The Stars Will Shine (9 page)

He lingers for a few more seconds then takes off down the hallway toward the window at the end. I stick my head out the doorway, watching him with stitched brows.

“You know, my Aunt is that way,” I say, pointing toward the staircase in the opposite direction. He doesn’t respond, but when he reaches the end of the hallway, he throws the window open, turns around, and with a wink, crawls backward through the opening and disappears. I stand there for a moment, a blank face, then head downstairs. Whether he tells her or not, I’m still leaving for work.

As I round the curve of the stairs, my fingertips skimming the polished oak wood railing, I hear Aunt Miranda say, “You’re a woman now, Leah.” I imagine her hand running delicately over Leah’s light blonde hair, maternal, protective, and proud.

You’re a woman now?

Thick air swamps me, and I have to steady myself by leaning into the railing and grasping it with both hands. Because those words are familiar to me, and they carry with them a crushing weight. You see, I remember once saying them to myself—
You’re a woman now
—right after my brother’s best friend, Tommy Higgins, took my virginity.

And, boy, was I in love. I remember how I threw my arms across my face, a long helpless sigh on my lips and a deep blush in my cheeks; how my heart pounded against my ribcage, setting a fast tempo for the song that hummed through my body; how I walked out of my room that night for a glass of water after Tommy slipped back downstairs to sleep on the couch outside my brother’s room, and felt like I was five years older than I was, thought the world would now see me as a woman when I barely even hit puberty.
You’re a woman now
. Like one milestone can completely change our identity. No, I’d been blinded by a want and a rush, a shitload of naivety, and an attractive specimen of the male species. I wasn’t a woman then, and I’m sure as hell not a woman now.

Aunt Miranda and Leah move down the hall toward my aunt and uncle’s room, and when they’re voices fade, I stand there, still recalling things I don’t want to recall. A hard bump on my shoulder brings me back, and I snap my head up to see Dylan pass me. He says nothing, just treads lazily down the rest of the stairs and heads toward the kitchen. Weakly, I follow.

After about three minutes of rummaging through the kitchen cupboards, still harboring hope there might be something unhealthy here to eat, the doorbell rings. Aunt Miranda’s slippered feet scuttle down the hall and across the foyer. She swings the front door open, and
I reluctantly slide her homemade granola and nut mix off the cupboard shelf, listening in on her talk with the visitor.

“What are you doing here?” she says. Her tone is sharp, unwelcoming. I’m curious as to who she’s speaking to with such disdain. Because, let’s face it, I have something in common with this person.

“Mrs. Kyler, I feel the need to speak with you in order to clear up some confusion.” I perk up, my eyebrows pulling together. Is that voice...I swear it’s…

I make my way to the archway between the kitchen and the open hallway that leads to the entryway, and I peek out just enough so that to Aunt Miranda only the top right of my face would be visible if she happened to look my way. Luckily, her back is to me as she stands in the doorway with her hands on her hips. She throws her arms to her side in resignation and waves the visitor in with a curt, “Fine.” I pull back a little so that she won’t see me when she turns around. That’s when I catch a glimpse of the unwanted guest.

Of course, Aiden sees me right away, and he gives me a surreptitious smile before folding his hands and turning his attention back to Aunt Miranda. She pauses with her hand on the door, unsure whether to close it. Maybe she’s hoping Aiden will only be here for a few seconds, a short enough time to not waste the effort.

Aiden clears his throat. “I came to confess something.” Aunt Miranda doesn’t so much as blink at this, and I get the feeling this isn’t the first time Aiden has come over to “confess something.” Aiden glances back at the staircase, as if checking to make sure no one else is around, but what he doesn’t know is that Dylan is right here in the kitchen with me. His eyes slide over to me once more before he speaks. “I just wanted you to know that it was me.”

Aunt Miranda crosses her arms and sticks her hip to the side, a sign of her patience wearing thin. “What was you, Aiden?”

