Her head lifted. "Yeah?"
"The new stuff I mentioned? It's been landing. Thursdays especially. The crowd's different, more listening than dancing." He looked almost shy. "I'd like you to hear it. If you want."
"The Hard Rock's not exactly around the corner," Jen pointed out.
"Forty minutes." He shrugged. "Less if you hit the lights right."
"Okay," she said.
"Okay?" Clint looked surprised.
"I'll come. Thursday."
His smile this time was slower, more careful. "I'll leave your name at the door."
"You don't have to do that," she said.
"I want to." He hesitated. "Jen. The fantasy book. Whatever it is, wherever it goes, keep writing it. The thing you're not supposed to be making is usually what matters most."
He walked toward the counter without waiting for a response. She watched him go, saw him set down his stack and start talking to the owner, gesturing at one of the albums, falling into what was clearly a familiar argument about condition and value.
She carried the album to the register.
The guy looked up when she approached, gave a small nod to Clint, and rang her up without comment. Nine dollars. She paid in cash, and he slid the record into a brown paper bag with a logo she didn't recognize.
"Good album," the guy said, and it sounded like it physically pained him to offer a compliment.
"Thanks."
"Don't play it on anything cheap." He handed her the bag like he was entrusting her with a family heirloom. "You'll ruin it."
"I'm not even sure I still have a turntable."
He stared at her. Clint, behind her, made a sound that might have been a laugh.
"Then why are you buying it?" the guy asked.
"I have no idea," Jen said honestly, and walked out before he could take it back.
Olivia stopped walking when she saw the nail salon.
She'd been up all night, Lily's words playing on a loop. They kissed. For a long time. Dan outside their house at two in the morning. Rachel in her car. Everything he'd sworn hadn't happened, happening. Eventually the house had woken up around her, and she'd slipped out the door without saying goodbye to anyone.
Now she was here. A place called Polished, its windows lined with neon-pink cursive and photos of manicured hands. The sign said WALK-INS WELCOME.
She went inside.
The woman at the front glanced over. "Good morning. Walk-in?"
"Yes." Her voice sounded strange to her own ears. Flat. "Mani-pedi."
They led her to one of the massage chairs along the wall, the kind with the built-in footbath. Olivia leaned back into it and let the water run warm over her feet while someone started on her hands at the little table beside her. Two women working at once, efficient and focused, not interested in small talk. She stared at the TV above her, some home renovation show with the sound off, and let her mind go blank.
She wasn't okay. Wouldn't be okay for a while.
But she was clear. That was what surprised her. After months of confusion, of trying to decide if she could forgive him, of weighing what was fair and what was possible, she'd finally arrived somewhere solid.
"Color?"
