Page 12 of Wanna Bet?

Decision made, she pushed away from the counter.

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She didn’t bother trying very hard with her outfit.

It was her day off–no customers, no expectations–so comfort won. Leggings, an oversized charcoal crewneck that swallowed her hands, and old sneakers. When she caught sight of herself in the mirror by the door, she grimaced.

Her hair was doing that half-wavy, half-frizzy thing it did when she slept on it wrong.

She considered brushing it but decided against it. Whatever. The record store wasn’t exactly a fashion show, and Jace worked weekends, not weekdays, so she wouldn’t run into anyone she cared about impressing.

She grabbed her tote bag and keys and headed out.

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Seattle smelled like rain even when it wasn’t raining. It was an odd phenomenon that she had yet to get used to.

The air was cool and damp, that soft gray chill clung to her sleeves as she walked. Her neighborhood wasn’t fancy, but it wasn’t sketchy either–just a quiet middle ground of old apartment buildings and stubborn little businesses that refused to die. A corner café with mismatched patio chairs, a nail salon with flickering neon, a bookstore that only seemed open three days a week.

Everything looked a little faded around the edges, like a photograph left in the sun too long. She liked it. It felt real.

Leaves skittered across the sidewalk as she passed, the sky threatening drizzle without ever fully committing. A woman jogged by with a golden retriever, and somewhere above her someone played music through an open window–something old and Motown-sweet. She found herself walking in rhythm without even realizing.

Music was like that. It hooked into her bones. When she was a kid, she used to sit on her bedroom floor with her crappy little CD player and just listen, memorizing every drumbeat, every harmony, every breath between lyrics. She liked knowing the tiny details no one else noticed–the scrape of fingers sliding on guitar strings, the way some singers swallowed their words at the ends of lines, the warm crackle that vinyl had that digital never could.

It felt intimate, like the artist had left fingerprints all over the sound.

Most people didn’t know she was like this. They knew “Myah, who’s snappy,” or “Myah, who works too much,” or “Myah, who’s too loud for her own good,” but not Myah, who could talk for hours about pressings and B-sides and producer choices. That part felt nerdy and embarrassing and a little too much, so she kept it tucked away.

The record store was one of the only places she let herself be that version of her. No pretending. No shrinking. Just music. It’s one of the reasons she became such good acquaintances with the owner, Ellis. He also seemed to find peace and solace in the shop's walls.

The record store came into view halfway down the block, tucked between a thrift store and a bakery that always smelled faintly like sugar and yeast. The building was old brick with a hand-painted sign hanging slightly crooked over the door, and the front windows were cluttered with posters, stickers, and album covers taped up at odd angles. It always looked a little chaotic and a little messy, like it had grown organically instead of being planned, and she loved it for that exact reason.

Myah knew Issaky was newer to the building then Ellis. She also knew–to Ellis’s dismay–Issaky had been renovating the place.

A small bell jingled when she pushed the door open and warm air wrapped around her immediately, carrying the familiar scent of cardboard sleeves, dust, and something faintly sweet–like old coffee. Music played low over the speakers, something indie and mellow, all soft guitar and lazy drums. The place wasn’t crowded, just two people flipping through bins near the back, their movements quiet and unhurried.

Perfect. She felt herself relax almost instantly, her shoulders dropping as her breathing evened out.

Myah wandered toward the new arrivals first, fingertips brushing the tops of sleeves as she flipped through. Plastic whispered against plastic with that soft thup-thup-thup sound of records shifting, one of her favorite noises in the world. It was steady and soothing, like turning pages in a book.

She found an old Fleetwood Mac pressing, a random Japanese jazz album she’d never heard of, and something with a cover so aggressively ugly it looped back around to being charming. She smiled to herself, already feeling lighter.

This was good. This was exactly what she needed. She spent a little longer looking before deciding on Japanese jazz over the Fleetwood Mac record. She already had three of them anyway.

She turned toward the counter and froze. For a second, her brain didn’t process it. It just registered a person-shaped figure in her peripheral vision. Then everything clicked into place, and her stomach dropped straight to her shoes.

Jace stood behind the register and he looked good, like really good. He was wearing a tight black shirt, black joggers and glasses she had never seen on him. His muscled arms were covered in geometric type tattoos and flexed as he worked the register.

Oh no, he’s hot. He looked different here. Calmer, somehow. More grounded. His shoulders weren’t hunched like they usually were outside the coffee stand, and there was no tightness in his jaw. He leaned casually against the counter, flipping through a stack of sleeves while talking softly to one of the customers, his posture loose and easy.

Then he laughed. The sound caught her off guard. She’d heard him do the polite, small version before, the one people used when they didn’t want to take up space, but this was warmer and fuller, like it came from somewhere deep in his chest.

It made something strange twist in her stomach.

Why was he here today? Did he always work here on…what day was it again?

God, of course this would be the day she showed up looking like a gremlin in oversized sweats and unbrushed hair. She briefly considered turning around and pretending she’d forgotten something at home, but that would be obvious and weird, and she’d already been standing there too long.