CHAPTER ELEVEN
❛ forgetting with him. ❜

"HEY, THIS WINDOW ACTUALLY WORKS." I SAID, ASTONISHED as I rolled down the passenger window in Stanley's car without much effort required: no creaking, not as agonisingly slow, and it went down all the way. A gust of fresh evening air swept through — tainted only slightly by the town's pollution — and it carried wisps of my hair along with it, glowing brilliantly orange in the glow of streetlights like strings of flames.

"Yeah," he grinned, side-eyeing his window that was only down halfway. "I mean, they're all pretty slow, but the driver's one is the worst."

He proceeded to tell me that it was because this car was pretty old, having belonged to his father before: a 1978 Ford Fairmont, apparently. Although that meant nothing to me. It made me think to myself, What is it with guys generally being obsessed with cars? It's literally just a moving heap of metal with comfy leather seats.

I rested my arm on the rolled-down window and leaned my head on it, feeling the breeze wash over my head and body. My gaze fell on the rear-view mirror, and the road disappearing behind us as we drove. A neon sign glowed mint green and bright red in the dark above the doorway to a Chinese takeout; a lady jogged past in running gear with headphones sitting on her head; a man sat on a bench with a cigarette between his fingers and puffed a ring of smoke from his lips.

We'd been driving around for about twenty minutes now, and were still going fairly strong. At the beginning I'd shed my concerns over Sydney's powers, which Stan seemed to empathise with completely. I didn't want to go into too much detail about it, since I could have told him far too much far too soon. We talked briefly about Syd instead, without the looming burden of her kinetic abilities. I recollected childhood memories of her and I which he eagerly listened to and laughed at when the time was right.

But as that twentieth minute approached, there was a monotone beeping from my pocket, and a vibration. I slipped my phone out of it and peered at the screen.

An incoming call from Mom.

I felt my hands tremble slightly, as I recollected our dispute hours before. We'd never argued like that before. Hell, we'd never even communicated so openly before. And I don't know what I was thinking, spitting all those lies about quitting cello, because I didn't mean it. Well. Not really. It had crossed my mind the past year.

Not because I didn't want to pursue the cello anymore, absolutely not. Because... I couldn't even say it...

No. I glanced over at Stanley, who's head was gently bobbing to the rock song playing. You don't have time for this right now. For her.

My thumb slammed against the red button to reject her call, and I sighed. It must have been a pretty obvious sigh too, because Stan noticed it immediately. God, that boy notices EVERYTHING.

"You okay?" he asked, spotting the phone cradled limply in my hands, "Who was that?"

"Just my Mom."

"You can take it. I don't mind."

"No. Really, I'd rather not," I tensed up just at the thought of having to reconcile with her when I felt like the world hated me. The past seven days had felt like the universe making its best efforts to break me: this stupid shit with Ryder — and now mysteriously Calvin too, the worst menstrual crisis ever, my first SVT episode in months, and then to top it off my cousin suddenly becoming some kind of walking-talking Sci-Fi trope.

     I wanted to think about anything but my shitty week.

"What's this song called?" I turned away from the window to face Stan. Not only because I was itching to focus on something else, but because it was actually pretty pleasant despite not being my usual style.

     "Vanilla Skin," he told me, "It's by Bloodwitch."

     "Oh, cool." I nodded. I'd actually heard a song or two of theirs before, when I caught Sydney dancing to them in her room on one of my first nights there. She'd already given me the explanation about Stanley Barber's otherworldly obsession with this band, and apparently he'd forcibly asked her to listen to some of their songs.

     Bloodwitch was one of those Indie Rock bands, which wasn't really my thing. But, despite that, I was actually enjoying what I'd heard up to now. No heavy guitar playing to the point of it being irritating, and no screaming voices like in Ryder's band. It was mostly a male and female duet throughout. They harmonised well, and it was pleasing to the ears.

     "When you smile, for a while I am tied to a mellow night..."

     "Yeah, I love Bloodwitch." said Stanley eagerly, after a few moments of silence. Just in case I hadn't gotten the hint that this band was literally his lifeblood, it seemed.

     "I figured," I raised my eyebrows at him. "I like it."

     "Wait, you do?"

     "I do. Not something I'd usually go for and, I'll admit, still not my first pick. But it's actually not that bad at all."

