"I don't know trivia." Tim snorts softly, like that might be enough to dispel whatever anxiety seems to have mantled over Jay without much warning. He can't know the source of it in earnest, but he can take a pretty good guess.

(Distant memories of jam session that he can't actually remember, that he had to relive on tape, hearing his own voice mumble in the background as Alex sat with a keyboard on his lap, backlit by the glare of a flashlight.)

(I'm not the movie guy, says Tim, a million years ago.)
(You're the music guy, says Jay.)

"It's been years, anyway."