away.
“What was wrong with the rock station? ” he asks.
“I hate that song, ” I say, rolling my eyes for emphasis and he bursts into laughter. Oh, shit, shit, shit. I flip it back and realize that I just insulted his band, his music. “Oh god, I’m so sorry, ” I say, holding a hand to my mouth.
“It’s okay, ” he laughs. “Why don’t you like my music?”
“It’s not that I don’t like it per se, I just like other music better, I guess. ” I glance over at him to gage his reaction and am relieved to see he looks amused.
“It’s cool if you think the Rascal Flatts are better than me and my band, ” he jokes.
“Sorry if I hurt your feelings, ” I offer and he sneers.
“I don’t care, ” he says, crossing his arms.
We sit in silence for a few minutes, letting the songs come one after the other. I let the rock station play, tapping along on the steering wheel.
“What about it don’t you like? ” he asks, breaking the silence.
“Um. ” He wants me to explain to his face why I don’t listen to his music? I can feel him looking at me but I don’t know what to say. “What kind of music do you like then? ” he asks, trying to change the question while technically asking the same thing.
“I listened to a lot of Green Day and My Chemical Romance when I was younger and now I’m into, like, Imagine Dragons and 30 Seconds to Mars, I guess.”
“How is my music any different from theirs? ” he asks.
“I don’t know it’s softer. ” I shrug, trying to not insult him and apparently failing.
He huffs and shakes his head. I can’t help but laugh at him a little. His body language tells me he’s brooding about something and I feel a little bad about having caused it. “My friend Francesca really likes your band, ” I offer. Reagan nods and continues to sulk in silence. Jeez, not everyone is going to like you dude.
He flips the station back to country and we sit for the remainder of the car ride in a moderately comfortable silence. As we approach the parking lot for the canyon I notice the winds pick up and Rebecca starts to sway. Once the car is in park, I kill the engine and leap out to escape the suffocating air brewing between us. Reagan seems unfazed by my outburst as he walks over to the driver’s side to pop the trunk. I watch his biceps flex as he lifts his guitar case and slides on a pair of wayfarers. I was internally scoffing at his choice of jeans but after standing around in 90 degrees all morning, 65 feels a little chilly now that we are at a higher elevation. Goose bumps cover my legs and my arms as I watch Reagan pull a zip up over his shoulders. Damn him for being prepared. You live in New York now, 65 degrees is more than reasonable.
We walk next to each other down the short pathway toward a clearing in the trees. I can already hear the “ooos ” and “ahhs ” coming from nearby tourists. When we make it to the brim, I gaze over the canyon and am in awe like it’s the first time. The view could never be tiresome and I hold my breath as the beauty overwhelms me. I look up at Reagan who removes his sunglasses and squints. Without warning he begins walking down the path, passing tourist after tourist. He glances into the canyon as if looking for something in particular. I follow behind him, struggling to catch up until he abruptly stops and I nearly run right into him.
“What are you doing? ” I huff. He doesn't respond. Instead he walks out onto a rock, uncomfortably close to the edge, and sits down. He pulls his guitar out of its case and swings a leg over the edge. I gawk at his bravery, or stupidity, I haven't decided which it is yet.
“Are you going to stand there all day? ” he asks, lightly strumming the strings of his acoustic. I really don’t want to sit that close to the edge. Reagan looks back at me and I shift from side to side. He shakes his head and continues to strum.
Oh hell, fine .
I walk timidly onto the rock and sit next to him with
“What was wrong with the rock station? ” he asks.
“I hate that song, ” I say, rolling my eyes for emphasis and he bursts into laughter. Oh, shit, shit, shit. I flip it back and realize that I just insulted his band, his music. “Oh god, I’m so sorry, ” I say, holding a hand to my mouth.
“It’s okay, ” he laughs. “Why don’t you like my music?”
“It’s not that I don’t like it per se, I just like other music better, I guess. ” I glance over at him to gage his reaction and am relieved to see he looks amused.
“It’s cool if you think the Rascal Flatts are better than me and my band, ” he jokes.
“Sorry if I hurt your feelings, ” I offer and he sneers.
“I don’t care, ” he says, crossing his arms.
We sit in silence for a few minutes, letting the songs come one after the other. I let the rock station play, tapping along on the steering wheel.
“What about it don’t you like? ” he asks, breaking the silence.
“Um. ” He wants me to explain to his face why I don’t listen to his music? I can feel him looking at me but I don’t know what to say. “What kind of music do you like then? ” he asks, trying to change the question while technically asking the same thing.
“I listened to a lot of Green Day and My Chemical Romance when I was younger and now I’m into, like, Imagine Dragons and 30 Seconds to Mars, I guess.”
“How is my music any different from theirs? ” he asks.
“I don’t know it’s softer. ” I shrug, trying to not insult him and apparently failing.
He huffs and shakes his head. I can’t help but laugh at him a little. His body language tells me he’s brooding about something and I feel a little bad about having caused it. “My friend Francesca really likes your band, ” I offer. Reagan nods and continues to sulk in silence. Jeez, not everyone is going to like you dude.
He flips the station back to country and we sit for the remainder of the car ride in a moderately comfortable silence. As we approach the parking lot for the canyon I notice the winds pick up and Rebecca starts to sway. Once the car is in park, I kill the engine and leap out to escape the suffocating air brewing between us. Reagan seems unfazed by my outburst as he walks over to the driver’s side to pop the trunk. I watch his biceps flex as he lifts his guitar case and slides on a pair of wayfarers. I was internally scoffing at his choice of jeans but after standing around in 90 degrees all morning, 65 feels a little chilly now that we are at a higher elevation. Goose bumps cover my legs and my arms as I watch Reagan pull a zip up over his shoulders. Damn him for being prepared. You live in New York now, 65 degrees is more than reasonable.
We walk next to each other down the short pathway toward a clearing in the trees. I can already hear the “ooos ” and “ahhs ” coming from nearby tourists. When we make it to the brim, I gaze over the canyon and am in awe like it’s the first time. The view could never be tiresome and I hold my breath as the beauty overwhelms me. I look up at Reagan who removes his sunglasses and squints. Without warning he begins walking down the path, passing tourist after tourist. He glances into the canyon as if looking for something in particular. I follow behind him, struggling to catch up until he abruptly stops and I nearly run right into him.
“What are you doing? ” I huff. He doesn't respond. Instead he walks out onto a rock, uncomfortably close to the edge, and sits down. He pulls his guitar out of its case and swings a leg over the edge. I gawk at his bravery, or stupidity, I haven't decided which it is yet.
“Are you going to stand there all day? ” he asks, lightly strumming the strings of his acoustic. I really don’t want to sit that close to the edge. Reagan looks back at me and I shift from side to side. He shakes his head and continues to strum.
Oh hell, fine .
I walk timidly onto the rock and sit next to him with
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