     It was impossible to miss the hopeful glee that had glazed over his eyes, even if he wasn't looking my way. I wondered if he listened to anything besides from Bloodwitch — and whether his taste would align with mine, or at least not clash awfully.

     "Yeah," he looked over to me again. "'Cause you like classical music, right?"

     I hesitated initially, just because usually when people ask me that they either don't really care or want to tease me for it. And then when I (seldom) begin rambling about my passions, they just switch off. Stanley, however, seemed genuinely interested; waiting patiently for me to respond, tuned in to hear me.

     Nodding softly, I took a deep breath. "Most instrumental pieces, really. They're not so... boxed in. They're open to interpretation."

     "Huh. I didn't really have you down as an open-to-interpretation kind of person." he said, almost as if he was thinking aloud.

     "Well, I'm not," I looked back out of the window again, rolling my eyes at myself. That wasn't what I'd meant, "But when it comes to music, I like that a song can go with any feeling, or any moment."

     I stopped. I could feel the words on the tip of my tongue, the cogs grinding inside my head. There was so much I could have started going on about right there and then, but was too scared to say. And what of? Being judged? Being laughed at? Being ignored? I didn't know.

     But there was this expectant silence from the seat next to me, and I realised he was still listening. Waiting for me. Perhaps he knew I wanted to say more, I don't know what it was. So I continued.

     "Take this Bloodwitch song, for example," I felt an instant wave of relief as it began to pour out of me. "This could be a soundtrack for so many moments in your life. It could be playing when you do your homework, when you're alone in your room, when you..." I sighed. "... lose your virginity, when you get high, when you find a dead body in a—"

     "Whoa, whoa!" Stan let out a shocked laugh. "That went from zero to one hundred in, like, a millisecond."

     "But it's true! I'm kind of sidetracking here, but do you know that Paul Anka song?"

     "There are lots of Paul Anka songs."

     "Take my hand, and away we fly..."

     My toes curled inside my Converses, and I felt the tips of my ears burning. "You know... 'put your head on my shoulder'..." I sang, under my breath and without much effort so as not to die of embarrassment. Why did I think it was a good idea to sing and not just say the name of the fucking song?

     "'Hold me in your arms, baby..." Stanley joined in almost instantly, before grinning at my discomfort, "Yeah, of course I know it. Classic, and also, a song with lyrics. So," he jokingly narrowed his eyes at me, "You're a hypocrite."

     I leaned back in mock upset, clutching my hand to my heart. "I am not! I'm allowed to like whatever music I want. Stop oppressing me, Stanley Barber."

     "Okay." he laughed: a fruity laugh that came from within his chest, and it made my hairs stand on end as a rush of warmth touched my skin.

     "Anyway, back to what I was saying," I let out a little giggle myself. "There's just this slightly creepy sound that it has, which could make it either sound like the song you slow dance to at Homecoming, or the song you mop up the blood to at a murder scene."

I was met with a pondering silence, as I could hear him thinking. What he was thinking, however, was a whole other story. Man, she's a psycho, or What a nerd! or Why did I lock myself in my car with this sad human being?

"Yeah," he eventually responded, surprisingly unfazed, "I can kinda see it, actually. Or what if it's like... the song that plays when the world is ending?"

"Totally! And that's the whole point," I rambled passionately. He was getting me, "With instrumental songs, there are no words to force meaning on you, so it can be so much more personal. Sad, happy, romantic, whatever you want it to be."

"Follow you to the sun and moon..."

     As we stopped at a red light, the bubble of enthusiasm burst, and I came hurtling down to reality. The adrenaline from my jet-powered lecture on music still coursed through me, but more like an afterthought. I once again become the self-aware and 'boring' girl I was used to being around everyone, and that stupid need to cover it up set in.

     "Holy shit," I huffed, staring down at my lap bashfully, "That was a lot. I'm sorry."

     "Why're you apologising?" Stanley asked incredulously.

     "I didn't mean to get that... deep. It's not really like me."

     That was a lie. It was the most like me I'd been in a while. I am thinking all of the time. A thinking machine, if you will. My mind is a complicated web, a relentlessly active network of ideas: always churning things out. Some are easy to decode, two-dimensional and trustworthy. Some are stupid conspiracy theories, but still intriguing enough to keep me awake until the morning. Some are subconscious trains of thought, still being searched for meaning. Some will forever be enigmas, never to be solved. Nothing ever stands still, everything is constantly being processed, checked, calculated. And nothing... literally nothing... is ever simple.

