35. The Letter
T he bell jingles as the door swings open—half of me hoping Eddie’s here, half hoping he’s not.
It’s a bright, cracked sound that always feels too cheerful for a place full of traded and discarded things.
Inside, the air smells like dust, vinyl, and something warmer—burnt coffee maybe, or Eddie’s clove cigarettes.
Eddie glances up from behind the counter, adjusting his glasses. “Look what the cat dragged back. Didn’t think I’d see you until Saturday.”
“I need a favor,” I say, not wasting any time and glancing around to ensure no one is here. It’s midday in the middle of the week, so it’s just the two of us.
He raises an eyebrow. “You don’t need a job, do you? Cause I’ve already filled my quota of moody part-timers this decade.”
A quick shake of the head answers him. “Nothing like that. I only need an address if you have it.”
He watches me for a moment, then leans back in his chair. “You asking as Daniel, my vinyl-loving customer, or Daniel, a heartbroken twenty-something who’s about to do something stupid he’ll regret?”
A chuckle slips out to keep things light. “Both, but it’s not that bad. ”
He sighs and rolls his chair over to the inventory cabinet. “Name?”
“Kevin Summers.”
There’s a pause—just long enough to make me wonder if this is a terrible idea.
“Special orders?”
“Yeah.” It’s the only reason he might have the address.
Eddie fingers his way past the R’s and into the S’s. “Yep. Here we go. A month ago. George Benson’s Breezin’ . Damn classic—can’t keep used ones in stock. I remember him now. Tall, quiet. Kinda polite.”
“That’s him.”
“Yeah,” Eddie adds. “Had a conversation about ‘This Masquerade.’ The guy knew the track number, length, everything. Said it had the best piano interlude ever written and performed.”
The track was familiar, and I knew its lyrics—Kevin played it for me back when we worked together. On slow nights before closing, we’d slip up to the stereo showroom, and he’d play his favorites for me.
‘ Listen to how it pulls back instead of going flashy. It breathes ,’ Kevin told me, explaining how the pianist used space and restraint.
He talked about the modulations and key changes, explaining how the key subtly shifts to create emotional tension.
‘ That shift into the chorus? That’s not just a mood change—it’s harmonic.
It’s a modulation that lets the melody ache a little deeper . ’
‘ Real jazz stuff mirroring emotional distance ,’ he’d say. ‘ Built to linger .’
I didn’t understand it fully at the time. I just knew that when we sat there in the high-end audio room, with the lights dimmed low and George Benson’s voice drifting out of the speakers, it felt like something real was being said—and not just by the music .
Maybe the special order was for Kevin to play it for Josh, to say the same things with the same passion. Perhaps it was for himself to remember me. It doesn’t matter now—not anymore.
Eddie scribbles an address on a small pad. “You didn’t get this from me.”
I nod and take the slip. “Thanks.”
“Don’t do anything stupid.”
~
The kitchen table sits quiet, a pen and pad resting in front of me—unfinished, unsigned. The light outside fades, but I sit still, as if I move too soon, the words will scatter. I read the letter once, then again. The handwriting is neat and deliberate.
Kevin,
I’m not sure what I expect this to do. I just know I need to say it.
That night changed me. Not in the way I always feared it would, but in a way I never understood until now.
You were the first person who really saw me, not who I was trying to be, but who I was underneath. That terrified me, and I ran.
For a long time, I blamed you for everything that followed—for what I felt, what I didn’t, and what came after with Stacy. But none of that was your fault. You didn’t ruin me. You opened a door. I was the one who closed it. I’m sorry I ran.
I’m not asking anything of you. I just want to say thank you for letting me be myself for the first time. For one night. I think I’ve been trying to get back to that person ever since .
You’ve built something good with Josh. Something real. I hope I will someday, too.
—Daniel
The letter folds slowly in my fingers, and I slip it into an envelope that remains unsealed—for now, for reasons not quite clear. Tomorrow, I’ll deliver it. Not because I want something. Because it’s time.
~
It’s not a grand gesture. It’s more like a quiet step—a follow-through. No expectations. Just the quiet urge to stop carrying it.
The neighborhood smells like jasmine and grill smoke, the kind of summer evening where the air carries a stillness that makes you second-guess everything. I park a block away and stroll to the house number. I don’t want to startle anyone, or to seem like I’m here for a fight—just the opposite.
The envelope’s in my hand, bent slightly from how tightly I’ve been gripping it. I take a breath, then another. I almost turn around, but I’m at the door.
The house is quiet. There’s a light on in the front room. I knock, and after a moment, there are footsteps. Then the door opens—but it’s not Kevin.
Josh blinks at me. His blond hair is damp, and his feet are bare. He’s wearing a T-shirt and shorts, comfortable and composed, more so than I would be in the same circumstance, but there’s hesitation in his eyes. He looks like he’s bracing for something he already half knows .
“Daniel?”
I nod. “Hi. Sorry. I just wanted—Kevin’s not home, is he?”
He shakes his head slowly. “He’s got class tonight. He’ll be home in a couple of hours. Why are you here?”
“Right,” I say, my voice catching on the word. I begin to raise my hand, but stop. “Would you—do mind if I come in? Just for a minute. I want to give him something, but I can leave it with you.”
Josh studies me. I can tell he’s debating whether to slam the door in my face out of surprise and anger or let me in out of curiosity. Then he steps aside. “Sure.”
The house feels newly lived in, as if the furniture is there, but nothing has settled in. There’s a record shelf against one wall—nothing playing. A faint citrus scent lingers in the air. Josh leads into the living room, and I trail after. He gestures toward the couch but doesn’t sit.
I remain standing also.
“I’m not here to start anything,” I say quickly. “I just—I wrote Kevin something. A letter.”
Josh nods slowly. “About what?”
“About everything.” I raise the envelope, a silent offering. “I just wanted him to have it. That’s all.”
He takes it but doesn’t look at it. For a moment, I wonder if he’ll rip it up right in front of me. At the very least, I know he’ll read it before giving it to Kevin. That’s what I would do. “You’re not trying to—”
“No.” I cut in gently but firmly. “I’m not trying to restart anything. Or ruin anything. I know what you and Kevin have. I’m not here to get between that. ”
Josh watches me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, softly: “I can tell you were important to him.”
A silent nod follows. “Kevin was important to me, too. But that doesn’t mean I get to rewrite what happened. I don’t want to. I just needed him to know the truth of why I did what I did.”
He turns the envelope in his hand, eyes flicking between me and Kevin’s name written on the envelope. “I haven’t seen him like that in a long time—after he saw you Saturday. It rattled him.”
My surprise stays hidden. I wonder if Josh saw me at B-Side, too. Questions rise inside me—what Kevin whispered, why they laughed, if Kevin played “This Masquerade” for him too—but none of them leave my mouth.
“I know,” I say. “It rattled me, too.”
Josh exhales, then carefully places the envelope on the console table by the wall. “I’ll give it to him.”
“Thank you.”
As I turn, Josh’s voice stops me cold.
“Was it worth it? Writing that?”
A beat passes. “Not sure yet. But it felt honest—more honest than I’ve been in a long time.”
He nods once and sees me out. And just like that, I’m on the outside again, ‘ lost inside this lonely game we play .’