Chapter 1
Marina
That’s how it’s always been at Aunt Andrea’s.
Still, I keep looking for a place I’ll fit in—for roommates, for jobs, but so far? Everything has been a dead end. Sure, I have a lead with the band I submitted an audition for last week, but I haven’t heard anything.
Still, my heart swells at the opportunity to go on tour. That would get me out of here. And I’d finally be playing music in front of people, just like my parents did.
Luck, however, hasn’t been on my side, historically speaking.
So, without any better options, I stay, try to save, and ignore the guilt that creeps in when I look at how objectively spectacular this place is.
It’s the kind of house people have on their vision boards, the one you know gives out the best Halloween candy.
But wanting it? That’s never been the problem.
This place has never wanted me back.
I trace my fingers along the grand piano in the foyer as I walk to the kitchen.
Aunt Andrea has teased me before, saying the piano is the only reason I still live at home.
In reality, being under her employment barely covers my rent here, which is still less than I’d pay anywhere else.
Though, I won’t lie, the piano is a nice perk.
As I slip into the kitchen, I’m greeted by the sight of my aunt hunched over my laptop. The smell of her strong perfume, musk and honey, mixes with coffee and vanilla creamer—the one thing we have always had in common. The coffee, not the perfume.
“Whatcha doing?” I ask, and by the way she jumps, she must not have heard me come in.
“I can’t figure this darn thing out,” she sighs, then looks from the laptop to me with a pleading expression. “You don’t mind, do you?”
I’ve long since learned to keep anything private out in the open; there’s nothing on this computer she shouldn’t see.
“What are you trying to do?” I push strands of pink hair away from my face, squinting at the screen. There’s an email she’s glaring daggers at. Maybe she’s just as annoyed by the lack of job offers in my inbox as I am…
But no, that doesn’t seem to be it.
“I had an inquiry about the shop from a vendor last week, but I don’t see it anywhere,” she complains.
I blink.
I may not be good at technology.
I don’t have social media—too many superfans of my parents’ band found me when I tried. It was too strange and personal, enough for me to swear off most of the internet as a teen. But I know enough to know an email isn’t … all email.
“Well,” I chuckle, reaching over and clicking on my icon, “it would help if you logged in. You’re on my account.”
“That explains all the spam from Guitar Center.” With a roll of her eyes, Aunt Andrea laughs. It’s a sound I rarely hear, and you know what? I’ll take it if it means she’s finally warming up to me. “Log me in then?”
“Sure!” I chirp, pouring myself a cup of generously sweetened coffee, then taking a seat next to her. Aunt Andrea and I don’t usually exchange pleasantries, and there’s something strange, almost nice and domestic, about this whole thing. I’m ready to sign her into her account when—
A new email comes in.
Subject line: “Ready for the tour?! Your audition information…”
“Oh my god,” I say, unable to hold myself back from clicking on it. “Oh my god!”
“Congratulations, Marina!
We loved your video audition and want to see more from you!
We understand filling the role of a frontman is intimidating.
We’re a band with a small but loyal following, and we think you have something special our fans would love to see on stage!
As a band, we take turns songwriting and would like to see what you’ve got!
We’ll text you to set up an exact time, but we are asking you to prepare an original song to show us, as well as sit in on a jam session to see if our creative energies blend together.
A reminder: our tour is set for next month. We understand this is all rapid fire, and we appreciate you rolling with the punches!
-Star (Bassist from Aligned Shadows)”
“A tour? You’re going on tour?” Aunt Andrea asks, her eyes narrowing.
“No, I’m auditioning for a band who is going on tour,” I say. “Well, technically I already auditioned. It was a video thing, but it looks like they liked me. Can you believe it?”
“No.”
“No?” I echo. “I guess it is a little unexpected, but the lead singer went to college in a new city and—”
“I understand the flighty behavior of musicians just fine. The ‘no’ is because I’m short-staffed at the shop already—you know this.
I cannot have you gallivanting around doing God knows what with some band,” she says, shaking her head.
