Chapter Twenty
Ellis stood behind the counter with his hands resting flat on the wood, fingertips tracing the small gouge near the register that he’d never fixed.
It’s been a year since Clyde passed and the store still smelled the same. Dust and cardboard and coffee. Except now it was Issaky’s coffee, burned just a little because he always forgot about it when customers started talking to him.
The late afternoon light came in slanted through the front windows, catching on floating particles and turning them briefly golden before they disappeared again.
A record played low behind the counter, something warm and familiar, the kind of album Ellis no longer needed to check the sleeve for.
He’d stopped wearing his headphones in the store.
Not because he had changed, but because he no longer felt like he had to hide behind the loud voices of the Ramones.
He knew this place now in a way he hadn’t before. Not just as work or as a responsibility, but as something that held him back when he leaned too far, something that met his weight instead of letting him fall.
Issaky was a few feet away, crouched beside one of the lower shelves, reorganizing a bin that had already been organized earlier that day.
He did that sometimes, finding comfort in small, repetitive acts, especially when the store was quiet.
He wore a soft gray sweater with the sleeves pushed up and jeans faded at the knees.
His locs fell into his face as he leaned forward, and every so often he blew out an impatient breath and shoved it back again.
Ellis watched him without meaning to. There had been a time when simply seeing Issaky like this–real, solid, and close–would have made something in Ellis's chest ache with terror.
The fear of Issaky changing and ruining things had once been so loud it drowned out everything else.
Now it was quieter. Still there, still real, but no longer the only voice in the room.
Ellis had come to love Issaky, and the changes he brought with him.
Issaky glanced up and caught him staring but Ellis didn’t look away.
Issaky smiled, small and private, the kind meant only for him. He tapped the edge of the shelf twice in a silent I see you, then went back to what he was doing.
Ellis let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
Behind the counter, the register chimed softly as he opened it to straighten the bills.
His movements were unhurried. He didn’t feel like he was waiting for something bad to happen.
He didn’t feel like the ground was going to vanish if he stopped paying attention for even a second.
That alone still felt miraculous.
The front door opened, bell chiming, and Ellis glanced up automatically.
A couple wandered in, college kids, maybe, laughing too loudly, trailing the warm breeze of outside air behind them.
Ellis greeted them easily, voice steady, the words practiced but genuine.
He pointed them toward the used rock section when they asked, and Issaky stood, brushing dust from his palms before drifting back toward the counter.
They moved around each other with the ease of people who shared space every day. Which they did.
The apartment above the laundromat wasn’t big.
The floors creaked, the windows rattled when buses went by, and the radiators hissed like they were always about to give up entirely.
But it was theirs. Ellis's books filled one wall. Issaky’s plants crowded every windowsill, stubbornly alive despite the lack of consistent sunlight.
Their toothbrushes leaned together in the chipped ceramic cup by the sink.
Ellis still caught himself sometimes, standing in the doorway at night, watching Issaky asleep in their bed, chest rising and falling slow and steady, and thinking: This is real. This is happening.
Not in disbelief anymore, but in gratitude.
After the customers left, the store settled back into its low hum. Issaky leaned against the counter beside him, hip bumping lightly into Ellis's. The contact was casual and familiar. Ellis shifted closer without thinking, shoulder brushing Issaky’s arm.
“You okay?” Issaky asked quietly.
Ellis nodded. “Yeah.” And he meant it.
There had been a time when okay felt like a lie he told so other people would stop asking questions. Now it was a place he could stand without bracing himself.
Issaky reached for his coffee and grimaced. “Have you decided yet if you’re going to call your mom back?”
Ellis sighed. “No.”
“That’s okay,” Issaky said softly. “You don't have to decide right now.”
Ellis smiled gently as Issaky leaned in and kissed his temple before making his way to the backroom.
Ellis's mother had gotten sober in the last year and was still trying to make amends with him.
It was hard, especially after all the things she had said to him, but he knew he would forgive her eventually.
Ellis was thankful that Issaky was quick to remind him that he wasn't obligated though. That seemed to help.
He glanced around the store again, taking it in.
The shelves were fuller than they’d been a year ago.
The listening station hummed softly in the corner.
A flyer for an upcoming local show was taped crookedly to the wall near the door, right next to a handwritten sign advertising Thursday Taco Runs–Store closed until 3p.
Jay’s Taco Truck had become a ritual. Every Thursday, rain or shine, they closed the store together and walked the four blocks down Roberts.
Jay greeted them by name now, already reaching for tortillas when he saw them coming.
They sat on the curb or leaned against the brick wall across the street, eating with their fingers, laughing, talking about nothing and everything.
It was ordinary. Ellis had learned that ordinary didn’t mean empty.
Sometimes, in quieter moments, his mind still drifted backward.
To his mother’s apartment, smelling like old wine and something sour beneath it.
To the way her voice slurred his name when she answered the phone, or didn’t answer at all.
To the heaviness that settled in his chest when he checked his messages and saw her number, again.
She was still flawed. She still drank every once in a while. Still promised things she didn’t follow through on. Still loved him in a way that felt tangled and sharp-edged and exhausting. But Ellis had stopped trying to fix her, and that had been the hardest lesson.
He still showed up when he could. Still left groceries by her door sometimes instead of knocking, when he didn’t have the energy to see her that day. He loved her without letting her pull him under with her.
It wasn’t forgiveness. His father was still gone. Clyde was still gone.
There were days–quiet days, days like this–when the absence felt louder than ever. When something small would catch in his throat, like the way the light hit the counter just right, or the sound of a song Clyde used to hum while balancing receipts.
Grief didn’t leave. It changed shape. Ellis had learned to carry it without letting it define the edges of everything else.
He rested his palms on the counter again, grounding himself in the present.
The wood was warm beneath his hands, worn smooth by years of use.
The register hummed softly. Ellis was so caught up in his mind he didn't notice Issaky come out of the back and stand next to him. Issaky’s shoulder pressed into his, making Ellis jump slightly.
Issaky reached for his hand without looking, their fingers threading together easily. Ellis squeezed back, anchoring himself in the weight of it, the reality of it.
There was a time when Ellis hadn’t believed he would ever feel like this–settled, connected, whole enough to breathe without counting every inhale. He had believed that safety was temporary, that love always came with an expiration date.
He had been wrong. Not because the world had become gentle, but because he had learned how to build gentleness where he could.
The bell over the door chimed again, and Ellis lifted his head, already smiling.
Life moved forward. And this–this quiet, shared, ordinary life–was enough.