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“Seth. I don’t think you know him. He comes into the café every morning.”

“So he has good taste in coffee.”

“Yup.” I left out that his good taste in coffee was most of what I knew about him, and that, considering he’d admitted to sometimes drinking instant coffee, it wasn’t even entirely true. “So, anyway…”

“Anyway.” This time he took the hint. “Have a good trip, Abby. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

“I’m not looking for anything,” I said automatically, but that wasn’t true, was it? I was looking for successful Hanukkah vendors. And that was all.

—

Seth wanted to play Twenty Questions on our three-and-a-half-hour drive to the city. I shut that down right away. “No car games,” I said, fiddling with the radio. Nothing but static was coming through. “Do you not have Bluetooth to hook your phone up to the car speakers?”

“Never needed it,” Seth said. “I like to sing in the car. I know some great duets, if you’re interested.”

“I am definitely not interested.” I stared out the window, the rush of static and other cars buzzing in my ears, and watched the tree skeletons fly by. Maybe I shouldn’t have insisted on taking his car, but I hadn’t wanted to pay for the gas or the wear and tear on my own. Besides, he’d offered.

A few more minutes of static and he sighed. “The car doesn’t have Bluetooth. But that cord there can connect to your phone manually.”

“Thank god.” I lunged for it before he could reach for it himself and put his own playlists of god-knows-what on. Probably Broadway show tunes or podcasts about cute animals.

But when I started blasting my favorite playlist of girl indie rock from the speakers, he shook his head. “No way.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing’s wrong with it. I like this stuff,” he said, which was surprising, because every song on this playlist was wildly angry. “But I’m pretty sure it’s a law that when you’re driving somewhere for the holidays and you’re not singing a cheerfully out-of-tune duet, you have to listen to holiday music.”

“By which you mean Christmas music, because Hanukkah options are sparse.” Unless you counted the Maccabeats, the Jewish a capella group, or endless covers of “I Have a Little Dreidel,” which, just shoot me now.

“I actually have a pretty good Hanukkah playlist,” he said. “Search me on Spotify.”

Grudgingly, I did. “I’ll try it out, but I reserve the right to stop at any time.” Hitting play, I nodded in approval when the first song to come up on shuffle was a rock interpretation of “Ma’oz Tzur,” electric guitar included. “Okay, this isn’t terrible.”

“High praise from you.”

I settled into my seat as the Vermont and then the Berkshires forests whizzed by. “So,” I said, once the playlist had started over (because, again, there really weren’t all that many Hanukkah songs on offer, even when you included all the Israeli ones), “what do I need to know about your family and about being in a relationship with the great Seth…” I paused as I realized I didn’t know his last name.

“Seth Abrams,” he said, not sounding bothered by it.

“Seth Abrams,” I finished. “Any siblings whose names I should know? Do your parents erupt at any mention of Marvel movies? Should I talk up my love of classical music to get on their good side? Do you have any weird below-the-belt birthmarks they’re going to quiz me about?”

He removed a hand from the wheel to count down the list one by one. “One: no siblings. Beloved only child here, born when my parents were at the ancient age of almost-forty and were beginning to lose hope. Thus, I was spoiled for most of my childhood. I’ve moved past it. Mostly.”

Interesting how we were both only children and had turned out so differently.

“Two: I don’t think my parents have ever watched a Marvel movie, though they’ll pretend to be interested if you’re into them. If you want to know things that make them erupt, mention e-bikes speeding on the sidewalk or people who let their off-leash dogs tear up the protected landscapes in the park. Three: I think they like classical music, but there are other ways to get on their good side. My mother is a retired podiatrist, and my father is a semiretired lawyer. Their jobs are very boring, so if you want some brownie points, you can always ask questions about them and pretend the answers are very interesting, since nobody else does.

“Four.” He glanced at me sidelong, raising his eyebrows. “If my mother or father attempts to quiz you on our pretend sex life, feel free to pretend you have no idea what sex is or that you’ve even heard the word before. I don’t think that’ll be a problem, though. I don’t think any parents like thinking or talking about their children’s sex lives.”

“Just making sure,” I said. “Anything else I should know?”

He was quiet for a moment as he took an exit toward New York. “We probably won’t just be spending time with my family. I know my friend group wants to get together, too,” he said at last. “This is actually the first time I’ll be seeing them since I moved. We haven’t all been in the same place since before that, but the group chat is already buzzing with plans. You’ll like them—they’re all good guys. And girls. Just. Um.” He swallowed hard. “My ex will probably be there, too. The friend group kind of absorbed her when we dated. And, um, it didn’t end well. The relationship. Last year.” The tips of his ears were turning a brick red. “So she might be a bit cold to you. Don’t worry about it. It isn’t your fault.”

“Well, we’re not really dating,” I said. “So she can be as cold to me as she wants. I’ll be a snowman. Coldness will only strengthen me.”

He gave a relieved laugh. “It’ll be fine, though. Here, let me tell you a bit about my friends. Any real girlfriend of mine would’ve heard some stories.”

The rest of the drive passed quickly with all of Seth’s tales; apparently, kids in the city could get up to way more trouble when they didn’t have to worry about being old enough or too drunk to drive. Before I knew it, we were driving over the Tappan Zee Bridge, the tall buildings of the Bronx and then Manhattan rising up alongside the highway.