The Stars Will Shine (10 page)

The woman flashes a far-off smile. “Our children bought us a beautiful record player for our 50
th
wedding anniversary.” Their 50
th
wedding anniversary, and they’re still so in love.

“That’s really nice,” I say quietly. My voice feels stuck in my throat. The woman folds her hands over mine, and I barely manage to stop myself from pulling back at the contact. Her hands are that wrinkly softness that grandmas often have, which makes me nostalgic for someone I never met. I stare at our hands, and with every beat of my heart, an ache grows in my chest. She regards me intently—I know she does—but I can’t meet her eyes.

“Oh, Sweetie,” she says, and gives my hand a light pat. I don’t know how old people do it, but they have this way of seeing right into the most secret, sacred parts of you. I look away and gently pull my hand from hers.

“Here’s your receipt,” I say. “I hope you have a really nice day.”

The woman’s husband hooks the bags over one arm, and with his other hand lovingly sweeps hers up again as they leave.

Our third customer is a young woman, probably in her early to mid-twenties. She’s very pretty, with pale, porcelain skin and elfish features. Her hair is a waterfall of blonde waves, but her lashes are long and dark. She’s tall like a model, and she wears mint-colored converse shoes, jean capris rolled up at the bottoms, a flowy white tee-shirt, and a silky floral-patterned head scarf. She glances around the store briefly, as if looking for someone she expects to be here, before approaching the desk and giving me a shy smile.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hi, can I help you find something?” She glances around again.

“I’m actually hoping you can help me find some
one
. I’m, uh—” Her fingers tug and twist the ends of her hair, which is pulled over one shoulder and falls just below her breast. Her fingers are decorated with a few silver rings, one with a large polished turquoise on top. “Is Trevyn around?” she finishes.

I roll back onto my heels. A knowing smile pulls at my lips, and she blushes a little.

“Let me get him for you,” I say with a tap of my fingers on the counter. She seems to both relax and grow more anxious at the same time. I make my way to the back room, where Trevyn is pulling boxes down from a top shelf and slicing them open with an x-acto knife.

“Hey, Trevyn.”

He glances up briefly before cutting a box open with one swift swipe of his knife. “What’s up, Squirt?” He wipes some sweat from his brow and straightens to full height, his breathing a little ragged.

I arch my brow at him playfully, and he returns a wary look.

“What is it?” he says more tentatively now.

I pretend to examine my nails for longer than necessary. “Oh, you know,” I say with feigned indifference. “Nothing much. There’s just some hot chick out there, all but begging to see you.” I flick my eyes back to his with a teasing smile.

“What? Really?” He seems more confused than flattered, which throws me off a little. Slowly, he sets the x-acto knife down, his brow furrowed, as if this must all just be a big misunderstanding. “What does she look like?”

I wave to my hair. “Long blonde hair, brown eyes, pale skin, head scarf, rings.” I wiggle my fingers. “Um, I don’t know, and she didn’t tell me her name. She was damn eager to see you, though—nervous, too, I’d say.” I wink at him.

The whole time I was describing her to him, Trevyn’s eyes were widening, so I know he knows who I’m talking about. I can practically see his heart beating faster in his chest through the soft blue-gray shirt he wears.

“So who is she, huh? A high school sweetheart longing to rekindle the romance? A college one-night-stand come looking for more?”

He falls weakly, like he’s lost the strength to stand, into a sitting position on the box he just cut open. His hand rises slowly, in disbelief, to his heart, and he looks shocked and pained and hopeful, all at once.

He shakes his head so slowly and says, “She’s my fiancée.”

My jaw hits the floor.

Chapter Seven

“Your fiancée!” I gasp.

“Shh! Shh!” He jumps up, waving for me to calm down, and points to the open door behind me.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, still too loudly. “But”—my eyes go so wide, they almost hurt—“you have a fiancée?” My mouth hangs open, my skin buzzing with excitement. And then my grin grows huge. “One whom you seem
super
shocked to see, by the way.” I give his shoulder a light slug. “Wow…wow!” I clasp my hands together.

