Chapter 17 #2
“Don’t worry,” I whisper, leaning just slightly closer. “Just ask. He’s not going to bite.”
She hesitates for a second but steps up to the counter, where a grizzled man in his late fifties is sitting, carefully restringing a guitar.
“Um, excuse me,” she begins, her voice a bit shaky.
The man looks up, his eyes crinkling in a friendly smile. “What can I do for you, miss?”
“I, uh, I need a set of guitar strings,” she says, glancing at the neatly arranged packs behind the counter. “Phosphor bronze. Light gauge”
The man nods approvingly. “Good choice. D’Addario makes a solid set, or Martin if you like a little extra warmth. Got a preference?”
She looks over her shoulder at me, and I give her a slight nod, letting her decide.
And just like that, Khalee is here, in a music store, picking out her own strings, and for some reason, I think this might be one of my favorite things I’ve ever seen.
“D’Addario, please,” she says, her voice more confident now.
As the man turns to fetch the strings, I decide this is the perfect time to be an idiot.
I move behind him and start making exaggerated faces at Khalee, crossing my eyes, puffing out my cheeks, sticking my tongue out like some deranged cartoon character.
At the beginning, she tries to ignore me. She really does. But I see it, first, the tiny twitch of her lips, then, the way her shoulders stiffen like she’s physically fighting the urge to react.
So, naturally, I take it up a notch.
When the man starts fiddling with the strings, I mimic his every move, pretending to tinker with an imaginary guitar, squinting in deep concentration like I’m about to invent a new genre of music.
That’s when she loses it.
A snort explodes from her before she can stop it, and she immediately slaps a hand over her mouth, her cheeks turning a charming shade of oh-shit-pink.
The man turns back, strings in hand, giving her a look. “You alright there?”
Khalee clears her throat, her entire body vibrating with suppressed laughter. “Uh, yeah, sorry. Just… choked on my own spit.”
I choke on my spit, trying not to laugh.
The man chuckles, shaking his head. “Happens to the best of us. You sure you’re alright?”
She nods, desperately trying to compose herself. “Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks.”
But I can still see it, the way her chest trembles slightly from trying so hard not to break again.
She takes a breath, calming down enough to form actual words. “Actually, I was wondering if you could help me with something. My guitar needs new strings and tuning. I don’t really know how to do it properly.”
I smirk, folding my arms. Yeah, no shit.
She pointedly ignores me, which is rude, considering I’m the one making this shopping trip entertaining.
The man’s eyes light up, clearly pleased. “Of course, I can help with that. Let’s take a look.”
Khalee hands him the guitar, and he examines it with the kind of care usually reserved for priceless artifacts or delicious whiskey.
“It’s a good piece,” he says, running his fingers along the neck. “With these new strings, it’ll sound beautiful.”
Khalee watches him like a student absorbing ancient wisdom, her brows knitting together in deep concentration, lips slightly parted as she follows his every move.
It’s adorable. The level of focus she’s giving this moment is borderline intense, and honestly?
I find myself staring at her more than the damn guitar.
She’s too cute for her own good.
But as much as I enjoy this moment of seriousness, I physically cannot resist the opportunity to cause trouble.
So, naturally, while the man is busy restringing the guitar, I step up behind him and resume my highly important mission: being an absolute menace.
I start small, a few exaggerated expressions, crossing my eyes, puffing out my cheeks.
Khalee shoots me a warning glare. But I don’t care.
I upped the stakes.
Now, I’m dancing. Full-body wiggles, over-the-top jazz hands, and a very questionable attempt at the moonwalk.
Khalee’s lips press together in a tight line. She’s trying so hard to hold it in.
But she fails.
A giggle escapes before she can stop it, and she immediately slaps both hands over her mouth, again, looking like she’s fighting for her life and those same hands are the only ones able to save her from this embarrassing situation.
The man stops mid-string change and looks at her, concern creeping into his face. “You sure you’re alright?”
Khalee nods way too fast. “Yeah, sorry. Just… having one of those days, I guess.”
He eyes her like she’s two seconds away from losing it completely, then shrugs and goes back to work.
Meanwhile, I’m having the time of my afterlife.
Watching her struggle to keep a straight face? Elite entertainment.
But then, just as I’m about to up the ante, her expression shifts.
The laughter fades.
Her body goes still.
Her eyes fix on something across the room, and suddenly, she’s not paying attention to me anymore.
I frown, following her gaze, and everything inside me stops.
In a quiet corner of the shop, hanging on the wall like it belongs there, is a dark, love-worn guitar.
Familiar. Too familiar.
And just like that, the moment is no longer funny.
The warmth, the teasing, the lightness of moments before, gone.
I can see it in her eyes, the silent question forming before she even looks at me. Do you see it?
I do.
I see everything.
I can’t move. Can’t speak. The weight of recognition crashes over me, memories unraveling in my mind, sharp and unforgiving.
That guitar… I know it. It’s a Guild OM-260CE, black.
I know the feel of it beneath my hands. The way it fits against my body, the sound of its strings beneath my fingertips. The way it once grounded me when nothing else could.
Khalee takes a step forward, drawn to it like a force she doesn’t understand.
Her hand hovers just above the strings, hesitant, like she’s afraid touching it will confirm what she already suspects.
“Excuse me,” she says, her voice quieter now, almost careful. “That guitar… can you tell me where it came from?”
The shopkeeper looks up from his work in Khalee’s guitar, following her gaze. The moment his eyes land on the instrument, something shifts in his expression. A sigh leaves him as he sets down the guitar in his hands and crosses over to her.
