Being surrounded by the mementos of my parents’ band makes me think about Gil even more. The artistry, the quirky looks, the webbed hands. At night, I close my eyes and hear the music we shaped together.
I wish I didn’t need the money. I wish I didn’t need this job. But even with the change of my email passwords—because I’m certain Aunt Andrea has been in my inbox—no one has called me back. This is my best option for now. I scratch at the back of my neck without thinking, not bothering to stop when I notice the way my nails are digging into cracked skin.
It’s gotten so much worse lately; the plaques of dead skin are bumpy and constantly itchy. All the picking and scratching is only making it worse. As self-destructive as it may be, it is the cheapest coping mechanism I have. “Just try not to hurt yourself,” Gil told me, and I try—not just for him, or Grams, but for me. But so far, none of the fidgets, lotions, or spinning rings have given me the same kind of relief. Still, I try, and that’s a step above the indifference I’d found myself in before.
“Excuse me, you’re Marina, aren’t you?” a woman asks, snapping me out of my misery as I re-tag items Aunt Andrea decided are no longer on clearance. I nod, noticing her fringe vest matches mine—a near-identical remake of my mother’s.
The fans are our best customers—they always have been. Aunt Andrea may be keen on taking advantage of that, but I’m not.
If that’s really why she is keeping me around, she’ll live to regret it. These past few weeks, the stack of guitar picks from behind the counter has shrunk, along with our sales numbers. The beads from my mom’s vest stopped jangling when I walk, but the folks who come here for a piece of the band are getting it. That makes biding my time here a little more worthwhile.
Aunt Andrea peers out of the office with narrowed eyes. As far as I can tell, she’s not onto me yet. I need to save up alotor find a remote job that pays well. I can’t risk lawyering up, especially since I’m not sure I have a case.
At least today is Halloween, which means I’ll pass out candy to the kids who trick-or-treat through the shopping district. Their adorable costumes are sure to take some of the edge off the day.
This year, my outfit is as close to a Gillarian as I could find at the costume store: I’m a mermaid. I have shells in my hair, glitter on my face, and airbrushed scales on my cheeks and neck. The sparkle is making my day slightly more bearable.
As the day drags on, a woman tries to return a dress that is from a different retailer and ripped at the hem for store credit. Someone clogs the toilet—twice. Then I’m sent to clean up the broken bottles that keep collecting outside of the shop. My guess is that they originate from the liquor store down the street, but it’s never been this bad before.
By the time business picks up, I’m exhausted. I hang the broom behind the register, where Aunt Andrea waits with her usual scowl. Only this time, she’s fixated on my hands—no, my wrist, where my bracelet jingles.
“Haven’t we talked about only wearing our products?” she asks, reaching down to touch the beads. I draw back, but not fast enough; her finger snags in the elastic as she studies it curiously.
“I’ve been wearing it for weeks,” I argue. “It hasn’t been a problem before.”
“Well, it is now,” she says, pulling my wrist to study it closely. Her eyes scan every small detail, and a chill runs down my spine. “It’s charming in its simplicity.”
“Thank you?”
“It’s not meant to be a compliment—customers will see it and want one.”
“Oh, well, it’s handmade,” I say, unable to resist admiring the way the pearls gleam under the overhead lights. “It’s not like I’m wearing something that will make them leave and go to a different shop for.”
“Then make more.” She barks the order, just like she’s asking me to log her into her email or take out the trash.
This isn’t some small task I’ll just do for her. Memories rush back to me of that night, the jug of sweet tea we shared, and theway Gil strung these beads and charms like putting pieces of my heart back together after they’ve long since shattered, not caring if his claws snagged on the cracks. And though I’ve been wearing it as proudly as a wedding ring, its backstory isn’t hers to know about.
“I didn’t make—” I begin, but she interrupts me, studying it so closely I flinch.
“I’d say, instead of the shells, string some of the guitar pics you keep stealing as charms.”
My heart drops—
“You really didn’t think I noticed?” She laughs. “Marina, I see everything—and you can make it up to me. I think fans would pay at least twenty-five an item, but considering it would be limited quantities, we could probably—”
“I saidno.” I draw back, but her fingers are still snagged on the string, and the magic woven into the bracelet doesn’t stop it from snapping.
Any apology Aunt Andrea has to offer is overshadowed by beads clattering to the floor.
“You take care of that—I’ll deal with the customers,” Aunt Andrea says, her tone ever-so gracious as if she’s doing me a favor. Stunned, I bend down to gather each and every piece, suddenly grateful for how well I vacuumed earlier.
Tears build in my eyes.
This is my only connection to him, the thing that’s supposed to lead us back to each other—how can it do that when it’s in pieces across the shop?
“Sorry—excuse me,” I say, reaching under racks and navigating the busy store of costumed shoppers. “Pardon me—”
And God why are there so many people? I bend and weave and gather the bright colored shells, dodging pirates, tulle skirts, and shoppers to try to find all of them.
