Chapter 66
Chapter Sixty-Six
Kit
“You know what you should do with the store?” Cleo asks the second the door swings shut behind her. The bell above it gives one half-hearted jingle, like it’s tired of working, and it’s just Monday.
“Well, hello to you,” I say, not even bothering to look up right away. My fingers are deep in a stack of CD jewel cases behind the counter—most cracked, some with the wrong inserts inside. I’m attempting to restore order. But failing spectacularly.
“So, you decided to take the whole weekend off from life, huh?”
“Yeah, it was a nice change of pace,” she replies as she glides toward the counter like she’s walking on air—completely at ease, as if the world has shifted just enough to let her pass.
She’s all unhurried grace, as though her morning consisted of poetry readings and lavender fields instead of traffic jams and errand lists. The scent of lavender trails behind her, softening the room and making everything feel just a little less stale.
I narrow my eyes at her. “Which has given you ideas to . . .” I drag the sentence out and gesture vaguely with a CD case until she finishes the thought.
“Well, you know how you said the other day that maybe having an artist come to the store to sign would boost the place?”
My eyebrow arches. “Yeah?”
“What if you expand the store and have them do an unplugged concert?” Her voice lifts. She points toward the far left of the building, where the old knickknack store used to be. “There’s now a sign that says, ‘For Lease or Sale.’”
Oh, that’s . . . the news hangs in the air, catching somewhere between hopeful and ridiculous.
I let myself imagine it—just for a breath.
A new wing with open space, bare floors that vibrate with bass and acoustic guitar.
Rows of folding chairs or old couches that we pick up from someone’s garage.
Maybe a velvet curtain hung from a copper pipe, string lights casting a soft glow over musicians, sweating under the heat, breathing life into every song.
The idea blooms so fast it almost hurts.
I picture the flyers. The cassette bootlegs we’d dub ourselves. People leaning against the walls with wide eyes, trying to pretend they’re not feeling something they’ll remember for the rest of their lives.
It would be magic.
And it would be a fucking nightmare to pull off.
“Sounds nice,” I say slowly, like I’m forcing myself to stay grounded and not float away with her dream. I nod toward the other side of the shop, where the shared wall practically groans with Mr. Miller’s disapproval. “But Mr. Miller will complain about the noise.”
This is the same Mr. Miller who once filed an actual complaint because our Halloween display featured a cardboard skeleton playing the drums. He said it was “disturbing and unholy,” like plastic bones and a toy snare were the downfall of civilization.
Every other day, he grumbles about my music through the wall.
It’s a record store, for fuck’s sake. There has to be music playing, or the customers will just leave without wanting to buy anything.
“We can add a coffee shop,” Cleo suggests. “Imagine your stage, the coffee, and they can buy the music on their way out.”
All this sounds great—dreamy, exciting, maybe even something I could pour my whole self into—but deep down, I know this store has an expiration date. No one’s stamped it, but I feel it ticking behind the register.
Every week, the numbers slip a little lower.
It’s not just that CDs are taking over. Even when I keep claiming they’re going to disappear in my half-joking rants.
The truth is, vinyl’s gasping. Cassette players are disappearing.
People are moving on to less bulky and more efficient ways to listen to music.
They want to burn their songs onto CDs, upload them onto hard drives, and carry entire collections in their bags.
They want convenience. And this store? This store was built forty years ago.
It was meant for flipping through sleeves.
For listening before buying. For talking about B-sides and liner notes and discovering something unexpected while looking for something else.
When my aunt left me this place, I promised her I’d close its doors with dignity when the time came. That I wouldn’t let it rot or limp along. That if I couldn’t keep it alive the way it was meant to breathe, I’d be the one to pull the final record off the shelf.
And maybe that time is creeping closer than I want to admit.
I’ve been standing at this crossroads for a while now, pretending I’m just stuck in traffic. Telling myself I’m honoring the past when really—I’m just hiding in it.
Maybe it’s time to shift.
To stop pretending I can split myself cleanly between the agency and this place and expect them both to thrive.
Maybe I need to make a real decision. To finally admit that the thing I’ve been quietly aching to do—the idea that comes rushing in every time I walk out of a showcase or sit with a raw demo at two in the morning—is to start my own production company.
Not just support the artists with their lyrics or play the piano while they’re recording. But produce everything from scratch.
Except that means risking something. It means walking away from the store that raised me.
That saved me. That reminded me of who I was when everything else was falling apart.
It means stepping outside my bubble, the bubble I’ve carefully constructed out of vinyl bins, handwritten labels, and comfort.
I’ve been too scared to move. Not just hesitant, not merely cautious—but scared.
Scared in a way that digs deep, that settles in my bones and keeps me orbiting the familiar.
I’ve been the safe space, the neutral zone, the reliable background music for everyone else’s spotlight moment.
And maybe I convinced myself that was enough.
Being the one who keeps it all running was noble, and supporting other people’s dreams was just as fulfilling as chasing my own.
Perhaps it’s time I try. Time to stop doing just what’s safe. Though I’m definitely not doing a whole coffee shop. That’s so out of my comfort zone, and also not something I would like to venture into.
I’m about to say something when Cleo’s phone rings.
