Chapter 104
Chapter One Hundred Four
Roderick
I push through the door. The bell above gives a halfhearted ding, barely louder than the low hum of the speakers behind the counter. It smells like dust, vinyl, and time that hasn’t been kind or cruel—just indifferent.
Kit’s standing in the middle of the store, surrounded by worn-down cardboard boxes.
Her brows are scrunched as she hunches over a stack of old vinyl, flipping through them like she’s touching memories instead of records.
When I get closer, I see why—these aren’t just any albums. They’re ours. Or were.
“Do you need help with that?”
She jolts, shoulder twitching beneath my hand, and I realize too late she’s wearing headphones. The moment she turns, tugging them down around her neck, her entire face shifts. That familiar smile blooms—soft, surprised, unmistakably her.
“I didn’t see you there.”
“You seemed busy,” I say, my voice catching between sarcasm and sentiment.
“I’m trying to figure out something. But now that you’re here, maybe you can fix this.” She gestures to the chaos—pile of albums at her feet. “Barret brought them a few months ago. These are all the ones you left at the old house. But . . . some of Alec’s are in here too.”
I squint. “Who in their right mind would do that?”
“Do what?”
“Mix his shit with anyone else’s. He’s going to combust if he finds out.” I pick one up.
“You could go through them,” she offers, almost hesitant. “Take what’s yours. Leave his in here?” She says it like a question, like maybe I’ll bite.
“What was your plan before I walked in?”
Her grin tilts left, mischief blooming. “Split them with a friend.”
She leans closer, voice lowered like we’re kids again hiding secrets in a treehouse. “He and I deserve them more than anyone. We’re music geeks.”
“You’re still a music thief,” I mutter, trying not to smile as I shake my head. “You just place them where they’ll be . . . what? Worshipped?”
“Loved,” she corrects with no shame whatsoever. “Albums need a home.”
I glance over the mess and sigh. “So this friend of yours—will he be okay with having stolen goods in his collection?”
She nods, smug. “He might. I’d have to ask him.”
“If he says yes, maybe he’s not a great friend.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’s enabling a record thief. That’s morally questionable at best.”
She laughs, full and unguarded. “It’s not thievery if they’re given a warm, cozy place to live out the rest of their musical life.”
I pause, watching her. That laugh used to fill entire rooms. I didn’t realize how much I missed it until it hit me square in the chest.
“Well,” I say finally, crouching beside the boxes. “Sorry to break it to you, but I’m taking them home if these are mine.”
She looks around the store like maybe a car will materialize out of nowhere. “You have a car?”
“Nope. Lost my license a few years ago.”
Her brow arches. “Wait—what?”
“Drunk driving. Not my proudest moment,” I confess. “No one got hurt, but it was part of my settlement. Didn’t do time, but I had to give up my license.” I force a breath through my nose, fingers drumming the top of an album sleeve. “I’m not proud of what I did back then.”
Kit doesn’t say anything right away. There’s no judgment, no gasp, no overly dramatic pause.
Just a soft inhale—barely there—like she’s absorbing it all and letting it settle in her chest. Then she sinks down beside me, crossing her legs like we’re at a fucking sleepover and none of this is real life.
“I’m glad no one got hurt,” she says, voice low but sure. “And I’m glad you’re okay. You’re doing better now, right?”
“I’m trying,” I whisper. And I mean it. Every inch of me means it.
She nudges my knee with hers—nothing overthought—just enough to remind me she’s still here. Still . . . her. “Then that’s all that matters. People fuck up. You’re still here.”
The way she looks at me then—it knocks something loose. Not pity. Not forgiveness, either. More like this lingering belief that I’m salvageable. Like I’m not all rust and wreckage.
“So, here’s the thing.” I clear my throat, trying to come back to Earth. “I’m going to figure out who can help me take this home.” I point at the boxes. “That doesn’t mean you can go through them and pick what you can keep.”
“But aren’t they part of the collection we were building?” Her voice goes quiet, a little uncertain, like she wasn’t planning to say it out loud. “For when we started living together?”
“Maybe?” My throat gets tight, and I hate how unsure it sounds.
“That means we should split them.”
“Would you do that to them?” I point at the boxes. “Split the children when they like to be together?”
“That’s low, Wilder.”
I shrug, biting back a grin. “Sure, but you know I’m right.” Then I narrow my gaze at her, pretending to scold. “And you planned to give them to a stranger. That’s cruel.”
