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“Ew, what is this?”
Harley glanced at Peter.
He was sitting on the counter, eating a chip, but had stopped mid-bite, a disgusted expression on his face.
Harley frowned.
“…..A Dorito?”
Peter rolled his eyes.
“No, the music.”
Oh. Right. That made more sense. Harley listened, and thought for a moment.
“‘Write This Down’, George Strait.”
Peter shrugged, not recognizing the name.
“Yeah, I don’t like it. Can we skip it?”
Harley froze. Slowly, he turned to look Peter dead in the eye.
“Excuse you?”
Peter blinked.
“What?”
Harley shook his head.
“If you’re telling me you don’t like George Strait, you need to leave. There’s the door.”
Peter gave him an unimpressed look, like he didn’t just insult Harley’s childhood hero.
“Dude, I don’t know who that is.”
Harley sighed.
“I can consider forgiving that. Maybe. But you just said you don’t like ‘Write This Down’, a George Strait classic, and then asked me to skip it. You have gravely wounded my soul, and I don’t know if I’ll ever recover.”
Peter shrugged again, completely unapologetic for the distress he caused Harley, biting into another chip.
“The only country music I believe in is Dolly, Taylor, and that one guy that sings the Cars song.”
Harley laughed. Hard.
“Yeah, no. That’s the wrong opinion to have, babe. And it’s not a guy who sings ‘Life is a Highway’, it’s a band.”
Peter snorted, searching the bag for another chip.
“There’s no such thing as a wrong opinion, Harls.”
This poor, innocent, city boy. What ever was Harley going to do with him?
“When it comes to country music, there is always a wrong opinion. Not liking George Strait’s music is a wrong opinion, maybe even the wrong opinion, and I refuse to believe otherwise.” He pointed a spoon at Peter. “And don’t get me wrong, I respect Taylor and Dolly a shit ton, but if they’re all you know about country music, we’ve got a problem.”
Peter licked the dust off of his fingers.
“I know other stuff. I just think it sucks.”
Harley was seriously wondering if his relationship with this man was worth it.
“Peter. Darling. Sweetheart. Baby. You are wrong. So incredibly wrong. Painfully wrong, even.”
The bag of chips crumbled, and Peter hopped off the counter.
“I really don’t think I am.”
Yes, Harley was aware. That was the problem.
He leaned against the kitchen table, watching Peter scrub the Dorito remnants off of his fingers.
“No, I’ve actually decided that for my New Year’s Resolution, I will convert you to country music.”
Peter groaned.
“Harley, no.”
He smirked.
“Harley, yes. It’s a great idea. We’ll listen to the classics, starting with good ol’ George, of course, and Reba, obviously Willie Nelson. Alan Jackson, some Kenny Rogers. Garth Brooks and Tim McGraw, probably.”
Peter gasped excitedly, turning off the water. Harley raised an eyebrow.
“Tim McGraw?”
Harley got the feeling that he was missing something.
“Yeah? What about him?”
Peter grinned.
Harley did not like that grin.
“Like the Taylor Swift song?”
Oh, Lord give him strength.