Don't Pester The Ski Patrol • L.S.

11

Harry's car smells exactly like the inside of a club.

It's so exact that I get flashbacks - the faint vodka smell, the strong weed stench, and the interesting resident couch smell that seems to be indescribable. It's funny for a few moments, and then I remember that the usual passenger of this car is a three-year-old girl, and then I get kind of sad. I know how impossible it is to remove this smell from a car interior, and the heat on the upholstery only makes it worse. It's probably smelled like this for years and will smell like this until its very last day.

His car is pretty old, too - I would say maybe a 2005. He's got a manual bluetooth adapter instead of an actual bluetooth system, and there's still a cassette player in the interior panel. I haven't been in a car this old since it was new. I look in the backseat to see a few blocks and bottles around the back, and then Prairie's car seat - which, by the way, is made of a white plastic and covered in a deep blue velvet cushion. This is definitely another hand-me-down, but it's absolutely gorgeous. I could see it selling for thousands at some lame baby boutique in Beverly Hills.

There's a few cars back home that we have, but my personal car is some over-the-top Porsche that I dislike and was given to me by Johannah for sole Instagrammable purposes. I don't drive it very often, really - I usually get rides from car services. I don't quite like being in the car that much, and I hate driving in Los Angeles. Admittedly, though, I'm excited to watch Harry drive. Something about this car feels homey.

"Please feel free to move any bottles and diaper bags you may find in the backseat." He says in a way that feels less self-deprecating and more like he's trying to be funny. I do kick some bottles and a diaper bag away from my feet, but I don't move them to the back.

He pulls out of the parking spot that's not really a parking spot and starts to drive down the mountain. "Any song requests?" He asks me sweetly, looking absolutely dapper in his terracotta suede coat. He can't keep doing this. He can't keep getting away with sending me into a complete spiral with just a singular article of clothing.

"None at all." I say confidently. It's not that I don't appreciate music, I just know I'll overthink my song choice for years on end after this.

"Not one song?"

"Nope."

"Here, I'll play your favourite song." He tells me, typing something onto his phone haphazardly, bobbing his head to look up at the road and down at the screen.

I know exactly what it is by the very first chord - the theme song to The Tomlinsons.

"Stop!" I exclaim while he's laughing so hard his face is red. "You underestimate how willing I am to jump out of a moving car!"

"What do you mean?" He asks in between laughs. "This is a great song!"

"It's awful royalty-free club music and you know it." I roll my eyes, trying to push back the image of the terrible intro we have set to the music; it consists of my whole family and I lounging on a bearskin rug trying to look hot. I can't even watch it.

"No, I don't know it. To me, this captures the true essence of The Tomlinsons."

"Which is?"

"Uh, rich people drinking? Duh?"

Yeah, he's not wrong.

"Okay, hand me the phone. I'm going to play your favourite song now." I say, motioning for his phone. He hands it to me, curious. I try not to cut my fingers on the chipped glass as I type in 'You Can't Always Get What You Want' by The Rolling Stones.

He doesn't get the joke until it hits the chorus, and then he's screaming. "Please I can't - not this song - I can never enjoy this song again!"

"Why not? C'mon, sing it with me - You can't always get what you want..."