“I know.”

“Wow!”

“You said that already.”

“I know, it’s just…I really want to hear this story now.” He gives me a half-hearted glare that I ignore. “You know, you better get out there, before she runs off or something.” Apparently, that is the wrong thing to say because his head and shoulders instantly sink forward, and he throws his face into his hands, scratching his nails down his cheeks.

“Oh, wait,” I say with a very visible wince. There’s a long silence. And then because I can’t keep my mouth shut about it, I ask, “She ran off…before?” He merely nods, his hands still on his face. “But she’s still your fiancée?” He nods again. This is more complicated than I thought. I touch a hand to his shoulder and give it a light squeeze. Not really knowing the best thing to say in this situation, I say nothing at all.

“Trevyn?” a small voice says from behind me, and I know it’s her, Trevyn’s fiancée. Trevyn slowly lifts his face from his hands, and I step to the side. The woman lingers just outside the doorway, unsure. When her eyes fall on Trevyn, I see something shift in her expression. It’s like all at once, she’s flooded with emotion—guilt, love, joy—and she starts to cry. The tears pour out of her, but she doesn’t choke out heart-wrenching sobs; she just stands there with silent streams down her cheeks, and stares at Trevyn through watery pools. And he stares back, still, I think, not quite believing she’s here.

I take this as my cue to leave because they look like they need to sort some things out.

“I’ll just—I’ll be out here…working,” I say, but Trevyn is so far lost in his fiancée’s eyes, I know he doesn’t hear me, or care. I hurry out of the stockroom and click the door shut behind me to give them some privacy.

They emerge from the stockroom forty minutes later, and Trevyn brings her up to the front for introductions. Her name is Amber Kissinger; she’s a twenty-four-year-old photographer; and she has known Trevyn since they were four years old. Nothing is mentioned of their engagement, though Trevyn does still call her his fiancée. Unsurprisingly, nothing is mentioned of her departure and startling return either.

Amber has an introverted beauty about her. She’s shy and soft-spoken. She moves with the sort of delicacy you’d see in a woman dancing ballet—structured and passionate, with nothing stiff or mechanical in the slightest about any of her motions, even her most nervous habit of pulling at the ends of her hair. Her eyes stare at her surroundings with serene wonder and observe everything in smooth, vast sweeps, like the way a bird floats on the wind.

Trevyn has a difficult time looking at anything else when she is around, which proves to be quite often over the next week. There is an adorable aspect to their interactions that reminds me of that of a new couple, quietly sweet and shy, though they have known each other their entire lives.

Amber sometimes brings her camera to the shop and photographs displays of vinyls that she sets up around the store. A week after her abrupt arrival, she asks me to model for her. I laugh at the absurdity of it, but she only stares blankly back at me.

“Wait, are you serious?” I ask.

“You have a unique look about you,” she explains in that gentle way of hers. “It fits well with the store.”

I laugh once. “And what look is that, exactly?” I’m really not sure what she means by it—like, should I be taking this as a compliment or an insult? “A musician? An indie chick? A misunderstood teenager?” I flick an eyebrow upward, amused to see her eyes widen.

“No, I didn’t mean…I meant that you just have this comfortable bearing when you’re in the presence of these records, like you’re completely at home among the music and the album art. There’s a pervasive admiration in your eyes; you’re always seeing something no one else can, or understanding things in ways they don’t. I just want to convey some of that in my photographs.” She curls some hair behind her ear and looks at me with a question in her eyes:
Do I sound crazy to you?

Trevyn is in love with this woman. I don’t know how I feel about her yet, but I can do this for her because he loves her. I grace her with a smile, and come around the counter to stand in front of the doors.

“So, where do you want me?”

