Forget (14 page)

“Okay, your turn. I’m ready to hear all about Brooke.”

I clear my throat. “Well, I’m twenty-six. Last name is Sawyer. My full name is beyond ridiculous, and I refuse to tell you that right now. My parents were free-spirited hippies who not only lacked parenting skills, but also sucked at naming their kids. Born and raised in California. My younger sister Ember and I lived with our grandmother, Millie, since I was nine years old. She raised us and is the reason I’m here. Millie passed away recently.” I pause for a second, shocked by the feelings bubbling up from my throat. Inhaling a shaky breath, I blink back the tears hazing my vision.

“I’m so sorry.” He rests his hand on top of mine. Instead of giving the expected reaction of a pat on the shoulder or sad eyes, Dylan does the one thing I need most. He touches my hand, offers heartfelt words, and gives me time to process my emotions. He doesn’t push me in the opposite direction or quickly cut-off my saddening mood, he just gives me time.

Sooner or later, I regain control. “I miss her dearly. Millie was one of a kind. I’m still in shock she sent me to Paris on a bucket list mission the day after her funeral. I know it sounds crazy, but if you knew my grandmother, you’d understand that this is the kind of thing she would do. She loved this city, and I’m finding it easy to understand why.” I look out towards the café across the street, smiling at the energy that buzzes within the establishment.

“My sister and I opened a small clothing boutique in California.” That statement is partially true, and the deciding factor in how I’m going to handle things with Dylan. I have no idea if we’re going to spend more time together or if I’ll even be able to let myself spend more time with him, but just in case we do, I’m putting my compartmentalization skills to use. My life back home—including Jamie—stays there. My life in Paris stays here.

I’m even leaving my actual career out of it. It’s selfish, I know, especially after everything Dylan’s told me about his band, but I don’t see how revealing that I’m a record producer for Wallace and Wright Records could end well. Especially, since Jamie’s dad owns the label.

“Anything else to add?”

“Hmmm . . .” I tap my chin. “I love music, have
always
loved music. It’s a passion that runs bone deep. I can play the guitar and piano. I sing a little bit when I’m feeling inclined, but I’m sure you figured out last night that singing in front of crowds isn’t really my thing.” An apologetic smile creases my lips.

“You were amazing last night,” he says.

“Thank you.” I look down at my hands, refusing to blush. My eyes meet his again. “And I don’t have any tattoos. I’m not against them, just haven’t found anything I want badly enough to brand on my body. No history of being a stalker or psychopath. And I’m really fucking great at Super Mario Cart.”

His eyebrows rise, intrigued. “Super Mario Cart?”

I nod, slowly, shoulders back with poise. “I’m the best.”

“I plan on testing that confidence of yours, Little Wing. I’m really fucking great at Mario Cart too.”

“Challenge accepted, and seriously, what in the hell is with the Little Wing nickname?”

He laughs, beaming at me. “Before I explain, I need to show you something first.”

Dylan grabs our waiter’s attention. “Excusez-moi, l’addition s’il vous plait.”

My nose crinkles. “What does the bill have to do with it?”

Tapping my nose, he says, “Christ, that’s bloody adorable.”

“Stop trying to change the subject.”

“I’m not
, Little Wing.
” He winks. “I need the bill so we can leave, which will get you closer to an explanation.”

The waiter drops off the check.

“Honestly, I’m shocked you haven’t figured it out,” he teases while signing the credit card receipt.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Dylan glances up and then laughs at my frustrated glare. He hands the receipt to the waiter, grabs my hand, and pulls me out of my seat. “Let’s go. It’s time to show you the best record store in Paris.”

La Dame Blanche is an impressive little shop, encasing more vintage records than I’ve ever seen. This place is a mecca, a vinyl collector’s heaven. Dust covers the bins, and the place smells like an old basement—musty and damp—but only shows that it’s worthy of our time. A good record store is easily judged by its smell. A vinyl store shouldn’t smell like Mr. Clean just got done with it. The stronger the moth ball and mildew stench the better. Only the best stores have that uncanny scent, of treasures forgotten by too many for far too long.

The minute we walked in the door, we were welcomed by the owner; an older man named Pierre. After scanning the main store for a good fifteen minutes, Pierre came up to Dylan and asked, “Backroom?”

“I thought you’d never ask, Pierre,” Dylan responded with a grin, and then wrapped an arm around my shoulder, whispering into my ear, “The back room is where he keeps the good shit. Prepare to have your mind blown.”

We followed Pierre out of the store, through an alley, and up to an unmarked door. It looked like any other building on the street, but the minute we stepped inside, endless rows of bins filled with vinyl records occupied my vision.

“Is this heaven?” I asked, voice dreamy and eyes full of stars.

He laughed. “It’s pretty damn close.”

And that’s where we are now, scanning through the disorganized mess of eclectic records. I’m finding albums that would make even the most knowledgeable collector drool.

I can’t deny the experience is bittersweet. I love this time with Dylan, laughing and chatting about music, but it also has me missing Millie. When I found Edith Piaf’s greatest hits album, my chest tightened thinking about the numerous times I played
Je Ne Regrette Rien
and
La Vie En Rose
for her. And those emotions intensified when I came across
Déjà vu
by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, which has her favorite love song—
Our House.
Both have been set aside, in my purchase pile.

I can still remember being thirteen years old, and Millie playing
Our House
at full volume, trying to nip my Jim Morrison fascination in the bud.

She had lived in Laurel Canyon for most of her life. Her bungalow—which Ember and I now own—sits on a quaint stretch of land off Mulholland Drive. Despite being inside one of L.A.’s most popular neighborhoods, Millie’s home always held this whimsical, self-contained aura. I never knew it was possible to fall in love with a house until I laid eyes on the bungalow’s blue shingles, white-lined windows, and red front door. I love that house, every detail about it, and the millions of happy memories it holds, all of which have my grandmother front-and-center.

I’m not sure Ember and I will ever be able to sell it.

The rich history that rests in those hills inspired my passion for music. As a teenager, I spent countless hours at the Canyon Store, sitting on its porch, a notebook and pen in my lap, staring across the street at the place that inspired Jim Morrison to write
Love Street.
I wanted to be an inspired version of myself. Never a replication, I just wanted a little bit of his brilliance to seep into my pores. I called it imitosis—combining the spiritual form of mitosis and imitation.

Millie would often laugh about my odd imitosis-channeling habit.

“Go sit in front of Joni Mitchell’s house. Any house that can inspire the best love song ever written is worth spending some time in front of,” she’d say, often putting the vinyl album of
Our House
on her old Studebaker just to prove her point.

We had arguments for days over Crosby, Stills, & Nash’s folk-rock versus The Doors’ poetic mix of rock-blues. It usually ended with me saying, “You don’t hate The Doors, Millie, you just dislike Jim Morrison and his history of weirdness.”

When I got older, I realized that Morrison’s drug habit hit a little too close to home for her, and my dad, Millie’s only child, was the one to blame for that. Comparing Laurel Canyon’s influence on my father’s life and my life is irony at its finest. Those hills pushed my father towards a life filled with risky behaviors that were ill-suited for children, whereas it cultivated my love for music and turned it into something beautiful. Music became an unstoppable passion, motivating me to go to college and eventually start a career as a record producer in L.A.

“
Suck It and See,”
Dylan says, grabbing my attention.

I look up from my current bin to see him glancing at my t-shirt.

A smile kisses his lips as green eyes meet mine. “Fantastic shirt. Great album.”

“Lindsay bought this for me a few years back, after seeing their show in New York. It was an ‘I’m sorry I went without you’ kind of gift.”

Long fingers tug at the end of my shirt. “If you weren’t so damn tiny, I’d steal it from you. Christ, I might steal it anyway.”

I laugh, picturing him trying to pull it over his masculine frame. “Britney Spears did make midriff baring tops all the rage back in the day, but I’m not sure this shirt could wrap around all those muscles you’re rocking.”

That didn’t sound very friendly,
did it?

“Muscles, eh?” Dylan flashes a cocky grin. “Please, don’t stop on my account. I’m all ears, love. Tell me more about my muscles, specifically your take on them.”

I roll my eyes, ignoring the heat on my cheeks. “I’m not humoring you with a response. You know you’re built like a brick shit house. Hell, I’m pretty sure you had groupies last night, and you weren’t even playing with
your
band.”

“I know that I like that shirt, but it has more to do with who’s wearing it than what band it represents. And I also know that those long ass legs of yours could drive a man towards insanity.”

