“Cool.” I tried to hide my disappointment that she planned on leaving so soon.
The roads were pretty rough after the storm, and all kinds of debris and flooded sections made progress slow. Behind the wheel, Muriel navigated the obstacles like a rally driver, and I couldn’t help giving her the occasional glance of admiration. I do like a practical woman.
“Mind if I put some music on?” I asked.
When we all hung out after school, we loved listening to music, and often ended up arguing about it. Cameron was into country, which in my not-very-humble opinion isn’t real music, while Muriel and I both liked The Smiths, The Cure, and Depeche Mode. My tastes had barely changed in the last five years, and unfortunately, neither had Cameron’s, so I was willing to bet Muriel would still like the same bands too.
She gestured for me to go ahead without taking her eyes off the road.
I leaned over and switched on her car stereo. Her phone beeped, the Bluetooth automatically connecting to her fancy rental car, and to my horrified delight Cher’s version of The Shoop Shoop Song began to blare from the speakers.
“Oh my God, switch it off,” Muriel screeched, her cheeks instantly flushing with understandable embarrassment.
“Watch that trash can!” I called out, bringing her attention back to the treacherous road while I tried and failed to stop myself from laughing at her.
“I don’t normally listen to this stuff. It... it was Jasmine’s playlist,” Muriel protested, but I was not stupid.
“And why would she use your phone for her own playlist?” I asked.
She groaned in defeat. “All right, Mr. Investigative Journalist, enough of the third degree. I like stupid classic pop music, okay?”
I patted her on the shoulder. “You’re in a safe space here, Muriel; your secret’s safe with me. Although, this does make me wonder whether you ever really did like The Smiths.”
We’d once spent a magical time together in my parents’ yard and I’d played her their songs on my guitar for a whole evening.
“Remember that night Cameron didn’t hang out with us, and you made me listen to you play a whole album on your guitar?” Her tone suggested it was a painful memory.
“I made you listen?”
“Well, yeah. You didn’t think I enjoyed it, did you? I was pretending to like those cool bands to impress you.” She glanced over at me and caught a flash of hurt on my face. “I mean, I did enjoy that night because you looked so hot playing the guitar and because I like your voice so much. I loved listening to you; it was only the tunes that I didn’t like. And the lyrics, if I’m honest.”
“Oh, that’s all?” The compliments softened the blow of finding out that I’m the only one of our trio who has good musical taste.
I started dancing along to the stupid song. “I have to admit though, this is pretty catchy.” My attempt to twerk while seated and without fully knowing what twerking involved soon had Muriel struggling to keep her composure.
“Yeah, Hugh, move those hips.” She laughed. “It’s like watching Mr. Darcy at a rave.”
“You can’t handle my moves,” I joked.
The song finally came to an end, but something equally awful started playing next, so I picked up her phone to find something decent. I noticed her lock screen wallpaper was a picture of her, Jasmine, and Poppy at what looked like a pool party.
Muriel looked incredible, of course. She wore a white bikini top with a pleated skirt, and her hair was piled casually on top of her head. She had her arms wrapped around her friends, and they were all pulling stereotypical ‘influencer’ faces, although I suspected their tongues were firmly placed in their cheeks for this photo.
Muriel looked like she belonged there, surrounded by beautiful, glamorous people and a swimming pool with a glorious view of the big city. I glanced out the window. Even at its best, we couldn’t offer the lifestyle she’d become used to, and after the storm, it would take a while for things to be back to their best.
“Are you snooping?” Muriel asked.
I guiltily put the phone down, letting the nightmare playlist rumble on.
“No, of course not. I just noticed your lock screen, that’s all. It’s a lovely photo.”
“Thanks, that was somebody’s birthday party. Couldn’t tell you who, though. That’s the problem with LA; it’s all so impersonal. You just go places to be seen; it’s all insincere, you know?”
“It sounds like hell.”
“For you, it would be. For me, it’s been kind of fun, but lately I’ve wondered whether there’s more to life than parties and cute clothes.”
“There definitely is.”
We turned off the main road onto a narrower one that was only used by farmers and locals who were in the know about shortcuts. She apparently hadn’t forgotten where she was from, even if she was a bit shaky with a few old school friends’ names.