"Well," Stan shrugged. "I like getting philosophical with you."

And then he smiled at me. There was this endearing shyness about it, this sweet glow that put me at ease. An unexpected pang of comfort seeped into my veins, being carried from head to toe.

"And you smile, I gaze at you..."

"Um... yeah... sure... me too, I mean with you, that is..." I mumbled, in incoherent strings of words that came to me, "Being philosophical with you, not me..."

I suddenly wondered if verbal diarrhoea was contagious.

"Bloodwitch is a great soundtrack for long evening drives with Stanley Barber, though." I added.

"Oh, it's perfect."

"I never knew how I wanted you to take my hand, and away we fly..."

My phone vibrated through my hands again, but I wouldn't let it get to me. I wasn't letting that woman dampen my mood this time. I was too unexplainably happy right now to deal with Mom, who would throw this endorphin euphoria out the window for sure.

With little hesitation, I switched my phone off and slid it back into my pocket, for good. We were now driving across the Lane-Bane truss bridge, which ran over the Monongahela River below. I leaned to my right and poked my head out a little further, seeing the dark waters shimmering in the moonlight below like reflections on a chunk of obsidian.

How lucky I was right now: able to have a one-on-one conversation with someone who'd actually listen to me, and they would even add valuable points to or against me. Whichever it was, I didn't mind. It was just nice to not feel like I was talking to a brick wall. I was already brewing with elation as more trivia popped into my head.

"You know what makes music from the Sixies so great?" I asked, almost smugly.

"Enlighten me." Stan said in turn. Not sarcastically, actually interested.

Wow...

I shuffled a little in my seat so I was kind of facing him more, and he watched me as attentively as he could whilst keeping his eyes on the road for a safe amount of time.

"It's this music formula, The Wall of Sound, made by this guy called Phil Spector."

"Uh huh."

"He and a few other guys wanted to make a sound more orchestral and dense, because it would sound better for the radios and jukeboxes of that time," I continued matter-of-factly, but hardly able to contain my passion. "He produced with famous musicians like... The Ronettes, The Crystals, um... Wizzard, Nancy Sinatra, the list goes on."

"Wow, I never knew that," he tilted his head slightly, "That's pretty cool."

"It is," I nodded, folding my arms across my chest. A smile tugged on my lips and pulled them upwards, completely aware of the next part as I casually added, "But, uh, he's now been sentenced to nineteen years in prison for murder, so..."

Stanley blinked. "Holy shit!"

"I know, right?" I laughed at how ridiculous his face looked, like he was trying to figure out if I was serious or not.

"I was not expecting that at all..."

We were both laughing now, and my brain was buzzing with the ecstasy of it. I could feel it in my chest, through my diaphragm as I did, and I seemed to understand now why they said that laughter was the best medicine. In the last half hour Stanley Barber, it had ebbed away the tension and exhaustion of today. I was numb to sadness right now. I felt invincible.

"I think we should talk like this more," Stan suddenly said once he'd stopped laughing. "I mean, the stuff we've covered up to now has been fascinating."

I snorted, fiddling with my hands on my lap. Half of me agreed with him wholeheartedly, and the other part was doubting myself and struggling to just take a compliment. "It's mainly been me talking at you whilst you nodded and responded," I finally replied, "It's hardly a conversation."

"It is. And at least what you're saying is interesting. It'd be a whole different story if you were talking absolute crap."

"That's true." I chuckled, my eyes drifting to the houses passing my window now. I stuck my hand out, beginning to move it up and down in a wave motion, feeling the wind slip between my fingers.

I heard a soft sigh escape from him, before he added, "I think the last time we talked this much must have been in the Fifth Grade," I could feel him staring at me. "Remember? We sat next to each other in—"

"— Mrs Perry's Art class," I finished for him, turning back to face him again. "Yes, I remember. I'd just moved here."

What a blast from the past. It was true, and it was the first time I'd met Stanley. I remembered how he was the one, apart from Calvin, who could always get me talking; having just moved there from my comfortable city life in Pittsburgh, I had been struggling to settle in to Brownsville which felt so much more dull. Calvin and I met a couple of months later in an after school club where we were the only attendees, and of course we'd hit it off. But Stan is the one I remember being the first person I clicked with in this place.

