Chapter 30
Marina
Idraft my resignation letter for Aunt Andrea twice, have Grams check it over for me, then rewrite it again after explaining I cannot professionally call her a “Viper” or “Groupie.”
Still, as I approach the office, my courage wavers.
“I was hoping we could talk,” I say, an hour early for my shift. She’s already in her leopard print office, squinting at her laptop. The online listings from the store are up, something Jenna helped her build because as good as I am on the sales floor, tech has never been my strong suit.
“Ah, you’re here. I suppose that new café just opened up around the corner.” There’s a gleam in her eyes that makes me feel uneasy. As she stands up, I expect her to ask me questions about the backend of the website. Instead, she reaches out to squeeze my arm.
I’d rather schedule a dental cleaning than go on a coffee date with her. But that’s the most dangerous thing about Aunt Andrea: she’s hard to say no to, especially when she acts like she’s happy to see me.
It’s so rare it takes me aback, and I have to remind myself I’m not a child who needs her approval or attention. But I’m overtaken by the heavy spice of her musky perfume and then her arms.
Her grip is tight, more like a snake sizing up its prey than a warm embrace, but despite every bone in my body begging me to pull away, I sink into it.
Has she … ever hugged me before?
“There’s plenty of time before your shift, and the two of us never get out.” And just like that, Aunt Andrea is guiding me toward the door.
Well, we are family. Maybe having me gone for so many days in a row has reminded her of that.
So, within fifteen minutes, we sit together at a small table, surrounded by laughter and conversations. I hope putting in my two weeks doesn’t add yelling into the mix.
“I know I’ve been working for you for a while now,” I begin, deciding to cut to the chase. “Things have come up, and I am going to have to put in my two weeks’ notice.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Will you be having the stomach bug for those two weeks?”
“I—” I hang my head. “I know I shouldn’t have lied about that. I got caught up with this new thing that’s been going on, and it looks like I might be moving.”
“So, you think it’s time to finally leave the nest?” she says, her expression unreadable. “Spread your wings and fly off into the sunset?”
“You kicked me out, remember?” I say quietly.
Aunt Andrea doesn’t comment. There’s a two-for-one mimosa special, and she orders for both of us. Avocado toast for her and a waffle with a side of bacon for me.
“Still your go-to, right?” she asks, once the server walks away.
I don’t mention I’ve always preferred sausage and pancakes or pie, obviously, if it’s on the menu, but I’m surprised at the effort and appreciate her trying. “Thanks,” I say. “That sounds great.”
We sit largely in silence, though she talks about the store a little, until our food and drinks arrive.
“So, who’s the guy?” she asks. Her tone is as light and as peppy as a friend mining for the latest gossip after a long time apart.
There’s a spark in her eyes as she leans in closer.
She genuinely seems interested. It’s Aunt Andrea, I tell myself, which means this could all be a trap.
Anxiety builds and pops like the bubbles at the bottom of the mimosa I don’t touch.
“Considering you’ve been so closed-off all these years, you’re overdue for some messy entanglements,” she says between bites of toast that she’s eating with a fork and a knife.
“We’re really—” I begin, but she cuts me off quicker than I can stitch a single thought together. Not that I’d planned to tell her much, regardless.
“No, believe me, I understand.” She takes a long sip of her drink. “I remember the gleam your mother had in her eyes back when she’d sing in front of a room of pretty strangers. I was around for long enough to see plenty of heartbreak in those days.”
“I’m sure you had some misadventures of your own,” I say, not liking where this conversation is headed.
“I was more focused on your Uncle Orson to notice anyone else, even when she was giving him those puppy eyes from across the stage,” she says. “Have I told you how much you look like her?”
“Once or twice,” I say, fiddling with the fringe on my vest.
“She was always beautiful. No one can deny that.” Her eyes seem to scan across every part of my face.
“I wish I had more pictures,” I admit, trying to take hold of the conversation with something true. I’ve found a few in boxes, but most of the photos I’ve seen of my parents are from Google or blurry videos of performances posted online.