“Cleo Wilder speaking,” she says, clipped and polished. Then her face tilts, her brow arches just slightly. “Oh. It’s you. Hey.”
That hey comes a bit too soft, too melty.
“I wasn’t expecting you to call.” The tone is a bit flirty.
She then listens and nods, but the nod doesn’t match the tension that gathers at the corner of her mouth. She shakes her head slowly, then glares at me with a look that doesn’t carry anger, but I definitely did something.
Now I’m intrigued about this call.
“But is he going to be okay?” she asks, her voice softer now, hesitant. Like she’s preparing herself for the answer and already bracing for the ways she won’t be able to fix it.
Then comes the sigh. Not just loud but exaggerated—theatrical in the way only Cleo can be without losing sincerity. She rolls her eyes like she’s trying to shake something loose in her brain. “Yes, I trust you. Thank you for . . . yeah, sure. Whenever.”
That last bit is so casual it hurts. As if she didn’t just spend the entire call hoping he’d say he’ll reach out again soon. As if she’s not clutching that hope like it’s the last clean shirt in a pile of regrets.
She ends the call and pockets the phone like it hasn’t stirred something deep in her. But I know her too well to let it pass.
“Everything okay?” I ask, already preparing myself for whatever she’s about to unravel.
Her mouth tightens, her eyes narrow, and she gives me a look that sits somewhere between hurt and confusion, like I’ve broken a rule she didn’t realize she needed to spell out.
“Listen,” she continues, trying to steady herself, “I love you. And I know what Rod did was pretty fucked up, I do. But seeing you could trigger him. You need to stop it.”
I don’t know where this is coming from. It’s like we’re suddenly retaking the conversation from last Thursday, so I say, “He triggered me.” I don’t hide the bite in my voice.
“What was I supposed to say? ‘Hey, your brother wants to work with my father again?’ What was I supposed to do with that, Cleo?”
I turned him down, and that was that.
“You should’ve told me,” she argues, crossing her arms as if trying to hold herself together. “You should’ve said something. But that wasn’t the only time you saw him, was it?”
“No.” The word drops out before I can stop it, before I can soften it. “He came last Thursday to the store.”
Her face twists. “I was here on Thursday.”
“He came after you left with Barret.” I meet her gaze and don’t blink.
“You make it sound like I’m inviting him over.
Like I’m leaving breadcrumbs on the floor for him to follow.
This isn’t some slow-burn reunion fantasy.
We don’t talk about him for a reason, and I figured you already knew he’s the last person I want walking through that door—or into my life. Like, ever.”
Cleo’s expression shifts—guilt, again. But this time, it’s not directed at me. She closes her eyes for a second, pressing her fingers against her temple like she’s trying to quiet all the versions of this conversation she’s already had in her head.
“Sorry,” she says, and the word sounds like it’s been chewed on. “I’m being unfair to you.”
I shrug, but there’s no indifference in the gesture. “I get it. He’s your brother, and you’re afraid you’re going to lose him—this time for good.” I point at her phone. “But whatever he told you—I didn’t do it.”
She shakes her head. “Oh, that wasn’t him. It was Eddie.”
I blink. “Eddie?”
“Yeah, he’s helping Rod with his recovery. Therapy, mental check-ins . . . sponsors. The whole thing. He said Rod’s fine, mostly. But he thinks he’s slightly fucked up from seeing you.”
My stomach turns. “He’s blaming me?”
“No,” she says quickly. “Not blaming. More like . . . seeing you reminded him of what he lost. Of who he used to be. He doesn’t think he can be the man you deserve.
So he’s spiraling. He’s trying to fix everything at once—every fuck-up, every misstep.
And you can’t fix years of shit in sixty-some days. ”
I nod once, slowly. “Well, I wish him the best.”
And I mean it. Even if it feels like a lie.
She gives me a look I don’t know what to do with. Soft and sad and almost apologetic. Like she’s carrying grief for both of us and isn’t sure which of us deserves it more.
“What is that?” I ask, my voice sharper now. “Are you pitying me?”
She doesn’t flinch. “It’s just sad,” she says, gently. “Sad to know that no matter what he does, you’re never going to forgive him.”
My throat tightens, but I push through. “Would you forgive a guy if he cheated on you?” I ask because that’s what it always comes back to. Not just the betrayal, but the rewriting of everything that came before it. How it makes you question your memory, your judgment, your worth.
Cleo’s face stills. Her lips part like she’s about to answer, but nothing comes. She drops her gaze, chewing on the thought like it has thorns.
“Relationships are complicated,” she says after a moment. Her voice is quiet, thoughtful. “I don’t know if I could be with a man who loves someone else too. Who asks me to accept him as that?”
I’m a bit confused at her statement, but too much of a coward to press the issue since this might keep us on the subject I like to avoid: Roderick Wilder.
It’s safer if I just explain the goals for today and leave.
Bernice needs to see me as soon as possible, and I have to check on Dad, whom I’ve ignored all weekend.
At least I don’t have to deal with Timothy anymore. Should I take that as the first step to take charge of my life? Probably tell Bernice she’s welcome to deal with the agency and my father . . . well, I still have to make sure he recovers. That’s the least I could do for him, right?