Come to think of it, I have no idea why we never stayed friends when we moved seats. And whilst I still considered him as nothing more than an acquaintance in the Fifth Grade, I still could've asked to be his friend. He didn't seem to have many of them: not then, and not now.

But then it occurred to me that it was Fifth Grade when my heart started acting funny, and my life was changed for the foreseeable future, and my personality as a result.

"That's right," said Stanley. He seemed so touched that I remembered. "And you hated it."

"I did! And I still do." I shook my head with a smile.

"Can't draw for shit."

"I'd be offended if that wasn't so fucking true."

"Do you remember that— that—" he giggled uncontrollably and I caught on. "That papier-mâché mask you made..."

I groaned, letting my head fall into my hands. But I was grinning. "It was awful."

"It literally looked like a... a..."

"An egg?" I suggested, "A misshapen Mr. Potato Head? A child who was dropped on his head as an infant?"

"Yep!" Stan snorted, "And you took it so seriously too, like, you literally looked like..." he attempted an impression of my Fifth Grade self with an exaggeration of a stern, concentrated look. It looked so silly that I couldn't help snorting again.

Now we both really laughed, to the point where I felt tears brimming in my eyes. I'd forgotten what happy tears felt like, and the aftermath left me dabbing at my eyes with my sleeve and catching my breath, as the laughter subsided and left my sides splitting with the best possible ache. It wasn't even that funny, but it was something about his positive nature that could just spread like wildfire.

Honestly, I didn't understand why so many people found this boy's personality too 'weird' or 'quirky' for their taste. More and more, I was starting to think Stanley Barber was the most intriguing person I had ever met.

The Ford Fairmont had begun slowing to a halt, and I froze in my seat. Around us were rows of houses amongst trees, resembling the familiar small neighbourhood where I'd been residing the past week. Was this my stop? I didn't want to leave so quickly, back to the mundane everyday. Was it too much to ask to just stay in this comfortable bubble with Stan for as long as I wanted?

Stanley's face had soured into a look of contempt, a stark contrast from how he'd been the last thirty minutes, as his eyes were trained on something in the distance. I followed his gaze, and found myself also staring absentmindedly at his house. The light was on in the living room, and even from here we could see the faint glare of the TV. After knowing what I knew now, I could just picture it so clearly: his Dad sitting brain dead on the couch, eyes glued to some sports programme, surrounded by empty cans of beer. And to think that pig would ever dare lay a hand on his son...

It made me overwhelmingly sick with rage just to think about it.

"Is it okay if we just sit here for a while?" Stan finally asked, his voice small.

I tried to hide the sigh of relief that I wanted to release. Just to spend a few more minutes not thinking about kinetic powers, or tense family relationships, or heart conditions. I nodded wordlessly, swallowing hard as he propped both his arms on the steering wheel and leaned forward, his chin resting on them.

I had to ask.

"It was him, wasn't it?" I tried not to look too pointedly at the cut above his eye. And I tried not to sound like I already knew the answer, because I did. I think I'd known since this morning.

He seemed to catch on immediately, and he let out a deflated, bittersweet breath through his nose. "Yeah."

     I licked my lips, feeling the fragility of his nerves like static. He was crumbling before me again, but this time, he didn't try to hide it. Instead, he was more frank.

"It's just... a weird topic for me to talk about, you know?"

"Of course."

     His eyes shone in the darkness, but not with the jovial twinkle I was so used to. With tears. All of a sudden he sucked in a breath, lifting his chin to free his arms so he could rub his eyes as quickly as possible. Trying to pull himself together.

     Clearing his throat, he stared out of the windscreen. "Um, he's not at home a lot because of his job, thank fuck. He's a truck driver. But when he is, it's like I'm... walking on eggshells. And... it shouldn't be like that in your own home, right?" his voice broke for a moment, and he took a deep breath to recompose himself. "I mean, I don't know if I could call it home, because what kind of fucking home would that be?"

     I watched the rawness of his grief, this burden he had to live under the same roof with, and I was rendered speechless. I didn't know what to say. But maybe it was best that I said nothing at all, since Stan didn't seem like he'd told anyone this.

     Whoa, what a thought. Someone deciding to put their trust in me with something like that.