Not much is mine, or personal, aside from what Grams has at her place, which is mostly albums and a few early demos where I can hear them laughing. But it’s not enough.
It could never be.
“I think there’s an old flash drive somewhere,” she says with a sigh. “I’ll dig it up for you.”
“Really?”
“So long as I can find it, it’s yours,” she says. Has she always been this accommodating? Maybe she’s as excited to get me out of her life as I am to leave…
She raises her lips in a smile, and her glass for a cheers, and I don’t tell her about the lipstick on her teeth for fear of ruining the moment. I ignore the mimosa and raise my coffee cup to meet her glass.
She fills me in on what’s going on at the shop—nothing major. She wants to do a sale sometime before fall and asks me if I can train someone on the register system before I leave. What made me put off doing this for so long? Maybe I have been holding myself back by overthinking.
By the time we’re walking back to the shop, I’m readily talking to her about music and new movies. It still skews toward casual conversation, but it’s nice all the same. She’ll never be my favorite person, but we don’t have to be enemies either.
“So, let’s talk about your plan,” she says, her voice low once we’ve returned to the store. “I’m curious—what will you do about your grandmother?”
“I mean, she’ll miss me, I know that, but Grams wants me to be happy,” I reply. “And I’ll visit.”
“People always say that. Still, she’s in a pretty nice retirement community, don’t you think?” she asks with a hum. “Why would I keep up with that expense if I’m not humoring you? That is what you said, right?”
I search my mind. Is that what I said? The words are familiar, but they don’t feel like mine. I shake my head, wanting to deny it. I retrace our conversation and feel lost.
“Uncle Orson said,” I begin, “she’d be taken care of, that there’s money set aside.”
“There’s no contract, no paperwork, and bills that are piling up,” she says. “That style of apartment costs a pretty penny with all the options and activities. You know that, I’m sure.”
“But—”
“Out of the goodness of my heart, I’ve been taking care of her for you,” she says with a shrug.
“What are you saying?”
“Only that if you want to keep her in comfort, you keep working for me. You do as I ask, you pick up the shifts no one wants, you arrive on time, you leave after your tasks are done. You stop with whatever this is. A portion of your check will go toward her care.”
“But you can’t do that!” I argue, trying to mentally add up what I know about Grams’ savings and financial situation.
A lot went into medical bills when she was hospitalized, and if I can’t afford to cover it then…
“Aunt Andrea, if those funds are supposed to be for Grams, paperwork or not, it isn’t right to do this. ”
“Your mother used to act the same way, you know.” She flicks the fringe on my vest. I’m too stunned to move away.
“She’d bat her doe eyes up at Orson and Jett, and they’d be shopping for new equipment, going back on tour—whatever Willow Wiles wanted, she got.
You’d think by now you would have realized it doesn’t work on me.
” Her voice is low now, stripped of any of the fake sweetness that coated her words during breakfast—a meal that now threatens to make a second appearance.
“That doesn’t have anything to do with this!” I yell, but Aunt Andrea isn’t in this conversation, not anymore. Her gaze is far away.
“I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors that she was involved with both of them. I tried to keep you from that sort of thing, but people talk. ‘Jett baby, Orson darling, the moon is beautiful, let’s songwrite under the stars tonight.’ She’d fawn in interviews, keep everyone guessing.”
I blink, unable to keep up with the way she tosses the conversation back and forth from the distant past where she felt powerless, to my future where she’s in full control.
“So, what are you trying to say? Was Uncle Orson my father?” I ask, because why else would she be saying all of this? Besides, it would explain why he wanted both me and Grams taken care of.
“No,” she says, her laugh bitter, but she takes a step away from me as if the question alone has caused a physical blow.
“So, why is it you hate me so much—if they never—if she didn’t love him?”
“But he loved her!” she snaps before taking a breath and composing herself.
“The band demanded so much of his time, they might as well have been married—they lived, worked, breathed their music. Then you came along, and even before your parents passed, Orson doted on you more than his own daughter.”