“Ah, that one,” he says, voice tinged with something that sounds almost like resignation. “That guitar was left here by a young man a couple of years ago. He never came back to claim it.”
Khalee frowns. A slow inhale. I can see the thoughts racing behind her eyes.
“How long ago?” she asks, her tone steady but careful. “And why did he leave it?”
The man hesitates, just for a second. But it’s enough. He’s deciding how much to say.
“I think it’s close to five years now,” he finally answers, rubbing a hand over his jaw.
“He was in a bad way. You could see it in his eyes. He wasn’t here for the music, you know?
He needed money, fast. It was clear he was struggling with something, drugs, maybe.
A real shame, too, because I could tell he was a good man, deep down. Just… lost.”
The words hit like a knife.
I feel them in my chest, slicing through the carefully built walls inside me, cutting straight to the truth.
A truth that I don’t want to remember.
Khalee’s gaze snaps to mine, searching, pleading for confirmation.
I can’t speak.
I don’t have to.
She sees it all on my face, the raw, brutal recognition. The truth neither of us wants to say out loud.
Still, she presses forward, her voice softer now, but unshakable.
“Do you remember anything about him?” she asks, her fingers tightening around my guitar’s strap, like she’s bracing herself. “What did he look like? What was his name?”
The shopkeeper exhales, his brow furrowing as if pulling at a memory he doesn’t even realize is standing right next to him.
I already know what he’s going to say.
And yet, I don’t want to hear it.
The shopkeeper scratches his head, his brow knitting together as he tries to recall.
“He was tall. Lanky. Dark blond hair, kind of wild-looking.” His voice is thoughtful, distant, as if he’s dragging the memory out of some deep corner of his mind. “And those eyes… they were something else. A bit haunted, you could say.”
My stomach clenches.
I know exactly what he’s describing.
Because he’s describing me.
“As for his name… I’m sorry, I don’t remember.” He shakes his head, but there’s something sincere in his regret. “But I do remember the way he looked at that guitar before he left it. Like it was the last piece of his soul, you know? Broke my heart to see it.”
Khalee swallows hard. I see the way her fingers twitch, like she wants to reach for me but doesn’t know how.
She knows.
I feel it in her, in the way she lingers by the guitar, as if trying to stitch together the pieces of something she wasn’t supposed to find or know about. But she knows because she knew me.
“Did he say anything else?” Her voice is quiet now, steady but heavy. “Anything about where he was going? What was he dealing with?”
The man sighs, rubbing his fingers together absentmindedly.
“Not much. Just that he needed to take care of some things.” His tone shifts, something almost wistful in it. “Promised he’d be back for it, but…”
He trails off, but we all know how the sentence ends.
But he never came back.
Because he couldn’t.
The weight of the moment crushes me.
This was mine.
This was me.
This was a part of my life before everything fell apart, before I became what I am now.
I feel frozen, not just in body but in mind.
The realization hits like a sledgehammer, and suddenly, the memories I’ve spent so long searching for are too close.
Too sharp.
Too painful.
My brain brakes.
And then, like a floodgate bursting open, a memory slams into me.
Vivid.
Undeniable.
Real.
I’m standing in the dim light of the music shop, clutching my guitar like it’s the last piece of my soul because it was.
The guy behind the counter, old and tired-looking, scratches his balding head and sighs. “You sure about this, kid?”
I nod, my jaw tight, my heart pounding like it’s about to break free of my chest. “Yeah,” I say, my voice barely audible. “Just… just take care of it, alright? I’ll be back for it. I swear.”
He doesn’t look convinced, but he takes it anyway, handling it with more care than I expected.
My guitar.
My lifeline.
The one thing that ever felt truly mine.
But selling it it’s the only way to solve the mess I’m in.
The mess.
God, why the fuck didn’t I stop selling the fucking drugs?
The guys I sold to turned on me.
They robbed me, beat the crap out of me in some filthy alley, and left me bleeding and humiliated.
It wasn’t just random, though.
No, it was revenge.
I should’ve killed that motherfucker instead of just punching him a few days earlier.
But I don’t remember why.
Why was I selling drugs?
Why did I punched said motherfucker?
Perhaps it was something trivial, or maybe it wasn’t; the memory is hazy, fragmented, like trying to piece together shards of broken glass.
What I do remember is the fear.
Not for myself, but for what would happen if I didn’t come up with the money to replace what they stole. The people I worked for weren’t exactly forgiving. So, I did the only thing I could think of. I sold the guitar, told myself it was just temporary.
Promised myself I’d come back for it.
But I never did.
Because I died before I had the chance.
The weight of it all crashes down on me, and I feel like I’m suffocating, even though I don’t need to breathe.
The realization that I never got to keep my promise, that the one thing that mattered most was ripped away from me… It’s almost too much to bear.
And yet, amidst all the pain and regret, there’s something else.
A flicker of anger.
At them, at myself, at the universe for letting it all go so wrong.
“You okay?” Khalee mouths cutting through the memory and pulling me back to the present.
She’s standing in the same spot, near the shop owner, watching me, those eyes seeing straight through me, catching onto more than I’m ready to admit.
I don’t bother forcing a smile, I’m too pissed for that.
“Yeah,” I say, my voice clipped, edged with something I don’t have the patience to smooth over. “Just… remembering something.”
And in that moment, she knew, because the concern in her gaze didn’t waver.
It lingered.