Delight animates her face, and all of a sudden she is in a different mode, determined and confident. She directs me around the shop into poses, asks me to browse the store like I would if she weren’t there, and takes shots of me amid all the records, from way up close and from far away. She says things like, “That’s a great one, Delilah,” “Keep doing what you’re doing, it’s perfect,” “You’re a natural at this,” “Look into the camera now,” “Your eyes are striking.” We spend an hour doing this, both inside and outside the shop, and just as quickly as she delved into snapping photos of me, she stops.

“I think that’s a good amount for today,” she says with a smile. Her eyes are bright, and I can’t help but think she gets a rush, a high, from this. I push my hair back from the edge of my face, where tiny beads of sweat have formed, and watch her carefully place her camera back into its case and pack up the rest of her things.

Sliding the strap of her bag over her shoulder and across her chest, she starts to leave, but before she makes it through the door, she turns back around and says, “Delilah?”

“Mhmm?” I glance up at her, my hair tie clamped between my lips as I scoop my hair into a messy ponytail.

“I think it’s really great, you know, that you’ve been so helpful to Trevyn. He really appreciates all you’ve done.”

“It’s not a big deal,” I say after I twist the hair tie around my hair to keep it up and out of my face. “Besides, he’s paying me for it, you know. I don’t just do all this out of the goodness of my heart.”

She laughs softly and pushes the door open. “See you later, Delilah.” As soon as she steps outside, the sunlight turns her hair a brilliant shade of gold.

***

“I want to propose an idea,” I say in my most business-like fashion. It’s the day after Amber and I did our photoshoot, and my mind’s been ruminating like crazy ever since. Trevyn has a wary look in his eyes and merely blinks at me, waiting for me to go on. “I think we need to advertise and do some promotional stuff to, you know, build our customer base.” I survey the store, and Trevyn follows my eyes. The store, as usual, is empty of customers.

“Okay,” Trevyn says. “What’re your ideas?”

I grin widely and pull out a folder. He eyes the folder with an upturned brow.

“You’ve really thought a lot about this, haven’t you?”

I wave him off. “First of all, we need to design some flyers or posters or something of that nature that, you know, alerts people to this place.”

“Alerts people. That sounds like our shop is something to be avoided at all costs.”

I shoot him a bland look. “You know what I mean.”

He laughs and motions his hands toward his chest. “Okay, keep throwing ‘em at me.”

“Okay. I was thinking we need to make a website as well. We can post pictures of vinyls, especially the rarer ones we have. I could see it enticing some collectors and curious vinyl fans.”

“Okay.” He nods to himself. “Okay, I’m down with this so far.”

“And…” Now this one, I’m not sure he’ll be as open to. “I think we should host some kind of event every month or so. Like, we could let local bands play on Friday or Saturday nights once a month. They’d appreciate it, you know, because they’d get some exposure. And then there’s the fact that live music would draw people to our shop—”

Trevyn bangs his palm on the counter, which sends his curls bouncing. It startles me for a moment until his face brightens and he says, “I love it! When can we start?” Leaning into his elbows, he looks up at me like a kid waiting for a good story.

“Well, I was thinking we could start now, I guess, if you want.”

He glances once over each shoulder then looks back at me. “I don’t know,” he drags out. “We look a little busy right now. Things might get hectic is all…”

I hit him lightly on the shoulder.

We get a lot of planning done so that by the end of the day we’ve posted an ad on Craigslist looking for local bands to play shows in our shop and have whipped up some sample flyers on the computer. I won’t lie, they don’t look too great, but neither of us ever claimed to be graphics designers.

A few customers come throughout the day, but none light up Trevyn’s face as when Amber walks through that door in the last hour before closing. She has her sunglasses perched on top of her head, her camera bag hanging off one shoulder, and a brown paper takeout bag in the other hand.

“Hey,” she says as she sets the bag of takeout on the counter. The scent wafts over, and my stomach rumbles. With a knowing smile, she says, “There’s some for you in there too, you know. I hope you like spicy pasta.”