“I never come here,” I murmur.
“Why not?” Stone leaves me and wanders to the far wall, where hundreds of original LPs are shelved. Hundreds. Maybe thousands. I have no idea how many records my dad owns. “If this was mine, I’d sit in here all day listening to albums.”
“You would?”
“Yes.” He swings around as I step up beside him. “I would lock myself inside this place and never leave.” His face brightens. “Music! I love music! Maybe there’s a clue to who I am underneath all of this.” He tempers his excitement, gesturing toward the wall. “That is, ifmiladywould allow me to peruse the shelves.”
My stomach flutters at the wordmilady, and a laugh bursts from me. “I was joking earlier. You can touch. Peruse all you like. If you find something you want to listen to, we’ll put it on.”
Fire dances in his eyes. “Where?”
I point to a standing stereo system that’s at least thirty years old. “There.”
“That has got to be the god of stereo systems.”
“Well, you know, if the apocalypse occurs and society crumbles, you must have music.”
Stone nods in reverence. “Truer words have never been spoken.”
I laugh again and he drops his hand to squeeze mine and then gently pulls me toward the wall. “Search with me.”
“For what?”
“Jazz.”
“Oh no. You’re joking, right?”
He shakes his head, his gaze never leaving the wall as he scans the titles. “I am for surenotjoking.”
“What are you searching for?”
“I’ll know it when I find it.”
I run my finger along the titles until I find something he might like. “Charles Mingus?”
“Not in the mood. Something else.”
“Why something else?”
He tips his face toward me, and his expression is completely open. There’s no filter or walls. Nothing separates us.
“Because I love jazz. There’s something raw and true about it. No secrets, no lies, just honesty. Musicians keeping the core melody whileplaying around it, sustaining that truth while dropping in other ingredients. That’s jazz. And sometimes”—he smirks—“you can dance to it.”
A tingle cartwheels down my spine at the mention of dancing. “Is that so?”
“That is so. Ah! Here!” He pulls a record from the wall. “Holy shit. Is this the originalSaxophone Colossus?”
“I have no idea.”
He whistles as he spins it over to the back. “This is original. Holy shit, I tried to get this.Maybe.I think. I wanted this. Yes, I did! I wanted it, and for some reason I didn’t get it. Come on.”
“Want to play it?”
His jaw twitches as if he’s mulling it over. “No. I want something else.”
He slides the album back onto the wall and scans more titles until he finds another. “We’ll put this on.”
“What is it?”
