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WE GOT LUNCH at a small roadside diner, and I took him out to see a lighthouse, and toured him around all the bits of my childhood on the Outer Banks.

I couldn’t remember the last time I just …

went for a joyride. Got lost on the road.

Stopped at everything that piqued our curiosity—all the little antique shops and souvenir stores.

When we got back it was dinnertime. The sun was low on the horizon, throwing pinks and oranges and reds into the sky.

We pulled up to my house and parked the Subaru, because Sasha said he wanted to walk home.

It was only three blocks, after all. I shut off the engine, but we both stayed in the car for a little while longer, listening as the last of Billy Joel faded from the speakers.

The cassette player whined to a stop, and then with a clatter began to rewind itself. All the way back to the beginning.

“I never thought you’d have Green Day on a mixtape,” he finally said, and as if in agreement, the cassette popped out of the player.

I took it, tenderly holding it up. “Yeah, Mom makes these. She’s really good at it. She always says that you can tell a lot by a person’s record collection.”

“I’d have to agree,” he replied. “I feel like I finally know the real Joni Lark. And not just the one in my head.”

“She’s messy,” I said, putting the tape back into its case, “and anxious, and self-centered.”

“And kind, and patient, and thoughtful,” he added. “I think I like her better.”

I turned to hide the blush on my cheeks. He liked the real Joni better, huh? What an idea. I tugged on my braid, but it was already coming undone from today’s joyride, curling out like fraying rope. “I think I do, too,” I told him. “The real Sasha, I mean.”

His eyes widened at the nickname, and then he quickly glanced away.

If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was blushing, too.

I liked the way the color looked on the apples of his cheeks.

I liked that the tips of his ears matched, and I liked how I wanted to write down all the things the color reminded me of, and put them in a song—

Oh. Was that it?

We finally got out of the car, and he walked me all the way up to the front door, and there we lingered. I heard him say, “Would you like to go out to dinner tomorrow?”

But at the same time, I said, “I think it’s a love song.”

Then I realized what he’d said. My eyes widened. “ Oh …”

“I mean,” he went on, rambling, “it doesn’t have to be dinner if you don’t want dinner, or if you have to work, or—”

“I’m sorry,” I replied. “I’m—I already told Van I’d go to dinner with him …”

His eyebrows furrowed, and then he remembered. “Oh. Oh , Van. You did? That’s great!”

I searched his face. “Really?”

“Really—I’m happy for you. I mean, I just asked to do dinner so we could talk more about the song. We can’t just grab pizza every time.”

Oh. I wasn’t sure if I felt relieved or … disappointed? Was I disappointed? No, I couldn’t be. “Pizza does eventually get old. I could maybe reschedule with Van, or—?”

“No—no, there’s no need. Besides, I think you’re right.”

I hesitated. “About …”

His hair had almost completely come undone from the half-bun he kept it in, dark tresses curling around his face and ears, unkempt and handsome, like all the love interests in the music videos I used to watch on MTV.

And between us, that melody spun and spun and spun, slowly turning into something real. “I think it’s a love song, too.”

I wanted to kiss him just then, to close the gap between us and taste the thoughts on his lips, wondering if he heard the song in the same key, singing the sound of us. Then he leaned toward me, and my heart jumped into my throat because maybe, maybe —

He kissed me on the cheek.

“I’ll see you later, bird,” he whispered against my ear, forcing a wry smile, and went down the stone pathway of my childhood home to the sidewalk.

And never once looked back.