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I gape at the radio. “Onthatthing?”

“Yes, onthatthing.”

I grab my phone, shaking it in the air. “There’s nowhere to sync or plug in my phone.”

“Play the radio or 8-track.”

“All right, let me just grab my most current 8-track.” I fetch my purse from the floorboard, making a show of sifting through it.

“They’re called tapes, and open the glove compartment.”

“Didn’t know you were such a music-thingy specialist,” I grumble, tossing my purse back on the floorboard.

When I open the glove compartment, I find a stack of 8-tracktapes.

A full-ontold you soexpression is on his face.

I give him the finger.

He shakes his head again.

I flip through the tapes. “Where’d you even get these? The extinct store?”

“It’s wild, the things you can find on the internet.”

I look through the options.

The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, Jimi Hendrix, and Adriano Celentano.

“All Marta’s favorites,” I comment.

Julian nods. “The same tapes my father kept in his glove compartment.”

I love this nostalgia trip.

“Let’s go with The Beatles.” I lean in closer to the 8-track. “Now, how the heck do I work this thing?”

“Slide the tape in, album side up.”

“Got it.”

I feel like I’ve just solved the mystery of the Alcatraz escape when the tape slides in, and “Hey Jude” flows through the speakers.

I sing along, swaying my shoulders to the music.

Had it not been for Marta, I wouldn’t know this song.

She taught me so much—how to cook, an appreciation for new music, and how a real mother loves. She was who I needed after losing Sonya.

Julian taps his thumb against the steering wheel to the beat.

A few more songs play until Julian pulls into the parking lot of a small pizzeria.

I’ve never been here before, but as I read the sign, I instantly recognize it.

Il Migliore Pizzeria.

Marta’s sister’s pizzeria.