Chapter Four
Incoming Call: “Father” of the year
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“Father” of the year popped up in bold letters. Of course.
He only ever called in the mornings when he was either worried or disappointed, and there had never been much difference between the two.
She let it ring twice more, her heart already doing that tight, small-animal flutter in her chest, then snatched it up before it could go to voicemail.
“Hi,” she said, already bracing.
“Samyah.”
No hello, no how are you. Just her name, heavy and sharp. She closed her eyes and leaned back against the counter.
“Yeah. Hey, Dad.”
“I tried calling last week.”
“I know. I’ve just been–work’s been busy.”
“It’s always busy,” he said, not angry yet, which somehow felt worse. His voice carried that tired, thin disapproval that made her shoulders tense. “You never have time anymore.”
She swallowed, the kettle clicking off behind her. It was rich of him to say, honestly. It seemed as though he hadn't had time for her since the day she was born.
“I texted you.” She offered.
“A text isn’t the same as calling your father.”
There it was, the guilt, familiar and immediate.
She pinched the bridge of her nose and shifted her weight against the counter.
Outside the kitchen window, Seattle was still wrapped in a gray morning haze, the sky looking like damp cotton pressed low over the buildings.
It was mid summer and the weather was finally warming up. Myah’s favorite time of the year.
“I’m sorry,” she said automatically.
She didn't feel like she should have to apologize. Their last three dinners had been canceled by her father and he never once really apologized for it.
He started in on the usual things: how she should visit more, how she worked too much, how she didn't work enough, how moving to the city had “changed her.” Somehow, it looped back–like it always did–to the old argument that she should’ve stayed closer to home, should’ve picked something more stable, should’ve listened.
Should’ve.
Should’ve.
Should’ve.
Each one pressed into her like a bruise.
“I’m doing fine,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “I pay my rent. I’m not struggling.”
“That’s not the point, Samyah. You don’t think long-term. You never have. You just chase whatever feels good in the moment.”
That one hit harder than the rest, because he didn’t even know. He didn’t know how carefully she budgeted groceries, how she skipped takeout to save money, how she lay awake some nights calculating emergency funds and worst-case scenarios. He didn’t know how hard she tried.
“You don’t even know what I do all day,” she said, sharper than she meant to.
“I know enough.”
Her chest tightened. “That’s not fair.”
“You’re being defensive.”
“Because you’re being–” She stopped herself, breathing in slowly through her nose. “Because you’re not listening.”
Silence stretched between them, thick and ugly. Then he sighed. “You always take things so personally. I’m just trying to help you grow up.”
Something inside her snapped.
“I’m twenty-four. I am grown up,” she said, her voice shaking now. “I moved across the country by myself. I support myself. I handle my own stuff. You don’t get to talk to me like I’m fifteen.”
“Oh, don’t start this again–”
“I have to go,” she said suddenly.
“What–”
“I have to go. I’m busy.”
“You just said it was your day off.”
She hated that he caught that. “Bye, Dad.”
She hung up before he could respond and she noticed that her hands were trembling by the time the screen went dark.
The kitchen suddenly felt too small and too loud, full of everything she hadn’t said. She stared at the phone like it might start yelling at her again and pressed her palms into the counter, forcing herself to breathe.
Okay. Spiraling at nine in the morning is not the vibe. She wasn’t going to waste her day off feeling like a scolded teenager. She needed something grounding. Something that felt like hers.
Her gaze drifted to the milk crate beside the couch, full of records, the corners worn and sleeves softened from use. Music had always been the one thing that made the world quieter and more manageable.
Her dad had never really understood that part. He thought it was a hobby, a phase. She knew it was oxygen.
Her eyes caught on the empty space she’d left in the crate last week, a little gap waiting to be filled.
A new record. Yeah, that would help.
She’d walk to the shop, browse for a while, maybe find something weird and old and dusty and perfect. Retail therapy, but make it vinyl.
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.