There’s a part of me that wants to tell him to back off.He doesn’t know better, but maybe he does, and that’s what scares me.That he might have the key to what could be a new life.
ChapterSixty-Six
Kit
May 19th, 1997
“You know what you should do with the store?”Cleo asks the second the door swings shut behind her.The bell above it gives one half-hearted jingle, like it’s tired of working, and it’s just Monday.
“Well, hello to you,” I say, not even bothering to look up right away.My fingers are deep in a stack of CD jewel cases behind the counter—most cracked, some with the wrong inserts inside.I’m attempting to restore order.But failing spectacularly.
“So, you decided to take the whole weekend off from life, huh?”
“Yeah, it was a nice change of pace,” she replies as she glides toward the counter like she’s walking on air—completely at ease, as if the world has shifted just enough to let her pass.
She’s all unhurried grace, as though her morning consisted of poetry readings and lavender fields instead of traffic jams and errand lists.The scent of lavender trails behind her, softening the room and making everything feel just a little less stale.
I narrow my eyes at her.“Which has given you ideas to ...”I drag the sentence out and gesture vaguely with a CD case until she finishes the thought.
“Well, you know how you said the other day that maybe having an artist come to the store to sign would boost the place?”
My eyebrow arches.“Yeah?”
“What if you expand the store and have them do an unplugged concert?”Her voice lifts.She points toward the far left of the building, where the old knickknack store used to be.“There’s now a sign that says, ‘For Lease or Sale.’”
Oh, that’s ...the news hangs in the air, catching somewhere between hopeful and ridiculous.
I let myself imagine it—just for a breath.A new wing with open space, bare floors that vibrate with bass and acoustic guitar.Rows of folding chairs or old couches that we pick up from someone’s garage.Maybe a velvet curtain hung from a copper pipe, string lights casting a soft glow over musicians, sweating under the heat, breathing life into every song.
The idea blooms so fast it almost hurts.
I picture the flyers.The cassette bootlegs we’d dub ourselves.People leaning against the walls with wide eyes, trying to pretend they’re not feeling something they’ll remember for the rest of their lives.
It would be magic.
And it would be a fucking nightmare to pull off.
“Sounds nice,” I say slowly, like I’m forcing myself to stay grounded and not float away with her dream.I nod toward the other side of the shop, where the shared wall practically groans with Mr.Miller’s disapproval.“But Mr.Miller will complain about the noise.”
This is the same Mr.Miller who once filed an actual complaint because our Halloween display featured a cardboard skeleton playing the drums.He said it was “disturbing and unholy,” like plastic bones and a toy snare were the downfall of civilization.Every other day, he grumbles about my music through the wall.
It’s a record store, for fuck’s sake.There has to be music playing, or the customers will just leave without wanting to buy anything.
“We can add a coffee shop,” Cleo suggests.“Imagine your stage, the coffee, and they can buy the music on their way out.”
All this sounds great—dreamy, exciting, maybe even something I could pour my whole self into—but deep down, I know this store has an expiration date.No one’s stamped it, but I feel it ticking behind the register.
Every week, the numbers slip a little lower.It’s not just that CDs are taking over.Even when I keep claiming they’re going to disappear in my half-joking rants.The truth is, vinyl’s gasping.Cassette players are disappearing.People are moving on to less bulky and more efficient ways to listen to music.
They want to burn their songs onto CDs, upload them onto hard drives, and carry entire collections in their bags.They want convenience.And this store?This store was built forty years ago.It was meant for flipping through sleeves.For listening before buying.For talking about B-sides and liner notes and discovering something unexpected while looking for something else.
When my aunt left me this place, I promised her I’d close its doors with dignity when the time came.That I wouldn’t let it rot or limp along.That if I couldn’t keep it alive the way it was meant to breathe, I’d be the one to pull the final record off the shelf.
And maybe that time is creeping closer than I want to admit.
I’ve been standing at this crossroads for a while now, pretending I’m just stuck in traffic.Telling myself I’m honoring the past when really—I’m just hiding in it.
Maybe it’s time to shift.
