“Just so there are no surprises.”
“The only surprise,” he says, already walking toward the bar, “will be if you come back with anything sensible.”
I spin back around. The vintage place with the sundress is calling to me.
I go there first.
∞∞∞
Two hours later, I’m sitting on a bench with bags crowding my feet and Griffin’s card still cool in my hand.
I feel like… myself.
Not the version of me that got dressed for someone else. Not the version that stood in front of a mirror and adjusted, corrected, and silently apologized for the space she occupied. Just me.
In the changing room of the first shop, I’d tried on the yellow dress and thought,Ezra would hate this.Then I thought,Great,and bought it. I found shorts shorter than anything I’ve worn in years and a linen shirt in a blue-green that the woman at the counter swore matched my eyes. I even bought earrings to match.
I was at the register when I spotted the underwear display.
Here’s the thing about the last few years: my underwear has been practical. The kind of thing you buy when you’re with someone who has made you aware—in a way that leaves no physical marks—that certain things are “a lot.” I had quietly adjusted accordingly.
I picked up a set that was black, lacy, and entirely unapologetic. Then I grabbed a second in deep red, because why not?
I added a small watercolor print from a street artist—the ocean from a headland—because it looked like a view we’d driven past, and I wanted to keep it.
By the time I emerge onto the main street, my arms are full, my feet hurt, and I feel scraped clean in the best possible way.
I’m sitting on the bench reorganizing my haul when I hear it.
Music.
It’s drifting from across the street, coming from a shop with a narrow frontage and a weathered wooden sign:The Sound Post.
A smile spreads across my face, and my heart races a little. I cross the street, captivated by the window display—stacks of yellowed sheet music, a metronome ticking out a silent rhythm, a collection of resin-stained bows, and a violin.
It’s hanging on the wall behind the glass. Dark wood with a beautiful curve to the scroll. I’m at the door before I’ve even processed moving.
Inside, the air smells of old wood and rosin. It’s a scent that hits a part of my brain that’s been silent for months. There’s a piano to the left. I drift toward it, dragging my fingers across a run of keys, barely pressing down, just wanting to feel the ivory.
“Can I help you?”
The man behind the counter is older, with a shock of white hair and a smile that reaches his eyes. I find myself drifting toward the violin on the wall before I can even answer. My body knows something my brain is still catching up to.
It’s even more beautiful up close. I reach up and run two fingers along its side without taking it down.Hello. I’m not going to hurt you.
“Do you play?” the man asks, appearing beside me.
My face goes warm.
Do I play? I played for most of my life, then I loaned that skill to someone and forgot to ask for it back.
“Yes,” I say, because it’s the only answer that doesn’t require an explanation.
“Would you like to try it?” He’s already reaching for it. “I don’t get many players through here.”
“Oh, no, I just—” I take a half-step back. “I’m not buying anything today.”
He waves a hand. “I don’t need you to, but if a musician walks into my shop, they have to play.” He nods toward a piece of card tacked above the register:
