22. Freddie #4
When I finally look up, Callum is staring at me from across the counter, lips parted in a grin that does something ridiculous to my pulse.
“What?” I ask, suddenly self-conscious. My hands freeze mid-chord.
“You’re amazing,” he says, like it’s the simplest fact in the world.
Heat climbs my neck. I start to stand, but he’s already coming around the counter.
“Can you keep playing?”
I hesitate. “I—”
“Please?”
I hesitate, looking at his hopeful eyes, before letting out a quiet sigh. “Fine. But if I’m doing this, I’m doing it with my tried-and-true.”
I walk past him to the back corner of the shop, unhooking a sunburst Fender Stratocaster off its wall mount. I grab a stool, dragging the electric guitar into the small open space near the window, and Callum instantly pulls up a second stool to sit directly across from me.
I plug the cord in, flip the tiny amp switch, and tune the strings with a few quick plucks. Then, I close my eyes and start to play “Landslide” by Fleetwood Mac.
I chose this song because it’s a terrifying mirror.
Can I handle the seasons of my life? Those lyrics have been echoing in the back of my mind all morning.
I’ve been so consumed by the fear of change—of Callum leaving, of my magic breaking things, of letting someone close enough to tear down the walls I’ve spent years building—that I forgot how to just exist in the middle of it.
As the second verse hits, my magic answers. It doesn’t spike or panic; it flares bright, clean, and gold under my skin, pouring straight into the music the way it used to before everything got complicated. For a few minutes, the record shop around me completely dissolves.
Suddenly, I’m sixteen again, sitting on a squeaky metal stool in the garage behind our old house.
Dad’s dented ceramic coffee mug is balanced precarious on the bass amp, and the air smells like motor oil and sawdust. He’s leaning over his own acoustic guitar, his voice soft and patient as he guides my fingers through the chord changes for the hundredth time.
I can still see the gentle crinkles around his eyes, the proud nod he’d give me when I finally nailed the transition without rushing it.
He made me feel safe. He made me believe my power wasn’t a curse—it was a song.
Well, I’ve been afraid of changin’ / ‘Cause I’ve built my life around you.
A hard knot forms in my throat as I sing the line under my breath.
I’ve missed this so desperately it feels like a physical ache between my ribs.
The freedom of being good at something without the suffocating terror that my magic might slip, spark, or hurt the people I love.
Just the music filling every quiet inch of the space between me and Callum.
When the last note fades I open my eyes. Callum is smiling at me like I just handed him something rare. The look on his face is one of adoration and quiet awe.
“Winifred,” he says, voice rough. “That was…”
He seems to lose the rest of the sentence.
Noah shuffles over from his table, paper tucked under one translucent arm, and tips his paperboy cap. “I think what the young man is trying to say is that you’ve got a gift that could make the angels jealous, and he’d be a damn fool not to notice.”
I huff a soft laugh. “You’re a smooth talker, Noah.”
He chuckles, the sound crackling like the vinyl still spinning on the turntable. “Maybe. But it’s true. You’ve got a real gift. Thank you for blessing our ears with it.”
I swallow past the sudden lump in my throat. “No problem.”
Noah starts walking back toward his table by the window and Callum steps in the second Noah’s far enough away. His arms slide around my waist, pulling me in until the front of his jacket brushes my shirt.
“I’m so fucking proud of you, Win,” he whispers into my hair, his arms tightening around me. “I know it’s been a long time since you’ve played for anyone. But your voice…Christ, it’s beautiful.”
I wrap my arms around his neck, my fingers tangling in the thick hair at the nape of his neck. “It felt really good,” I admit against his shoulder, my heart hammering against my ribs. “To play again. Without…you know.”
“Anytime you want to play for me,” Callum rasps, pulling back just far enough to look into my eyes, “I’ll always listen. Every single time.”
I press up onto my tiptoes, capturing his mouth with mine.
It’s slow at first—just the press of mouths, the quiet exhale he gives against my lips—then deepens when his hands tighten at my waist. There’s only the warmth of him and my magic dancing contentedly under my skin, like it’s found a place to rest.
From across the room Noah mutters, loud enough to carry, “Friends my ass.”
Callum and I break apart laughing, the sound bright against the quiet. He leans down and kisses me again, softer this time, smiling against my mouth.
The front door tinkles open mid-kiss. I start to pull back on autopilot, the customer-service voice already forming. “Ahi—welcome to—”
But I freeze.
The words die.
Two familiar figures stand just inside the doorway, blinking against the shift from the bright sidewalk to the dimmer shop.
“Mom? Dad?”