“He’s a friend.”
“Who’s this friend?” I ask, assuming she’s talking about me. Well, more like DeadStrings.
“You don’t know him,” she says quickly, too quickly. And the way her mouth twitches makes me suspicious. Like she’s hiding something behind her teeth. Like maybe she does know him. Like maybe she’s talking about her online friend.
Me.
“Do you know him?” I ask, dragging the question out like a dare.
“Obviously.”
“Well enough to call him now and ask him to take some of these albums?” I press, enjoying the shift in her eyes.
“I—”
“You don’t know his number.”
“No, but I can message him,” she replies, all defensive now.
“How?” I nudge.
“The . . . my computer.”
“You have an online friend?” I raise an eyebrow.
“It’s . . . yeah.” She crosses her arms like armor. “Are you judging me?”
I lift both hands like I’m surrendering. “I wouldn’t dare. I just . . . you’ve heard of stranger danger, right?”
“He’s not dangerous,” she says, and it’s too quick again.
“Sure, and I’m not famous.” I smirk, then glance at the records. “Tell you what. I’ll grab a box and return for another one later this week.”
“I can drive you if you want,” she offers, just like that.
“You have a car?” I ask, even though I remember her saying—during our online chat—that she didn’t.
“Yeah. After Dad died, I just . . . I don’t know.” Her voice changes like a breeze cutting through still air. “I realized that maybe I could use a car.”
Her eyes stay glued to the floor like they’re trying to say more than her mouth can handle. Like getting behind the wheel was more than just about convenience. It was freedom. Control. Maybe even the first time she felt like she could run without asking for permission.
And while her having a car would be wildly convenient—she could drive me back to my place—I can’t let that happen.
She’d see Otis. Put two and two together.
Realize that the guy she’s been messaging online for months is standing right here in her goddamn record shop, wearing this dumb fucking smirk like it’s nothing.
I’m not ready for that. Not today. We have to work through a lot before we get to that point.
I grab a box and hold it in front of me like a buffer.
“Listen, I appreciate the offer,” I say, careful to keep my tone light, like this isn’t going to sit with me all damn day. “But you’ve got work, and I have an appointment in an hour. Couldn’t wait around for you to close the shop.”
She nods, lips parting as if she’s going to protest, but she stops herself. Instead, she gives me this soft, crushed smile. Like she expected more—more time, more of me.
“Okay.”
That one word? It lands right in my chest, making me feel like a disappointment. It takes me a few seconds to remind myself that this isn’t about me. Her expectations shouldn’t affect me. My therapist is right. Boundaries are exhausting but necessary.
I clear my throat, shifting the box like it suddenly matters. “Why don’t I come back . . .” My eyes scan the shop for a distraction, anything to give me a beat to breathe. “Do you have a free day? I could swing by for another box. Maybe we could grab something to eat.”
Her brows lift. “To eat?”
“Unless you don’t want to.” I toss it out casually, but everything inside me coils, waiting.
“I . . . Lola will be at the shop working all day tomorrow.” She shrugs, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “And I don’t have classes.”
“You have classes?” I latch onto that thread like it’s safer than everything else boiling under the surface. “You’re going back to school, like me?”
She laughs softly. “No. I teach piano lessons.” Her gaze drifts toward the back room, like she can already hear the music in her head. “You’re going back to school?”
“I did. Got me a GED and took a few classes. Trying to figure out how to run a business. More like a non-profit, really.” I shrug, feeling stupidly exposed. “I volunteer. Give guitar lessons at a music store. I keep myself busy.”
Her head tilts, her mouth twitching like she’s deciding whether to be amused or impressed.
“I’m trying my best to, you know . . . learn to be a person.”
She smirks, and it lands somewhere low in my gut, knocking the air out of me.
“You’re a person, Wild.” She crosses her arms over her chest, her voice low, teasing. “You’re just learning to do mundane stuff.” She pauses. Her gaze flickers across my face. “I’m glad things are better.”
“They’re—” I exhale because they’re a lot better, but . . . I let the words fall out like they’ve been there all along. “I just need to get the girl.”
I wink, then turn around with the box, not giving her a chance to respond. If I do, I might say something else. Something fucking dangerous. Something I won’t be able to take back.
But I can feel her watching me walk away.
And maybe, just maybe, she feels it too—the low, building tension between us. The hum of something reckless waiting to snap.