Chapter Sixteen
· Adriana ·
We hadn’t talked about my panic attack. He’d just gotten me out the back door and we’d meandered a few blocks, sharing the champagne and laughing about the worst outfits we’d seen tonight. A record shop sounded like the perfect place to forget how I’d just cost him his award.
The only other person in the shop was the older man behind the counter who was sorting through a stack of CDs.
He looked up at the door chime and did a double take at the sight of us.
I wasn’t sure whether it was because of the outfits, or because he recognized Brooks, or because I was clutching a bottle of champagne to my chest.
He cleared his throat. “Anything I can help y’all with?”
“No, we’re just browsing, thanks,” Brooks said and turned to the nearest table; boxes upon boxes of records filled its surface.
It was the “new in store” section, sorted by date of arrival.
Perfect for regulars who came here to stock up their collections.
And a fun mix to pick through since it was all genres of music.
Brooks held up Jeff Buckley’s Grace. “My first album.” He started humming a few notes of a song I didn’t recognize. “ ‘Lover, You Should’ve Come Over.’ Life-changing.”
“Guess I have to get that because I don’t think I’ve heard the song.”
Brooks slid the album back in with the others. “I have like four or five of these at home. You can just have one.”
“Four or five?”
“The original, the legacy one, one pressed in the Netherlands, the Grundman remaster, and an unofficial test pressing, but that’s more of a collector’s item.”
“God, you’re hot.” The words were out before I could think them through.
“If you think me listing my record collection by heart is hot, I have a good feeling about this.” He flicked his finger back and forth between us. “What was your first album?”
“I don’t wanna say.”
“I showed you mine.”
“Yours is iconic. I listened to all my mom’s country mix CDs but the first album I bought myself? That I saved my hard-earned pocket money for?”
“Come on, spill.” He nudged me with his elbow.
“The Hannah Montana movie soundtrack.”
He blinked. “Miley Cyrus?”
“No, no, not Miley. Not even just Hannah Montana. Very specifically the Hannah Montana movie soundtrack. I put ‘Hoedown Throwdown’ on repeat and learned the dance and everything.”
“That’s actually adorable. You were a pop star in training.” He winked at me and set off a flurry in my chest.
We shuffled through a few more albums, telling each other stories of the music that accompanied us through our lives.
Some more heartfelt (the Celine Dion song that played at his grandma’s funeral) and some not so much (the Jonas Brothers album that played when my first boyfriend tried to open my bra, failed, and started crying).
“Oh my god. I got it.” I dropped my forehead on the stack of vinyls in front of me.
“Eric Carmen?” Brooks asked, confused.
“Yes, no. Wait.” I turned until I found a sign that pointed me toward the back room for movie soundtracks. Pulling Brooks along, I ducked through a narrow doorway and scanned the genre cards above the tables, only to be distracted by the display on the walls.
Guitars. Acoustic, electric, bass, children’s size, some older, some newer.
The entire room was lined with guitars. And a few stray ukuleles.
Even as I stepped farther into the room and told myself to aim for the soundtrack vinyls, my attention kept skipping back to a sage-green Fender on the wall.
Without inspecting the entire inventory in detail, I still knew it wasn’t the most expensive guitar in the shop.
It even had a two-inch scratch in its gloss.
But it was the most beautiful instrument I’d seen in a long time.
“Movie soundtracks?” Brooks asked and wrapped his arms around my waist from behind as I started to flip through the records in front of me.
“Uhm…I’ll show you. One second.” I absentmindedly shuffled through the As, Bs and Cs, my gaze developing a will of its own, drawn to the Fender like a moth to a flame.
I forced myself to stay focused on the albums. And lo and behold, found the one I was looking for. Johnny and Baby standing in front of each other on the Dirty Dancing soundtrack. Not unlike how Brooks was standing behind me, which just made the whole thing funnier.
“Remind you of someone?” I asked. “It’s been driving me nuts all night.”
He chuckled. “We’re in Dirty Dancing costumes.”
“Yep. And with my hair pinned up like this…Pretty good match.”
“Addie baby.”
He nipped at my ear, and I giggled, unable to contain the silliness.
“Can we get it? Just as a keepsake.”