“I stole the bottles of wine.” He winces when he says it, as though Aunt Miranda might smack him for it. “And I broke them, too.”

Aunt Miranda rocks back on her heels, her lips pursed too tightly, like she’s sucking on one of those black cherry Warheads I tortured myself with as a child. Aiden scratches his head with an uncomfortable sigh and glances at me again. I pull back, worried Aunt Miranda will turn around, too, and find me eavesdropping. I don’t know why he keeps looking my way.

“Hmmm,” is all Aunt Miranda says over the next minute. “I’ve told you enough times already—Dylan is not to hang around you anymore.”

Aiden nods and turns toward the door, his head down. As he reaches for the handle, he pauses, his hand hovering, then slowly turns back toward Aunt Miranda. “It was my fault, I swear it,” he says. “Don’t blame Dylan or...or anyone else.” Aunt Miranda raises her eyebrows in a way that screams,
Leave already,
and Aiden does without another word.

My heart beats slowly in my chest. I feel a little embarrassed that he did that on my behalf, but I also feel something like—I squint my eyes as I press a hand to my chest—I don’t know…It’s something I can’t exactly place. With a deep breath, I go back to the counter and pour myself a bowl of that damn granola mix. Dylan never says a word, even though I know he heard that whole exchange. I glare at him because I know Aiden just took the fall for him, but Dylan only glares back at me.

***

Walking into Miles of Vinyls
,
the first thing I see is Trevyn line dancing down the center aisle to “Walk the Line” by Johnny Cash. He’s holding something in his hand and has it raised to his mouth as he lip-synchs into it like it’s a microphone. It takes me a second to realize it’s the product key scanner we ordered to make keeping track of inventory easier. It must have been delivered this morning.

I laugh. Trevyn whips around, dropping his hand, and when his eyes find me, he sheepishly smiles, shrugs, and says, “Well, you can’t not dance when this song is on. C’mon now.” He waves me over, but I don’t budge. “C’mon, Delilah,” he says again, waving his hand and head together in exaggeration. “Dance with me.” He does a little jig then stops, his smile turning challenging.

“I don’t dance,” I say. “It’s a well-established fact.”

“Mmm.”

I look away, around the store. We still have a lot of setting up to do. I’m thinking about where to start next and absently tapping my fingers against my thigh to the more upbeat country song Cash sings next, even though I don’t really care for it, when I hear Trevyn call to me.

“Delilah.” His voice is soft and cajoling when he says my name. I snap my eyes back to him to find him watching me, amused. “You and I both know you’re gonna dance with me.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “Is that so?”

He nods, a small smile still on his face, and takes a step closer.

And then another.

And another.

His arms raise, and he extends his hands to mine, his fingers twitching twice in a motion for me to take his hands. “Don’t leave a guy hanging,” he teases.

I sigh, long and hard, in resignation. “Oh, fine.”

I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling now, laughing even, as he twirls me to him in one swift, skilled motion and takes off with me down the center aisle. I don’t know what kind of dance we’re doing, just that it’s full of energy and feels completely improvised. Trevyn catches me when our feet get caught up in each other.

“You know,” I say as he pulls me to him, my hand coming to rest on his shoulder, his on my waist, and our other hands clasped together out to the side, “for a science and engineering nerd, you’re a pretty good dancer.” He just laughs once, his mouth and eyes wide to flash me a look of mock incredulity, before he spins me around and around in dizzying circles.

We actually get a few customers today. The first is a middle-aged man who wanders in rather awkwardly. His eyes dart all over the tall shelves before they land on me. By the stiffness of his arms and shoulders, and the pleading look in his eyes, it’s clear he’s uncomfortable being here.

“Hi,” I welcome, trying not to find humor in the situation. “How can I help you?”

“Hi, uh—do you, uh, happen to have a vinyl album, um—” He hurriedly slips his hand inside his pocket, pulls out a slip of paper, and rights it before his face. He pushes his dad-glasses up on his nose and clears his throat. “An album by the name of
Like An Ever Flowing Stream
by—by Dismember?”

