wyatt follows and the GPS comes right up. “Thanks.”

“You’re going to take a left out of the parking lot.”

And at the same time, the robotic voice of the GPS says, “Take a left.”

“Here.” Wyatt hands me his phone. “Pick some songs.”

It doesn’t strike me how odd it feels to have Wyatt’s unlocked phone in my hands until it’s actually in my hands. When you think about it, someone’s phone can be their entire life. Their pictures, their information, their contacts and text messages, their songs and other apps. All that information about Wyatt is at my fingertips. Even his phone background, some hi-res photo of an overturned car with rose petals spilling out, seems so Fowler.

I open up his Spotify, staring at the playlists made by both him and the app. I can tell instantly which ones are Wyatt’s too because Spotify names their playlists things like Summer Rewind or Release Radar and Wyatt’s are named things like cool jam time or sappy sad sack songs.

I chew on my bottom lip to keep from laughing.

“God, could you be more of an indie dork?” I ask him.

“What do you mean?” Wyatt asks as he finally pulls out onto the road. I can tell he’s nervous by the way his hands are tight on the wheel at ten and two, and he keeps checking his rearview mirror like he’s expecting blue lights to pop up out of nowhere.

I don’t know how he normally drives, but it can’t be like this.

I scroll through his On Repeat for a bit.

“Ew … country?”

“What?”

“You can’t be serious.”