“And that sounds highly unprofessional. Who tours without a lead singer?”
“It’s just an audition,” I say. The excitement evaporates, like the steam rising from my coffee. “I might not even—”
“Let me spare you some pain.” She cuts me off, venom rising in her voice. My shoulders shrink forward, as if making myself smaller will take the bite out of her words.
That’s never worked.
“You did fine in the video, sure. But do you really think you have the right kind of presence for the stage?”
Aunt Andrea isn’t looking at me anymore.
No, her eyes slide past me to the open concept living room, where gold records are framed.
The Ole Reliables—modern folk stars who left this world too soon but would never leave the hearts of the people who listened to even just one song —are proudly displayed.
There are pictures of my parents and my uncle, the only member I got to know among the records.
It’s a collection of candid photos and magazine covers that he helped curate.
Uncle Orson passed when I was in middle school, and though he was always encouraging about my music, I understand what she’s saying without words.
You’ll never be as good as them.
She’s probably right. But, good or not, I can’t keep my fingers from tapping out the rhythm of a new song on the kitchen table.
Something with an upbeat tempo, undertones of summer, of hope—a fresh start.
“Are you listening to me?” she snaps, and my hands freeze.
Whatever she’s been saying since “no,” I’ve mostly tuned out.
“I’ll make sure to get my shifts covered—If they pick me, and they might not. They probably won’t,” I say quietly, taking a small sip of coffee. “But they might, and so I’ll be as prepared as possible.” What if this actually happens? I can’t keep a smile from spreading across my face.
“You’ll pack your things,” Aunt Andrea says, bringing me back down from the clouds as soon as I entered them.
“Uh, what?” I choke on my drink.
I must have heard her wrong. I know things at the shop have been stressful lately—mostly because I’ve been the one working doubles—but she wouldn’t really kick me out over this, would she?
It’s not like it’s the first time she’s threatened this very thing, but it’s always been in the heat of an argument.
It’s always been a bluff.
“Oh, come on!” I reach around her to reply to the email, but her grip on my computer is strong.
“I’ve been doing you a real favor letting you stay here past 18, you know that? It’s been years. You’re an adult, Marina. Me keeping you on at the shop? It’s only because no one else will hire you. I’ve been doing you a kindness, and if this is how you repay it? Pack.”
I wait for Aunt Andrea to look back up at me, but she doesn’t. “Go on,” she says, waving me off.
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe today is the day this old armchair is getting dragged to the curb.
Getting kicked out isn’t the same as being fired—fortunately and unfortunately. So, hours after shoving my life into boxes, I arrive to open The Rockstar’s Girlfriend, cringing at the flickering neon sign.
It’s a strange ode to The Ole Reliables. I used to think it was enchanting with its pink leopard print walls and loud merchandise, but my Grams has always called it a cash grab. The older I’ve gotten, the more I’ve realized she was right. Well, she’s right about most things, this included.
Nothing about the store’s décor or merchandise reflects the folk-punk style of their music, but that hasn’t stopped Aunt Andrea from capitalizing with random memorabilia for sale and on display in this disjointed boutique.
I’m kicking myself for even showing up for my shift today, but if Aunt Andrea really isn’t bluffing, I’ll need the money.
Knowing her, she’ll text as soon as the Wi-Fi goes out, and Jenna isn’t home to fix it…
I run my fingers along the heart-shaped guitar pick display behind the counter. They belonged to my Uncle Orson, and in all the years I’ve worked here, I’ve silently dared myself to steal just one.
Today, the temptation is even stronger, but I resist, tapping my pen on the counter. Lyrics try to take form in my head—an original song.
The bigger question is: which one? It’s not as if I don’t have journals filled with them, but the urge to write something new is so strong.
I straighten when the bell announces a customer. My favorites are always fans of the band, always eager to share their stories of tailgating and tour stops. It can be a lot to process, but unlike the haze of social media, meeting old fans in person always feels like a family reunion.