I press my lips together, hard, and try to contain the laughter that so badly wants to burst from me. With my voice strained from the effort, I clarify, “Swedish death metal?” I only know this because a guy I used to…hook up with…
worshipped
that album. He was one of those tortured soul types, who smoked a pack a day, joined a motorcycle gang, and had creepy tattoos covering every inch of his body.

“It’s not—it’s not for me,” he insists, which makes me want to laugh all the more. “It’s for my son. He’s into that kind of…music.”

“Well, hey, at least he’s got a dad willing to buy it for him.”

He grumbles a little at my response. “Well, I can’t say I particularly enjoy the noise.” The noise. That’s how he describes it. I actually do laugh this time, and the man’s shoulders relax a bit as he smiles, too, shaking his head.

“Let me look it up to see if we have it,” I say. My fingers fly over the keys of Trevyn’s laptop as I search for Dismember in our database.

No results. Dammit.

“Hey, Trevyn!” I call. “Do you know if we have any Dismember albums?” I check the database one more time, searching by the album name this time. Still, nothing.

“Uhhhh,” Trevyn thinks aloud from the back of the store. I imagine him scratching his head through his poof of curly hair. “Let me check back here. Everything we have out on the shelves right now would be in the database, right?”

“Yeah, it’s not there.”

The customer fiddles with his fingers. “My son…He really wants the vinyl. Collects that sort of stuff, you know?” He shrugs. “The last store didn’t have it either.”

“Hold on, I haven’t said we don’t yet.”

Just then, I hear Trevyn call, “Which album?”

“
Like An
Ever Flowing Stream
.”

There’s a rustling back there, then Trevyn comes into view, holding a vinyl in his hands like it’s a trophy. “You’re in luck,” he says, and I smile proudly at the man. “Only thing is,” Trevyn continues, “it’s not new. But we do check all used albums we buy to make sure they are in good condition, and you get it for a less expensive price. So it’s not a bad deal.”

The man looks unsure at first. “Can I check it out?” Trevyn hands him the album, and he examines the case for dents and tears then takes the vinyl out to check for damages.

“Looks to be alright,” he concludes.

“If it turns out it isn’t, just bring it back to us and we’ll give you a full refund. Sound good?”

I ring the man up, and before he leaves with his purchase, much more assuredly than he came in, he says, “They say vinyl produces the best sound, but I can’t imagine it making death metal sound any more tolerable.” That gives Trevyn and me a good laugh for the next ten minutes.

Our second customers are an elderly couple from Colorado who come in hooked at the hands and with the sweetest smiles on their faces. They wander the store, browsing for a good thirty minutes, their hands never parting, and I watch them, rapt, the entire time. The way they laugh together and lean into each other when they hold up albums and reminisce about their youth. The way they still look at each other as if this is all they ever need.

An old, wistful song plays over the speakers and reminds me of drizzling sunsets above fields of flowers, giving rise to bittersweet feelings. Their relationship is beautiful, and I’m suddenly flooded with the comprehension that I will never have what they have. To risk those kinds of feelings again, it’s probably the thing I’m most afraid of.

The couple approaches me at the front desk a few minutes later, their arms stacked with records. I see The Beatles’
Abbey Road
and Neil Young’s
After the Gold Rush
on the tops of each of their piles.

As they set the stacks on the counter, the woman explains, “We sold all our vinyls probably, oh, when was it, honey?”

Her husband squints his eyes in thought. “I’d say it was probably twenty years back, wouldn’t you? When we sold that house in Chattanooga and hightailed it to Denver?”

“Twenty years back!” the woman echoes with wide eyes. “Can you believe how old we’ve gotten!” She says this to me, as though I must have memories of them in their youth. Her head tilts forward, as if she’s imparting some great wisdom to me. “Time flies, darling. You’ve got to go out and live life like you mean it.”

I start ringing them up. “So, you’re building up your collection again?”