I gently smack my hand across his lips. “You’re such a pervy bastard.”

He lips turn upward against my palm.

I release my hand, eyeing him with feigned annoyance. I’m not annoyed, far from it actually. My fingers resume their browsing, while I add, “And I agree about the album.
Suck It and See
is really good. Honestly, I’ve yet to hear an Arctic Monkeys album that I didn’t like.”

“Jesse is convinced our sound is kind of similar to their newest album,
AM.
”

My jaw drops. “Wow. I love what the Arctic Monkeys did with their sound on
AM.
It’s so different, yet still so them.”

He nods. “Bloody brilliant album.”

If the urge to find out more about his band wasn’t strong before, it sure as hell is now. Have you ever had a scratch inside your ear that you couldn’t reach? It just itches and itches and itches, and no matter what you do you can’t reach it. That’s exactly how I feel right now. I want to ignore the urge to ask him more questions about his band, but good Lord, it’s tough.

Dylan walks to another row, pulling a bin out of a glass cabinet. Curious, I watch him for a few seconds, but eventually, resume my search for vinyl treasures.

After a few minutes, he turns towards me, holding up an album. “Do you know this one?”

I stare at the psychedelic cover of Jimi Hendrix’s
Axis: Bold as Love
record. “Are you serious? Of course, I know that one!” I exclaim, striding over to him with quick paces. I grab it from his hands, running my fingers along the deliciously worn in cover. He chuckles when I hold it up to my nose and inhale deeply.

“Would you like to hear it?”

My eyes dart around the room. “Right now? Here?”

“There’s a turntable over there.”

Dylan leads me to a small room that must serve as an office. A large desk dominates the space. Several bookshelves line the walls. Behind the desk, sits a Crosley USB Turntable.

“I used to bug my grandmother about getting one of these,” I tell him, my hand wiping off the dust that’s taken up residence on the cover. “She refused to acknowledge the convenience of being able to digitally, save vinyl tracks, and would often say, “
You can’t beat the sound of vinyl, Lilah Belle. It will always be better than digital.
”

“Your grandmother was a very smart woman.”

“Yeah, she was the best.”

He grips my hips, sitting me on the desk. “Don’t go anywhere, Lilah Belle,” he teases, a playful smile covering those full lips of his.

I bite my bottom lip, fighting the urge to kiss them. “
Oh, no way,
I don’t think so. You can’t add another nickname when you haven’t explained the first.”

“But if I explain the first, then I can add the second?” he asks, still grinning.

“No comment,” I answer.

Dylan is lightly chuckling as he turns around. His back is to me while he places the album on the turntable. Instantly, the famous sound of Hendrix’s magical fingers sliding across his electric Strat begins to play. Dylan turns to face me, his smile is soft, but I note a searching edge in his eyes. I feel like he’s waiting for a reaction.

Once I recognize the song, my mouth forms a tiny ‘O’ of surprise. It’s
Little Wing
by Jimi Hendrix. I stare back at his soft expression, mimicking his searching gaze.

What does this song have to do with me?

The beauty of this track is undeniable. It oscillates in the most placid and lovely way. I’ve heard it a thousand times, and every time, I feel lost in Hendrix’s thoughts, like he’s pulled me into one of his daydreams.

Dylan steps closer. His body maneuvers itself between my thighs. We’re at eye-level—staring intensely at each other—while the sounds of
Little Wing
echo within the small room.

“Is this your explanation?” I ask on a whisper.

He nods. His thumb traces my bottom lip. “This song is one of my favorite Hendrix songs. In one hundred and forty-five seconds, he manages to give us a bloody gossamer reverie.”

The words
gossamer
and
reverie
pull me from the moment a little, causing a giggle to escape my throat. It’s not because I’m secretly making fun of him. Actually, it’s the complete opposite.

Dylan grins, his head tilting slightly in question. “Are you laughing at me?”

I shake my head. “No, I swear I’m not laughing at you.” My hand rests against his cheek for a brief moment. “I’m laughing at the absurdity of finding another person who’s on the exact, same musical wavelength as me. I swear you can see inside my head or something. I love that you just said gossamer reverie because it’s such a perfect word choice for this song.
Little Wing
might as well be a delicate web of daydreams.”