Love on the Brain by Ali Hazelwood

            “What does that mean?”

            “Nothing.” I shrug. “Just that the entirety of your music library is angry white boys.”

            He frowns. “Not true.”

            “Right. That’s why you have exactly . . .” I scroll down for a few seconds. More seconds. A minute. “. . . a grand total of zero female-performed songs on your phone.”

            “That’s not possible.”

            “And yet.”

            His scowl deepens. “It’s just a coincidence.”

            “Mmm.”

            “Okay—I’m not proud of it, but it’s possible that my musical taste was influenced by the fact that in my formative years I, too, was an angry white boy.”

            I snort. “I bet you were. Well, if you ever want to work through that rage productively I could recommend some singer-songwriters—” There’s something on the side of the road. I crane my neck to see better. “Oh my God.”

            He gives me a worried look. “What’s going on?”

            “Nothing. I just—” I wipe my eyes. “Nothing.”

            “Bee? Are you . . . crying?”

            “No,” I lie. Poorly.

            “Is it about female singer-songwriters?” he says, panicky. “I’ll buy an album. Just let me know which one is best. Honestly, I don’t know enough about them to—”

            “No. No, I— There was a dead possum. On the side of the road.”

            “Oh.”

            “I . . . have issues. With roadkill.”

            “Issues?”

            “It’s just . . . animals are so cute. Except for spiders. But spiders are not really animals.”

            “They . . . are.”

            “And who knows where the possum was going? Maybe she had a family? Maybe she was bringing home food to kids who now wonder where Mommy is?” I’m making myself cry harder. I wipe my cheek and sniffle.

            “I’m not sure wildlife abides by the rules of traditional nuclear family structure—” Levi notices my glare and instantly shuts up. He scratches his nape and adds, “It’s sad.”

            “It’s okay. I’m fine. I’m emotionally stable.”

            His lips curl up. “Are you?”

            “This is nothing. Tim used to make me play this stupid ‘Guess the Roadkill’ game to toughen me up, and once I literally ran out of tears.” Levi’s jaw hardens visibly. “And when I was twelve we saw a family of splattered hedgehogs on a Belgian highway and I cried so hard that when we stopped to get gas, a Federale Politie agent questioned my uncle on suspicion of child maltreatment.”

            “Got it. No stops until New Orleans.”

            “No, I promise I’m done crying. I’m an adult with a shriveled, hardened heart now.”

            He gives me a skeptical glance, but then says, “Belgium, huh?” and his voice is curious.

            “Yeah. But don’t get too excited, it was the Flemish part.”

            “I thought you said you were from France.”

            “I’m from all over the place.” I take off my sandals and push my legs against the dashboard, hoping Levi won’t take offense at my bright yellow nail polish and my incredibly ugly pinkies. I call them the Quasimotoes. “We were born in Germany. My father was German and Polish, and my mother half-Italian, half-American. They were very . . . nomadic? My dad was a technical writer, so he could work anywhere. They’d settle in one place, stay for a few months, then move to a new one. And our extended family was very scattered. So when they died, we—”

            “They died?” Levi turns to me, wide-eyed.

            “Yeah. Freak car accident. Airbags didn’t work. They’d been recalled, but . . .” I shrug. “We’d just turned four.”