“Zack?”
I looked up to see Mr. Crest, the owner of the music store, leaning against the counter, keys in hand.
“Yeah?”
“You still okay with closing up tonight?” he asked. “I’ll be heading out early if you’ve got things handled.”
“Yeah,” I said quickly. “That’s fine. Are you sure it’s okay if I use the studio after?”
He waved a hand. “You’ve got a key. Just lock up when you’re done.”
“I will, thanks,” I said.
Mr. Crest gave me a knowing look, then grabbed his coat and headed out, the bell over the door chiming softly behind him.
The rest of the afternoon felt like a blur. I rang up strings and picks, answered questions about amp settings, and helped a dad choose a beginner keyboard for his kid.
Somewhere in the middle of explaining scale length to a teenager, I caught myself glancing toward the front windows again. And again.
I adjusted a row of straps near the counter, pretending to straighten them while my eyes flicked outside. Nothing yet.
I went back to work, helping a girl choose a guitar strap. She kept going back and forth between a black leather one and something obnoxiously neon.
“Trust me,” I said, holding up the leather strap. “This one won’t clash with everything you own in six months.”
She laughed. “Fair point.”
I rang her up, handed her the receipt, and then looked up. Mark was standing just outside the shop.
My chest tightened before I could stop it.
He hadn’t seen me yet, gaze tilted toward the sign above the door like he was double-checking he was in the right place.
He looked the same, yet different, broader somehow, more settled, but unmistakably him.
I swallowed and forced myself to breathe. I stepped around the counter and held the door open. “Hey. Uh—come in.”
Mark glanced up, a flicker of something crossing his face before he smiled and stepped inside.
“Give me a second,” I said. “I just need to close up.”
“No rush.”
I moved through the motions automatically, flipping the sign to “Closed”, locking the front door, killing the main lights so the shop fell into a softer glow.
I counted the register, slid the drawer back into place, and scribbled a note for Mr. Crest on the pad by the counter.
All the while, I was painfully aware of Mark’s presence.
He drifted toward the wall displays, running his fingers just shy of the instruments like he was afraid to touch them without permission.
He stopped in front of a row of vintage acoustics, head tilted, studying the grain of the wood.
I glanced over. He looked up at the exact same moment.
We both looked away immediately. Heat crept up my neck.
I cleared my throat and finished locking the back cabinet, pretending to be far more invested in a box of spare cables than I actually was.
