“I don’t perform,” I said, and kept my tone calm and not expanding on my boundary.
“But it’s for the community,” she pressed. “It would be wonderful for Maple Ridge. People would love it.”
That was exactly the problem. People loving it always turned into people expecting it. It always turned into someone deciding my music and my life belonged to them.
“I can put the flyer in the window,” I offered, because I could be generous without stepping onto a stage. “I can tuneinstruments for performers if they need help. I can help with making sure the sound is good on the stage.”
She watched me for a moment, measuring how movable my answer was. When she seemed to decide I meant it, her expression softened into something that looked almost disappointed.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll keep in touch about the sound support. Every bit helps.”
I nodded.
She left a stack of flyers on the counter before going to hassle the next poor shop owner.
Anyone looking in from the outside would assume I would be the first person to encourage a talent show. A music shop owner refusing to perform sounded like a contradiction.
I liked music when it was mine. I liked it when it lived in the space between my hands and the instrument. I liked it when it wasn’t treated like a public utility, a puppet to perform for the gain of others.
Taking a deep breath, I pushed the thoughts back and returned to my bench to continue to work on the repairs that would pay this month’s set of bills.
The bell chimed again.
I heard her hesitation before I saw her. It was the pause just inside the door, the subtle shift of weight that told me she was deciding whether she was in the right place. I finished the note I was checking before I stepped out from behind the counter.
She stood near the front display, hands wrapped around the strap of a canvas bag. She was short, brunette, and her eyes were big and brown in a way that made them hard to ignore.
Cute was a simple word for what I thought, and I didn’t like how quickly it came to me.
“Just a second,” I called, because it was what I always said, even when I was already walking toward the counter.
She nodded and waited, patient and polite. That alone set her apart. Most people wandered in with immediate demands and an assumption that I existed to serve them. She stood like she didn’t want to take up more space than she had to.
When I reached the counter, she lifted her chin slightly, like she was bracing for me to decide she didn’t belong here.
“Hi,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “What can I help you with?”
She opened her mouth, then paused, and I could tell she had rehearsed this in her head and still felt a little silly saying it out loud. “I was wondering if you offer guitar lessons.”
People came in for lessons all the time. Still, something about the way she asked felt different, like this was not a casual decision.
“I do,” I said simply. “Beginner?”
“Yes, very much a beginner,” she confessed.
A small smile showed at the corner of my mouth before I could stop it. “That’s usually how it starts.”
“I’m Kitty Bennet,” she added, and I could tell manners were something she leaned on when confidence was not.
“Caleb Green,” I introduced myself.
I leaned lightly against the counter and waited, giving her space to continue. The pause felt intentional because it was. People who rushed themselves tended to talk their way into a corner. People who were given a second usually found the honest sentence.
“I’m helping organize the winter talent show,” she said, then winced.. She shifted the bag under her arm and added, “I should clarify something. I mentioned the talent show because it’s on everyone’s mind. I’m not here to convince you to perform.”
I found myself amused, which surprised me since I hadn’t reacted at all the same way when the previous committee member had asked me to perform.
“I figured,” I said. “You had the panicked look of someone trying not to accidentally volunteer a stranger.”
