The thing is, as strange as it feels, I still love this. Like genuinely love it. If my head wasn’t so muddied I would actually tell him that. But the words stay lodged in my throat, trapped in the what ifs.
What if it’s all temporary?
What if it still isn’t real or he changes his mind?
What if I keep feeling winded?
That one hits a little too close to home. Taking me back to another time, when life suffocated me.
I flatten my other hand against my thigh under the table, trying to ground myself.
I’m silent the rest of the meal.
When we walk out, Holden clears his throat. “Okay. Now I get to show you the other reason I picked this place.”
I squint at him. “Wow. Researchingandplanning ahead? Maybe you actually did listen to me. Fifty points.”
Holden’s eyes soften. “I can’t take credit for this one. You gave me the idea the other day.”
I frown. “I did?”
His grin turns boyish. “You’ll know when you see it.”
His expression tells me it’s something we both love.
The evening air is warm and dry, but with a gentle breeze that cools everything down. We walk down the sidewalk toward theshops. A guitarist is playing on the corner for cash, and I throw a few loose bills in. Holden smiles at me.
As soon as we round the corner, I go up on my toes. “The music store?”
He grins, obviously pleased with himself—or my reaction. Maybe both.
The bell over the door chimes softly as we step inside. It smells like old vinyl and dust and something faintly nostalgic.
“God, I love this place,” Holden mutters, already heading for the racks. “Haven’t been here for months.”
“Yeah, yeah. Don’t get emotional about it,” I tease.
Holden would have an entire library of vinyls if he had the room for it. Truth is, we haven’t been here since last summer, too caught up with work and life. But we used to spend hours in various music stores when we were teens, browsing the shelves and finding new music together.
We flip through albums side by side, shoulders bumping and occasionally holding something up for the other’s approval.
“Oh, check this out,” I say, revealing a pristine copy of Fleetwood Mac’sRumours.
Holden’s eyes get huge. “My dad would love that one. We should get it for him for Christmas.”
The corner of my mouth hitches up, even if something in me stops cold. “We, huh?”
His cheeks heat. “I just mean… yeah.” He bumps my shoulder, like it should be something obvious.
My heart somersaults. Is he really thinking of us together at Christmas? I’m still trying to get used to usnow.
I tuck the album under my arm as we pick through a couple more rows. Finding a few to sample, Holden drags me over to the listening station where two corded headphones are set up. He queues up the first track, and the music spills into our ears.
Just like that, we’re gone—grinning at each other, air guitars out, exaggerated strums, being completely ridiculous. When the chorus hits, we both lean into it, singing louder, dancing bolder, like the idiots we are without a care in the world.
I laugh, completely breathless, and lean into Holden. He tucks his head against mine for a brief second, then strums the next chorus with his fake guitar.
God, I love this.
