I shake my head.Nope.
“How long has it been since she stopped writing to you?”
“Six months,” I admit reluctantly, which isn’t quite true. But the four messages I got in the last six months hardly count. Even though the last one came just five days ago.
“Maybe you should stop.” There’s a worried expression in hisdark eyes, and I understand his concern. In his place, I would probably think the same thing.
But I shake my head anyway. I can’t stop. I promised not to leave her alone. So I’m not going to. Even though I’ve had the feeling for months that there’s more behind her silence than the death of her favorite singer. You don’t just disappear the way she’s doing if someone dies who you basically don’t know, do you?
Fuck, I have no idea. Everyone grieves differently, and maybe I don’t know her as well as I think I do, regardless of how awful that thought is.
“Have you asked her what’s going on? There’s more to it, isn’t there?” Beck asks, as if he’s reading my mind.
Sometimes I think he really can. We’re more like brothers than friends; we’ve known each other practically our whole lives. We grew up together in the same neighborhood, on the same street. There were weeks when he spent more time with my family than with his own. He knows me better than anyone else in the world.Almost anyone.
“No,” I finally say.
“Why not?”
“Because she wrote and said she can’t talk. She said she feels...” I stop because I can’t tell him how she felt. It’s none of his business. Beck knows about Birdy because he knows everything about me, but he has no idea what exactly we talked about. Or whatsheknows aboutme. What I know about her. “I can’t ask her because I don’t want to push her. I don’t want to put pressure on her.”
Beck sighs and rolls his eyes. “Sometimes I feel like you’re too good for this world.”
“One of us has to be,” I retort, even though we both know it’s bullshit. I’m not that holy.
“I’m definitely not.” Grinning, he straightens up and looks around the store. “This place is a ghost town.”
“No one forced you to come here and keep me company,” I remind him.
I’ve been working at Repeat Records, a retro vinyl store in Boston’s West End, for around seven years. The days after New Year’s Day are always slow. Most people are back to work already, and the short breather between the holidays evaporates like it never existed. By the beginning of January, stress levels are already back to where they were before vacation. Most people just don’t have time to look for new records or sit in the little café at the back of the store and listen to music.
“I know.” Beck shrugs. “I was bored.”
“I think you must be the only person who gets bored on their day off.”
“Maybe.” He picks up one of the pens lying on the counter and twirls it between his fingers. “I need something to do. Something that challenges me. I’m sick of working at my dad’s office. How can anyone voluntarily sit in a tiny cubicle with stale air every day and fill out fucking Excel spreadsheets?”
“There are people who like that stuff,” I say.
We’re definitely not among them. Beck only took the job at his dad’s company because it was easy money. Compared to most situations, it’s a lot of cash for relatively few hours. I have three jobs and I earn about the same in total. Except I have to work a lot more. But whatever.
I like this job; I feel at home here. I’m surrounded by bands andmusicians who have been part of my life for as long as I can remember. People who inspire me. I’ve learned so much from them. At first glance, the store looks run-down, but that’s exactly what gives it charm. Worn leather armchairs, tables with record players and large headphones so you can listen to the LPs. Right now, we have almost a hundred thousand records in the store. I know because I had to catalog most of them in December. There are a few CDs too, still enough that I could work overtime every day. Inventory is really fun... not. Beck, Jax, and Colin were here almost every day to help save me from being completely overwhelmed during the Christmas season, but it was still hell.
“I’m going to get coffee, want one?” Beck tosses me the pen he’s been playing with and I catch it, sticking it back in the cup where it belongs.
“Yes, please.”
“Sure thing. At least then Evie will have something to do,” Beck says, strolling between the bins of records to the back of the store, where it opens out into the small café.
Evie, our barista, is sitting at one of the tables, earbuds in her ears, phone in hand. She looks up when Beck stops in front of her. He taps her shoulder and she rolls her eyes in annoyance, probably because now she actually has to do something.
Smiling, I’m just reaching for my own phone when the door opens and the shop bell jingles softly, announcing a new customer. I look up, but the girl who’s just coming in doesn’t even glance in my direction. She’s wearing an oversized coat and has a black knit cap over her hair. A thick scarf is wrapped around her neck, covering half of her face. No wonder; it’s freezing outside.
I watch her for a few seconds to see if she needs help or justwants to look around. She doesn’t spare me a glance as she walks through the store. She flips through the records but doesn’t stop for a second, like she’s searching for something very specific and knows exactly where to find it. But I’ve never seen her here before, and I can remember most people who come here regularly. Then again, I’m not here every day, and certainly not the whole day. The owner, Rudy, is usually here in the morning, manning the shop himself.
The girl turns her back toward me when she finally stops in front of a bin. I know which one it is, and my heart tightens painfully. It’s the one with Liam Bellamy’s records. All of them. My mind turns immediately to Birdy and the fact that she isn’t answering my messages.
I’ve written to her every day since New Year’s. I sent voice messages in which I sang her parts of my new songs. I even sent her pictures from Pinterest. Everything I found that made me think of her. To prove to her that this year really will be better than the last. Even though it’s impossible for me to prove that, and I probably shouldn’t have promised it.
