“I’ll be okay here,” Grams finally says, wiping a tear away from her lips. “Call me, text me, visit when you’re able, but for God’s sake Marina, don’t let me stop you from living your life. Whether it’s a move away or a world tour, the best thing you can give me is finding happiness, and I wouldn’t mind a few great-grandchildren.”
“Grams!”
“Hmm?” she says, adding a dramatic yawn in for effect.
“Do not pretend like you didn’t just say what you said!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She shrugs. “I am getting older, you know.”
“Please, your joints are weak, not your memory,” I scold. I’ve seen this woman play Sudoku. “You’re the healthiest you’ve been in years. Do not let your doctors hear you make jokes like that—which, by the way, are very insensitive to your neighbors withactualmemory challenges.”
“Okay, okay, fair point,” she concedes with an uneasy shrug. “But please. Marina, let yourself be happy. I think you found something this past weekend, something long forgotten—and I’m not talking about your fella. Your eyes have a sparkle again, and I don’t want you to lose that. You do what you need to, even if it means leaving me behind.”
“I’ll never do that,” I promise, squeezing her hand tight. “But I will start thinking about the whole ‘future happiness’ thing, starting by quitting the store.”
“Finally!” she says, throwing her arms around me. “That witch doesn’t deserve all you do for her.”
“She’s done a lot for me too,” I say. “Obligation or not, Aunt Andrea has—”
“—been a viper for as long as I’ve known her.” The scowl on her lips is strong but unpracticed. Despite her jabs, Grams typically likes everyone but not Aunt Andrea. They’ve been civil of course, for my sake mostly, but there’s always been tension.
“Grams!”
“Quit the shop, then we can sort out how to get you back to that new beau, huh?”
“Yeah, Grams.” I nod. “Quit the shop, go to the audition, see what feels right.”
“Well, you said you’d come back with a new song,” she says with a smile. “And this is music to my ears.”
I sleep at Grams’ and wake up just early enough to feel nerves settle beneath the surface.
Gil has a life back home.
This band, Aligned Shadows could still be a piece of mine here.
The house they live in is as cozy as I imagined: small with chipped paint and lights on a string half-burnt out across the porch—a place filled with artists. Through the windows, I can see guitar cases leaning against the walls. The pavement vibrates with bass as I approach.
Star answers the door, her blue hair long and in waves. When her eyes meet mine, there’s a forgetful smile. “Oh, Marina! Hi!” She reaches out to shake my hand before looking at her phone to confirm the time. “We all got a little caught up. Come on in!”
Star moves aside, welcoming me into their practice space—a living room, crammed with equipment and buzzing with energy. There are more people than I expected lounging on the couches. Someone wearing a beanie, despite the heatwave outside, circles the band with a cellphone.
“We’re livestreaming. That’s cool, right?” Star’s energy is breezy as she moves to pick up her guitar.
“Oh,” I say. Considering my impromptu set at a mystical music festival recently, the idea of people watching shouldn’t make me pause. Still, something cold seizes my limbs as I continue into the space.
My keyboard is still at Gil’s, and I’m glad that in the lineup of equipment, they have one I can borrow. The band looks at me with eager eyes, like I could be the thing they’ve been waiting for.
Drawing in a deep breath, I press my fingers to the keys, letting my thoughts drift to that night with Gil on the dock. As I hum the still rough outline of the song I’ve been chasing this weekend, I begin.
Pictures of Gil’s home, of Camp Mangrove, of the kisses we’ve shared, and his hand in mine float through me as my fingers fly across the keys. I feel it, the haunting melody of the theremin in my bones even without him here. As I sing, I chase it, matching the melody until I’m breathless.
Aligned Shadows is staring at me. Unblinking, and seemingly unimpressed, until Star begins to clap. “That was … something else,” she says, which is surely a polite way of saying she hates it. “Different than your video.”
“A lot has changed since then,” I admit, forcing myself not to shrink.
Ned, the guitarist, lets out a strange hum. “In a week?” He laughs before turning on his amp.
Sometimes, that’s all it takes.