“It can be more than a keepsake. I won’t judge you for listening to ‘Time of My Life.’ ” He took the record from me and tucked it in under his arm. “Now, are we going to ask for the green Fender you’re pretending not to look at, or do you want me to lift you up over my head first?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I said even as a grin started pulling at my lips. I was such a bad liar.
“Uh-huh. Wait here.” Brooks set the bottle of champagne and the soundtrack down on the floor and took a few long strides to the front room. When he came back a moment later, the cashier was following behind him with a stepladder.
“We have a small break room if you want to sit down and try it,” the guy offered as he handed me the instrument. Okay, he definitely recognized Brooks. I doubted just anyone would be offered the break room. But I wasn’t looking a gift horse in the mouth.
The room wasn’t much more than a glorified closet.
No windows, walls covered in old music posters, and just large enough to fit two armchairs.
It didn’t matter though. The smooth wood had already warmed in my palm when I sat down to admire the guitar.
It didn’t look like it had been played a lot.
Except for the jagged scratch down its front, it was in pristine condition.
I ran my fingertip down the line where the dark wood came through the green varnish.
“We can get that fixed,” Brooks said.
“No,” I breathed, “I like it. It’s just the surface. She’s still going to sound amazing. Just adds character.”
I propped it up on my lap and fiddled with the pegs until it sounded somewhat tuned.
Enough to pluck a few chords. The guitar had an incredibly clear voice.
It wasn’t too deep, the bass response fairly minimal.
No wonder it hung in this shop almost as good as new.
This wasn’t the kind of guitar a country musician would go for. And I loved it even more for it.
“I’m sorry, this may be highly unprofessional, but could I ask you to sign this?”
I smirked down at the guitar, waiting for Brooks to put on his big fan-encounter smile and the voice that went with it. He gave people the country legend they were hoping to see.
Instead, he cleared his throat, and when I looked up, the cashier held my record in his hands alongside a gold Sharpie. I was smiling back at me, my round twenty-one-year-old baby face covering almost every square inch of the paper sleeve. In the corner, the title and my name were gold embossed.
Now/Here
Adriana
“Me?” My voice came out breathy.
“Your album is really hard to come by these days, which is a shame, but I collect rare albums. You can even make it out to me. I won’t be reselling this.”
“I wasn’t aware that anyone still had this. Wow. I mean, sure. What’s your name?”
“Oscar,” he supplied and waited until I’d scribbled his name before he continued, “and I have people in every week asking for it. A lot of girls, young women, probably your age, mostly. But people hang on to it. It doesn’t come through a lot.”
“Oh, huh…” I wasn’t sure what to do with that information.
It was nice to know that I hadn’t been completely forgotten, but I didn’t even own that album.
Marble Audio did. Every single song on it, and every single song I’d already recorded for my second album.
And someday I’d have to talk to a lawyer about the stupid contract I’d signed when I’d been way too young, because I was pretty sure that they’d own any second album I put forward, even if they weren’t the label producing it.
“We’ll take the Fender and Dirty Dancing,” Brooks said, saving me from having to figure out a response. “Do you have a case for the guitar?”
“Yes, of course. We also have some really nice straps. I’m happy to throw one in for free for you guys.”
“That’s okay,” I said, running my fingers along the braided leather one attached to the guitar, “I like this one.”
A few minutes later we were in the back of a cab. We’d left the champagne with Oscar. Brooks kept the thin plastic bag with the soundtrack in it, and I’d insisted on holding on to my new baby.
“How are you feeling?” Brooks asked quietly as we zipped across town.
“I don’t know. Happy. Confused. Surprised. And very grateful. I don’t expect you to buy me gifts, you know?”
“I know. I wanted to. It matches your ring.”
“Thank you.”
He offered me his hand and I placed my palm in his.
His thumb slowly curved around my knuckles, back and forth, and the repetitiveness of that small touch helped to soothe my nerves after an evening full of unexpected encounters.
By the time the car stopped in front of Brooks’s house, I was in a comfy lull of streetlights and hand-holding and the weight of a beautiful instrument on my lap.
Brooks carried the guitar inside and set it down by the front door. “Let’s get you to bed.”
“I’m not tired,” I protested, “I want to play. I want to tune her and polish her up.”
“Really? Because I thought I’d have to carry you and the guitar from the car.”