She stares at me, and instead of the usual anger, I see something else in her eyes: a deep loneliness, one I understand all too well.
We both ache for a future that couldn’t exist.
“Aunt Andrea,” I reach out, unable to suppress the urge to comfort her, but she flinches before I can touch her.
“Sometimes I think he liked to pretend he was your father.”
“Or he cared about me! It doesn’t always have to be some big conspiracy,” I say, because back before I knew better, I googled my family. I’ve seen the fringe articles and theories “I don’t think–”
“Yeah,” she smirks, giving me a small once over. “I’ve noticed.”
“Oooh, very funny,” I say, grabbing my purse from the counter, but then I freeze. If I leave, what happens with Grams? I can’t let Aunt Andrea trap me here, and more than that, with all the feelings swirling around between us, shouldn’t she want me to disappear?
“If you hate me so much, why is it so important to you that I keep working at your shop?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“No, so explain it to me!” I shout, watching her cross the room and flip the open sign. There’s already someone waiting at the door.
“Later, dear, we have customers.” Sugar laces her tone, and I tear into the back of my neck with my nails, stepping into the back room to draw in a deep breath.
I can’t do this.
But if I leave, what happens?
God, I need to talk to Grams, but if I do, she might feel pressured to downgrade, to downsize, and no, no, no. I’m not going to do that, not to her. Gil seemed good with numbers, I have to figure out how much the rent is and then—
“Excuse me?” A voice calls, and despite being desperate for a moment to process all of this, customer service Marina overrides my needs. I peek my head out to see a woman. She’s older, short, and wearing a The Ole Reliables tour shirt, signed on the sleeves by all three members.
“—you’re Willow and Jet’s little girl, aren’t you?” she asks, and I nod; all the while, Aunt Andrea chuckles from the back of the store.
Suddenly, I have my answer.
It’s not just the memorabilia and the name she wants people to come in for—it’s me.
“Yes,” I squeak.
“You look exactly like Willow, but I can see a little of your father too. Did you know fans used to wear green to the concerts to match his eyes? A little silly, but people will do all sorts of things to get seen in a crowd, though it doesn’t help much if everyone is wearing the same color now, does it?
” she rambles. My head spins with every sentence spoken by this sweet fan of my parents and uncle’s music.
What normally would feel like something beautiful and bittersweet feels hollow.
When she finally leaves the store, spending over 100 dollars on things she clearly doesn’t want or need, it all feels even worse.
This has happened more times than I can count, and I never realized how transactional it all was. How could I have not realized sooner?
I peel a guitar pick from the place they’re glued in a heart behind the register and bolt out after her as she exits to the parking lot. “Wait!” I call, and the woman turns.
Gasping for breath, I extend the guitar pick—something real, something that holds a song and a memory. That’s what she came here for.
“For me?”
I can only manage to nod, emotions threatening to overflow with every moment I stand in front of her.
“This means—thank you, thank you so much.” She clutches it to her chest, then smooths out her t-shirt. “My late husband and I actually got engaged at this concert.” She shakes her head in disbelief.
“I’m so sorry.”
“I’d do anything for one more dance with him.” She smirks. “We met at a record store, reaching for the same album, and got married a few months later. When you know, you know, don’t you?”
“Was it scary … to fall in love so fast? Or did it feel—”
“—right?”
“Mhmm,” I nod breathlessly.
“Truth be told, the only time I got scared, really scared, was when I let other people’s opinions get in my head.
They said we were too young, it was all too quick, but we spent two decades loving each other—and it still wasn’t enough.
Can I hug you?” she asks and I nod, melting into a stranger’s arms in the parking lot.
She absentmindedly hums the melody of a song my mom wrote, and I wonder if it’s the one her late husband proposed to.
This is what they worked so hard for.
I hum along too, and for a moment, exist solely within the song. Tears fall down my cheeks as I carry myself back into the store after the moment ends and the nameless stranger drives away.
I don’t know what to do, but I don’t have to do it alone.