I inserted the yellow cassette tape, closed the deck, inserted the headphone earbuds in my ears, and pressed play.

“Hey, Holden,” said Wynonna’s voice. “This is going to sound crazy, and my heart is beating in my throat just thinking the words, but I’m going to say it: I like you.”

Oh. My. God.

I kept listening.

“Do you ever have that feeling when you’re around someone where the room grows brighter? Where the air is suddenly crisp and biting and fills your lungs with icy electricity? And your skin tingles, and your chest throbs, but in a good way, a really good way, and the world is alive with details you never would have noticed, all because of this one person?

“I hope you haven’t—unless that person is me. Because that’s literally what you do to me.”

I stopped the player.

Ejected the tape. Set it aside.

Grabbed another tape from the box—a red one—inserted it, closed the deck, and pressed play.

“’Sup, Holden,” said Wynonna. “I’m just gonna say it: I like you. What you do with that information is up to you. I really couldn’t care less. But, you know, if you wanna date, or… hook up, or… whatever… you know. Just lemme know. I’m down to clown.”

It ended there.

I ejected it. Grabbed a black tape from the box. Inserted it and pressed play.

“Fuck you, Holden. Why can’t you just get a hint? Do I have to spell it out for you? You know what? I’m not even gonna say it! You don’t deserve that much. All I’m gonna say is, what kind of girl has to tackle a guy to the ground, just to get his attention? Huh? I swear, you wouldn’t know a hint if it kneed you in the balls, dropped you to the floor, and started kicking you in the ribs! I’m not the one with a problem, Holden. You are! Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck—”

I stopped the tape. Switched it out for a bluish-gray one. Pressed play.

Wynonna was sobbing.

“I’m sorry,” she said, sniffling. “I’m sorry I can’t just tell you how I feel. I’m sorry I’m the way that I am. I just… I wish you could see inside of me. I wish you could know that I’m not this horrible person you think I am. I… I…”

She started sobbing again.

Stop. Eject. I switched the blue-gray out for a neon-orange tape.

This one began with the fierce, jagged strum of an acoustic guitar. The tune sounded familiar, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

“Come on, Holden!” Wynonna belted out.

That’s when it clicked. It was “Come On Eileen” by Dexys Midnight Runners. Well… sort of. A raw, angsty, Joan Jett–style rewrite of “Come On Eileen.”

Poor old Nona Jones

Sitting sad upon the patio