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“I know,” I said.

She touched the back of my chair as she passed, a small, absent gesture she’d made a thousand times when I was young and one I’d spent years trying to remember clearly.

Across the yard, the surface of the pool flashed in the sun. Somewhere nearby, a lawn mower started.

Dean was out there. Side A Records would smell like cardboard sleeves, dust, coffee, and Otis the dog. Dean would be behind the counter, dark hair falling into his eyes, hands moving over the records as though music was something alive.

I wanted to go to him so badly the wanting scared me, but I wasn’t ready. Not yet.

I’d woken up three hours ago in a life I’d spent twenty-seven years wishing to inhabit again, and now fearing in equal measure. What if I’d made a huge mistake? What if the grass wasn’t greener with a different choice? What if?

My mother drank her coffee. “Henry’s coming at three. Your sister says he wants to go for a swim.”

Henry. In 1984, my nephew still wore inflatable water wings and believed the deep end contained sharks. In 2011, he had a mortgage and a daughter who had once asked if I remembered when television was invented.

“I’ll swim with him,” I said.

She smiled, pleased that I didn’t argue.

I picked up my fork and looked around the kitchen.

Thirteen days. At any time before then, I could choose Paul again and return to the life that had given me my children.

Or I could do the terrifying thing and find out whether there was a future waiting with Dean.

But today, before I did anything brave or foolish, I was going to eat my mother’s overcooked eggs and drink her disgusting coffee, swim with my nephew, and remember how it felt to be Lorrie Hale before everyone else decided who she was supposed to become.

3

Dean

Sunday — August 12, 1984

I opened Side A Records at eleven on Sundays because State Street didn’t really wake up before then, and because Brian had once tried to run the register before having his coffee and charged a girl three dollars for a twenty-dollar import.

He said noon would be more civilized. I told him civilization could start when he learned to count change.

The key stuck in the front door, the way it always did when it was humid outside, and I had to lift the handle with my knee while turning the lock. My grandfather had taught me that trick years before he left me the building, along with a box of old receipt books, two file cabinets full of warranties for equipment we no longer owned, and a plumbing system that I hoped would last another few years or so.

I flipped the sign from CLOSED to OPEN and propped the door open with the brass duck the previous owner, who’d used the space as a clothing store, had used for reasons no one had ever explained to me. It had one missing eye and a dented wing, and every time I looked at it, I thought about replacing it, but never got around to it, telling myself that customers liked character.

The light shone through the front windows in long, dusty stripes, catching on the plastic sleeves in the new-arrivals bin and the handwritten staff picks taped to the wall. Rock ran along the west side, jazz and blues sat under the framed Miles Davis poster, and punk leaned into its narrow little section near the listening station as if it objected to being organized and near anything else.

The shop smelled like cardboard sleeves, floor wax, old paper, stale coffee, and the warm electrical scent from the amp I’d forgotten to turn off the night before. I needed to be more careful about the electric bill, it wasn’t like record stores made a lot of money though having an apartment above the store helped.

Otis limped in from the backyard behind the building after doing his business, one torn ear up and the other folded sideways from sleep. He was a broad, low mutt with brown-and-white fur, a graying muzzle, and paws too big for the rest of him. One back leg had gone stiff before I got him. He looked at the open front door, then at me, then gave the kind of sigh my father used to make when the Packers missed an easy field goal.

“Morning,” I said.

He came around the counter and lowered himself into the patch of sun by the register with great ceremony, as if he’d crossed the continent instead of twelve feet of floor.

The humane society had told me he needed patience and routine. They hadn’t mentioned he’d also need ham, praise, and a clear walking path because he liked to sleep exactly where people walked.

I set Rebel Yell on the turntable and dropped the needle. Billy Idol snarled through the speakers, and the store felt less empty as sound filled the air. MTV played without sound on the little television behind the counter, where Cyndi Lauper bounced around in colors bright enough to make my eyes hurt.

Brian’s note was under the register, written on the back of a distributor invoice.

Twin/Tone called Friday. Peter said call Monday before noon. Sounded serious. Also, Otis ate half a receipt.