     "But all I know," he continued. "Is that I never want to be like him. Ever. Or any of the Barbers, for that matter. I come from a long line of dickhead men, it turns out. So hopefully it's not some shitty hereditary thing."

     I took a deep, shaky breath, searching for the words to say. "You're not like you're Dad," I eventually settled for. "Or his Dad, for that matter. I mean, fuck, you couldn't be more unlike them. You are your own person. And you're... you're nice. And interesting. And smart. And cool."

     A ghost of a smile appeared on his face. That's better, I thought. But then again, if it was being forced, I'd rather he didn't smile at all. I knew all too well that faking smiles was the most tiresome and gruelling thing.

     "And, um..." I added, the words rushing to my vocal chords faster than they formed in my head, which I wasn't used to. "If you ever need to... you know, escape for a while... then the door is always open."

Still facing the windscreen, his eyes drifted over to me with a breathy chuckle. "I don't know how happy Syd'll be to have me creeping into her house in the middle of the night with a black eye."

"No, you dumbass, I meant my place," I blurted out, slightly irritated, but the legitimate surprise that flashed across his face threw me. Gently, I added, "You can come there. If you want."

He appeared to be lost for words which, really, was quite heartbreaking. Did it really mean that much to him?

"I— that's— thank you," he breathed in disbelief. "But you don't have to do that."

"I do, actually."

I owed him big time. Stanley Barber had singlehandedly made me forget all my troubles of not just the past week, but the past year, within the space of half an hour. I'd felt happier than I had in a very long time. Forgetting with him was the most therapeutic thing I'd done. So, I guess I just wanted him to be able to do the same, and forget with me.

     Usually I didn't make spontaneous promises like that, but this one simply couldn't be postponed to ponder over.

     Stan had now turned his head fully, his eyes locked to mine. His brown eyes were so deep and intense in the darkness that it was almost disconcerting. And he had this funny look... like he was trying to figure me out.

     "What?" I asked, a tad uncomfortably.

     "It's just..." he paused, lifting his head up from the steering wheel and tapping his fingers on it, "I feel like there's so much going on in your head, that no one understands or even knows the half of. And sometimes, I wish I could... help? Or see what you were thinking."

I faltered. This was surreal, and suddenly I felt like I was in the shoes of Stanley this morning at my locker. The façade falling to pieces. I considered trying to change the subject, to get back into my comfort zone, but I soon realised that would be futile.

Because Stanley Barber could see right through me, and I could see right through him. He knew me better than I knew myself. And at this point, there was no point hiding anything from him. Besides, I could trust him; as far as I was concerned, he'd ventured into the friendship territory once again, and this time he was hopefully going to stay for good.

"How..." I mentally kicked myself, not knowing what to say except, "How did you know?"

"I don't know. Today you just seemed... sad?"

Sad.

"It's been a long day." I told him solemnly, to which he simply nodded. He needed no further explanation, and I was thankful for that. However, the words began forming before me, in a speech that had to come out now. I couldn't let the silence linger for too long before we either changed the conversation or parted ways.

"Sometimes," I began, catching Stan's attention. "I feel like a broken Jack-in-the-Box."

     He seemed puzzled, but still gazed at me attentively: a signal that he wanted to hear more.

     I unbuckled my seatbelt, turning completely so my entire body faced towards him. "The more it's wound up, the more pressure piles on and you feel like something has to happen soon, or you'll explode, surely. But nothing ever does. The mechanism's broken, I can't just... release the pressure. Every day just ends up so painfully normal. Well, until recently of course —" I managed a weak smile as Stan chuckled lightly, "— so I'm holding it in, and finding that imploding hurts so much than exploding, because—"

     "— Because you think that no one could see you." Stanley finished for me.

     He was spot on. "Exactly," I whispered. Bewildered, I raised a hand to my forehead to brush some hair back. "Fuck. What is up with me tonight? I keep going off on a tangent."

     "You should it more often," Stan shrugged sincerely, "I mean, I never knew you had such a way with words until now."

     "You really think so?"

     "Hell yeah. Who else could have just come up with those metaphors?"

     I let my shoulders relax, relieved that some of the tension from my outburst had subsided. Jesus fucking Christ. It seemed that Stanley Barber's 1978 Ford Fairmont (see, I was remembering it) had now become Stanley Barber's Confessional, free for all.

