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Britta’s done a great job of convincing herself that everything that’s happened up to this point isn’t her fault.
It’s not her fault that Jeff offered to give her a ride to the football game. It’s not her fault that the game ran late - Troy almost single handedly dragging it out, refusing to give up on scoring at least one touchdown for Greendale - making it pitch black outside by the time they left, with only the moon and stars to light the way. It’s also not her fault that on the ride back, Jeff rolled his windows down, put on a self-made CD mix, started drumming his fingers on the edge of the wheel, and began to sing along; his voice low and comforting. Comforting, and yet, somehow dangerous. With an edge that made Britta think it could be her very undoing.
He’s got a surprisingly good taste in music, especially considering what she had previously presumed his taste to be. When she voices this thought to him, he laughs.
“Should I take that as an insult or a compliment?” he asks, fingers still tapping against the side of his steering wheel.
“You can take it as both,” she says. She sneaks a sideways glance at him, one just long enough to see that he’s smiling at the road ahead.
Britta looks up at the stars through the windshield, resting her head on one hand, her arm propped up on the windowsill. She can see more than usual, probably because Jeff decided to go down a back road, taking them through an area with more dairy farms than blinding lights. She’s about to comment on it when the song changes and Jeff lets out a noise that sounds something like a gasp.
“Yes?” she asks with an amused snort.
“Do you know this song?” he asks in return.
She pauses to listen for a second. It sounds vaguely familiar, but not quite identifiable.
“I don’t.”
“You need to,” Jeff says simply. He reaches over to adjust the volume and turns it up louder than Britta thinks he ever has with her in the car.
Her brain is desperately trying to catch the lyrics as they fly by. Something about a heart growing colder, seeing a face in a crowd, and starting over. Something else about meeting someone new, something taking over you.
Jeff starts singing again, and concentrating on the words and what they mean gets a lot harder.
“Girl, you’re gonna take me back to a time when I loved and I meant it. Girl, you’re gonna save me, give me a chance, it’s worth taking,” he sings along.
Britta’s tired of sneaking glances, so she turns to fully look at him. Under typical circumstances, she’d rather cut off her pinky toe than admit that she found Jeff Winger attractive. But now, wind is sweeping through his hair, he’s lifting his hands off the steering wheel as he drums on it, they’re flying down some back road she’s never been on before, the reflection of his fog lights are illuminating his face, and he’s singing. Close to full voice, getting louder as the chorus goes on. Singing a song about falling in love with a girl that he hopes will give him a chance, as far as Britta can tell.
Right now, Jeff Winger is downright beautiful, she thinks.
(The admission makes her feel a little like she’s starting over, in a way. But she doesn’t let herself linger on that idea for too long.)
She considers saying something about how she’s enjoying the song, but decides that it would be better not to break whatever spell they both seem to be under. So she sits and divides her attention between Jeff and the stars - both bright, beautiful things running the risk of flaming out any day now, but continuing to shine regardless.
“And we always say the same old things, and we always use the same tired lines. Staying up all night, talking it out, ending up with no one on our side,” he sings.
There it is, exactly what they are. A contrarian pair, one that can’t even agree that they like each other.
Jeff’s started to move his upper body in time to the song, rocking back and forth ever so slightly. He keeps singing and drumming and rocking for the rest of the song, still somehow focusing enough to keep driving in a straight line. It’s almost impressive, Britta thinks.
“You think that you never really tried. Open your heart, open your mind,” she catches.
Jesus. He didn’t do this on purpose, did he?
Normally, she’d voice thoughts like that. But she kept it to herself, maybe because she didn’t want to disrupt his singing, maybe because she didn’t want it to be true.
When the song ends, he looks over at her with an expression that makes it seem like he’d forgotten she was even there.
“What…what was the name of that song?” Britta croaks out as their eyes meet.
“Girl. By Jukebox the Ghost,” he replies, providing no additional information.
“Cool,” she says. “I’ll get to learning it.”
He turns his attention back to the road, an almost smug smile tugging up the corners of his mouth.
“Good. As you should.”
Oh, she thinks, I am so totally, royally fucked.