29. No Place For Me
N aomi is out of town visiting her mom and sisters in Macon. Mateo is working at the diner each morning and pulling doubles at Burkhart’s all weekend. I tried making plans with both, but no luck.
That’s fine, probably for the best. I’m not going out.
No Burkhart’s, no Anvil, no Steamworks. No cruising or hookups either, no matter what opportunities present themselves.
This weekend will be a quiet time devoted to and for myself.
I’m staying in and finally taking control—proof that I still can.
I shave and get dressed. I tell myself I need to get out of the apartment and get some fresh air that doesn’t involve being in the sun or cleaning someone else’s stuff.
I’ll go somewhere familiar, somewhere I’ll enjoy myself and won’t have to explain anything to anyone, so I head to B-Side Records.
Maybe I’ll sort the new arrivals or alphabetize the jazz section again—something slow and simple.
It’s not exciting. Not glamorous. But it’s mine.
The bell above the door gives its usual half-hearted jingle as I enter. The air smells like dust and sleeves of old plastic. It’s cool and cozy, and jazz plays softly from the back speakers—Coltrane, probably. Something wistful and low because it knows exactly where my head is right now.
I nod to Eddie at the register. “Just here to hang. You good? ”
“Yeah, man,” he says. “No rush. Just got a weird rush earlier—Saturday tourists from Marietta, I think,” he chuckles. “Place just cleared out again.”
“They buy anything?”
“Ah, hell no,” Eddie laughs again. “You know them cats don’t own no turntable.”
I smile and nod in agreement. Eddie has owned the place for decades, long before the big chains like Peaches Records or Camelot Music took over the malls.
B-Side Records is an expansive space with large factory windows and high ceilings with exposed ironwork.
It was once part of an auto assembly factory.
Now, it’s filled with vinyl and tapes and even features a few recording studio booths in the back for artists.
Serious audiophiles come to see Eddie, as do recovering young men seeking great tunes to help them get their lives back on track.
Yeah. This is precisely what I need today. Not a distraction—balance.
I move toward the back wall in the corner, to the section where Eddie stashes the imports and rarities.
I like it there. It’s quiet and tucked away.
Fingers trail across spines already memorized—not reading, just scanning—letting the movement keep my hands busy while I decide where to start.
The jazz section calls next. There’s no rush.
The whole day lies ahead to relax and do as I please.
The bell jingles again.
A casual glance—probably just another regular to trade or tap into Eddie’s knowledge and experience. Maybe it’s someone I know. But then I see them, and freeze.
Kevin walks in, and he’s not alone.
Josh enters just behind him, laughing about something and playfully elbowing Kevin.
Kevin smiles—wide, easy, the kind of smile I haven’t seen since that night in Bayview.
They move together comfortably as if it’s routine.
Josh leans in to whisper something, and Kevin shakes his head, still grinning.
There’s no tension. No weight. Just two people who fit.
I don’t move. I’m standing too exposed where I am, a Coltrane reissue in one hand, and my breath caught somewhere between my ribs. But they haven’t seen me yet.
Kevin pulls an album from the bin and leans forward to say something. Josh smiles at whatever it is, his whole body in it. Their heads are closer than I’ve ever seen them. And then they kiss.
When I see it, my heart lurches with a spike of adrenaline.
My first instinct is to walk up and say something.
Anything. You lied to me. You promised to meet me, but didn’t show up.
You kissed me and said you remembered. Part of me wants to look Josh in the eye and ask him what he thought would happen after calling me at work like that.
My feet even take a step forward, but I stop. Confronting them wouldn’t reclaim anything. I was never the one.
That’s when the music changes. The low hum of whatever was playing fades into a soft, sorrowful trumpet line. I recognize it immediately. Chet Baker.
“ I’m a fool to want you… ”
My eyes shut. Of all the fucking songs.
“ To want a love that can’t be true… ”
When I open them again, Kevin’s gaze is drifting toward the back, scanning the bins—and then it happens. His eyes land on me.
We lock gazes and hold them for a second, maybe less. I expect Kevin’s eyes to soften. Maybe a half-smile or at least a nod, a signal that something’s still there. Anything .
Instead, he turns away. The motion is deliberate and clean, like a period at the end of a sentence.
He places a hand gently on Josh’s back. It’s not a casual touch.
It’s a gesture of care—fingers resting on Josh’s lower back, below his shoulder blades, and above his waist. Kevin is rubbing small circles of comfort, caressing him, as he leans in to whisper something only Josh should hear.
Then Kevin laughs, extends his arm around Josh’s hips, and leads him farther down the aisle.
Like I was never here.
Standing there motionless, the air inside me stills. Kevin saw me. He knows I’m here.
“ I’m a fool to hold you… ”
The blood pounding in my ears drowns out everything else. The shop shrinks around me. Chet croons through the speakers, and everything he sings is true.
I place the Coltrane record back on the shelf, careful not to let it slip out of my shaking hands. This was my place. My escape. My little world of secondhand noise and alphabetized meaning. But now Kevin’s here, too—smiling, relaxed, at home in it. And he brought Josh into it.
I walk out wordless. No bell. No goodbye to Eddie. Just the door swinging closed behind me, sealing the scene like the end of a film I never wanted to watch.
“ Time and time again, I said I’d leave you… ”
But I didn’t. I came back. But now I know.
I’m not a secret anymore. I’m the ghost. And ghosts don’t belong in the daylight.