“Who wasn’t?”
“—and to this day, I can break down a flawless routine to Express Yourself, circa the Blonde Ambition Tour of 1990.”
My laughter knocked me flat onto my ass in the middle of the aisle. “What have you done? Now I have a mental image of you in a cone bra.”
“Hot, right?”
I laughed even harder.
“If you’re nice to me,” he went on, “I might share actual photos of pre-pubescent me proudly wearing a golden bra my sister had made out of papier-mache.”
“Stop. I can’t breathe.”
“Yeah, well, that’s what you get for doubting my absolute superiority in the classics.”
He pushed to stand, and held out his hand to me. My amusement simmered just as quickly as it had erupted, cold common sense shoving back into my head.
“I’ve got it,” I said, and struggled to my feet all on my own.
At the rear of the store, there was a small shelf of local pressings and handmade art books. Aiden paused in front of it, caressing one of the wooden frames that displayed limited editions.
He ran his fingers along the edge of the shelf, not absentmindedly but with deep interest, as if assessing the lines and joints.
“You like shelving?” I asked.
He looked up, surprised that I’d noticed what he was doing instead of what he was browsing.
“Something like that.”
I came to stand beside him, and nudged him with my shoulder. “I already know about the cone bra. You can’t hold out on me now.”
He gave a soft laugh, and said, “Woodwork’s kind of a hobby. Off season, or when I just… need to clear my head.”
“I have the same thing. Working with my hands means things get quieter up here.” I tapped my temple, and he nodded with a half-smile.
It wasn’t the first time tonight I’d caught a hint of sadness in that very look. Hidden behind his eyes. I was sure it was a default of his. Of all the times I’d been in Aiden’s company so far, there’d been a worry, a bother, a blueness about him. And although he was quick to share tidbits about his life and childhood, this was something he guarded fiercely.
“I also just like doing something that doesn’t boil down to stats or a scoreboard,” he said. “Something that’s just mine, and it doesn’t need to be liked or sold or graded.”
A record in my hand slipped slightly, and he reached to steady it before it fell, his fingers grazing the edge of the sleeve and mine at the same time. The contact was brief and accidental, but neither of us moved away immediately.
His eyes stayed on mine for an extra breath before he pulled back.
And when we walked back toward the front of the store together, talking about bands, about favorite tracks, about concerts we had loved and ones we had skipped, the conversation felt easy in a way that didn’t need to be declared.
We found our way to the crates labeled RECENT INTAKE in thick marker.
“This is my favorite part of the store,” I said, getting comfortable on a leather ottoman nearby. “You never know what someone just decided they didn’t want anymore.”
“One man’s junk,” Aiden quipped.
“Or inheritance,” I said. “Or a breakup.”
He crouched to flip through the front half of the crate while I took the other side. The cardboard edges scraped faintly against the sleeves as we worked.
“You judge people by what they get rid of?” he asked.
“I judge them by what they keep,” I said. “The rest is context.”