Instead, it’s Jenna, my cousin and self-made nemesis. There were times I wished she could have been my closest friend—like a sister, bonded together through blood and loss. Instead, she’s, well…
Jenna.
“You really did it this time!” She wastes no time setting her bags down on the counter. I assume they’re from a recent shopping trip until I see one of my old t-shirts spill out.
I gulp.
“Mom said to drop this here before my shift. Let me guess, you’ll crash on your Grams’ couch for a few days ‘til you beg for forgiveness?”
“I didn’t even do anything.” I sigh, peering inside the bags. They’re packed with as much care as garbage thrown into a bin, and I cringe as an old trophy from the swim team tumbles out.
At least, now, if I toss it in the dumpster behind Grams’ place, the raccoons will have a chance to feel like champions.
“Put this somewhere.” She orders “Our customers already have to deal with you—let’s not let them see this junk on top of it.”
There’s no time for a witty comeback. By the time I’ve even processed the insult, the door to the back office has closed with a thud. Jenna and I thankfully never work the sales floor together. For all her faults, she’s good at Excel, and someone here has to be able to handle that and social media.
I stare into a bag with an old shoebox inside. There’s a layer of dust disrupted by fingerprints, presumably from when Jenna took it off the shelf.
My notebooks, at least the ones Aunt Andrea hasn’t thrown away, with their messy covers and bent spirals, stare up at me like old friends. Dust floats like glitter when I flip through the crumpled pages.
Maybe one day I’ll know what it feels like to be wanted.
I cringe, flipping through the melancholy entries.
It’s a stark reminder that though time has passed, not much has changed.
There’s only one time I remember filling out pages of happy journal entries from our summers at camp.
But there’s no way that notebook is in the pile. Still, with hurried fingers, I search.
“You’re making such a mess,” Jenna groans, coming out to lean on the counter.
“You’re the one who brought it here,” I argue, setting the book down. But as soon as it’s out of my hands, it’s in Jenna’s. She snickers, flipping through the pages.
“Jenna, give it back already,” I say, trying to sound firm and unbothered, knowing full well any sign of emotion will spur my cousin on.
Except, here she is: holding my adolescent heart in her hands.
Historically, that’s something she’s never been gentle with.
The smirk on Jenna’s face is proof my tone has already betrayed me.
I try to ignore it at first, and then the dramatic reading starts.
Despite towering over her, she’s nimble, dodging and jumping to avoid my reach.
In an instant, we’re far from the adults we’ve grown into.
“‘Aunt Andrea said she won’t take me to Grams’ anymore,’” Jenna reads, pressing a hand to her forehead with dramatic flair. “‘And Jenna—I don’t understand why she doesn’t like me.’”
“Seriously, cut it out!” I shout, knocking into a clothing rack as I lunge for it—only to have the book swiftly moved out of the way.
She flips through the pages, holding it high in the air.
“We never hung out because you moped around all the time writing in your journals like some sad Victorian orphan,” she says. “You’ve practically haunted the house all these years with the moody piano playing and—ew, can you stop that?”
I pause. I hadn’t even realized I’d started scratching at my neck. A nervous tick that, considering the newly formed smile on her face, has signaled to her she’s won this little feud. Rage twists in the pit of my stomach. Jumping up, I pull at the corner of the book and—
Rip!
“Shit,” Jenna gasps, and to her credit, she actually looks upset as she presses the paper back together—a sad attempt to fix what she’d broken. Soon enough, she gives the journal back.
tattered paper heart, so easily torn, a lifetime ago of broken pieces still too fresh to mourn.
Lyrics jump to the forefront of my mind as I hold the journal as tenderly as a bruised heart—but no—that’s not the song I want to sing.
Something needs to change.
The chime of the bell at the door causes my back to reflexively straighten, my feelings just another thing shoved into a box today. A practiced smile pulls at the edges of my lips as Jenna retreats to the office.
“Welcome!” I say, as a customer in an Ole Reliables T-shirt rushes up with a smile on their face. An ache inside me grows; maybe soon I’ll be able to make something just as special as the music my parents left behind.