     It occurred to me as I saw a light switch off in one of the neighbouring houses that it must have been late. It was pretty dark out, too. "Hey," I asked, still staring ahead at the house, "D'you know what the time is?"

     "Yeah, it's, uh... nearly ten."

     "Shit, I need to go — Maggie'll be back soon, and she'll be worrying about me." I reached to grab my stuff by habit, but soon remembered that I hadn't brought anything to the bowling alley except myself. Instead, I styled it out to make it appear that I was checking that my shoelaces were tied.

     I swung open the door and hopped out of the car. I heard Stan's voice get cut off behind me as I slammed it shut, and watched his face drop in disappointment as he didn't get to say goodbye.

     I walked round the front of the car and approached his window, leaning down so my head was level with his. Seizing the opportunity, he pressed his finger on a button and sure enough, the window began to roll down at its usual snail's pace. I shook my head, my lips thinning into a huge smile. Gosh, I clearly hadn't smiled this much for a while, because my face was starting to hurt.

     Once it'd rolled down about halfway, he stopped.

     "You didn't think you were getting away that easy, did you?" I teased.

     "Of course not," he brushed it off, although I'd seen how he'd reacted, and he wasn't fooling anyone. "I'm not, like, an idiot or anything."

     Rolling my eyes, I folded my arms so that my hands disappeared inside my sleeves. His eyes peered at me from the small fraction of a gap above the glass, the darkness blending his pupils and his irises into a hypnotising pool that shifted around. I felt like he was taking in every inch of me.

     "Well, goodnight Stan."

     I'd barely taken two steps away from his car when I heard him call, "Whoa, whoa, come back!" but not too loud, for his father could have heard. And when I returned, he asked, "What was that?"

     "What was what?" I returned to the window, confused. He widened his eyes at me, melodramatic in the scale of his astonishment.

     "Stan. You just called me Stan," his jaw dropped, and he held up a finger. "That's one syllable."

     He was right. And not only that, consciously in my stream of thinking I'd thought of him as Stan. It just felt more natural now. Nevertheless, I went along with the joke.

     "I did, didn't I?" I pretended it wasn't a big deal, narrowing my eyes.

     Stan punched the air. "Yes, I'm finally getting through to you!"

     You are, I thought, smiling on the inside.

     We both laughed again, for another time this evening; not as hard before, but just as wholeheartedly. There was a point as our laughter died to small, breathy giggles that I caught his gaze, and he caught mine. And we held it for what felt like an eternity, for as we stared at each other I felt like no words needed to be exchanged, and this was enough. It was a strange connection. Otherworldly, even.

     But it was getting late. And this couldn't last forever.

     I gave the car a quick pat and waved to him before turning my back to him and walking off. Syd's house wasn't too far away, it would be less than five minutes, especially if I walked briskly. I could hear the door open and shut behind me, and as I got to the end of the street, I turned around.

     Stan was still there — by the gate to his house, lingering. The moment I turned to see him, he waved again. I waved back, grinning, again.

     And then I turned around for good, I kept walking until I got back home. Whilst I got ready for bed, I still basked in the afterglow of that night. How surreal it felt to share such a lot of deep, personal secrets with him. Had I said too much? What if everything goes back to normal again tomorrow, and we're just on the same awkward terms as before? Doubts started to flow in again, and they almost tainted how undeniably therapeutic those car conversations had been...

     But that was before I read the newest text that I got from Stan, a couple of minutes before I went to sleep:

          Him: Just starting listening to The Ronettes... wall of sound, baby :)

________________________

A/N:

hope y'all are happy, because throughout this entire chapter i was like 🥰❤️

question, how are you guys finding the chemistry between stan and hallie? i'm just curious because until a chapter or two ago, they hadn't actually had loads of interaction, so after this chapter where it was literally just the two of them i felt it was more suitable to ask now.

also, i'm IN LOVE with the song for this chapter! sibylle baier is this german folk/acoustic singer who recorded a bunch of lovely songs in the 1970s on an old reel-to-reel machine, but she decided to focus on her family rather than launch into fame with her music. but later in 2004, her son gave a copy of his mother's home recordings to a music company, and the rest is history 😊 that's your fun fact for the day (apart from that phil spector stuff, of course...)

song of the chapter: 'forget about' - sibylle baier
(stan & hallie talk parked outside his house)
^^ also i consider this to be a theme song of theirs!

published: 10th may, 2020