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Groaning, I glance to where my first customer of the day was once standing, before turning back to the offending device on my counter.
After an hour (yes, a motherfucking hour) of listening to the same song over and over and over and over again, and scaring off another potential customer, I call my big brother. “Hello?”
“I need help.”
“Why are you yelling? And can’t you step outside or something? Why are you blasting music in my ear,” Samuel grumbles.
“I am outside! That’s the problem! My laptop is blasting Tammy Wynette!”
“I didn’t think you liked country music,” he states matter-of-factly.
“I don’t! Focus, Samuel.”
“I don’t understand.”
“My. Laptop. Is. Playing. Music. And I can’t get it to stop.”
“Turn it off, Harper. There’s a little exit button at the top of the screen. Click it,” he says, his voice carrying a tinge of annoyance, as if he’s talking to a small child.
“I did! I clicked it a thousand times.”
“Then it must not be coming from that app. Do you have any other music apps on there?”
“I don’t know,” I whine – yes, whine. “Can’t you come over and fix it?” He is our resident computer nerd, after all.
“Sorry, I’m unavailable. I can come by around three, after the Sparling funeral.”
“Fun,” I crack. It’s still a little weird my brother is a mortician.
“I have to go. Good luck,” he says before hanging up, not giving me enough time to say goodbye.
“Whatever,” I snap at no one, setting my phone down on the counter and wishing I had a landline so I could slam the receiver down on the base.
My stomach growls angrily, probably because it’s tired of hearing Tammy too, which reminds me I didn’t even get to make my morning coffee. Ignoring the song belting from the small speakers, I head to the kitchen area and fire up the coffeepot. It’s a small four-cup jobby, and even though I could seriously go for about sixteen cups, this one will have to do in a pinch.
It doesn’t take long before the pot is ready and I pour myself a large mug. I check the fridge and find the creamer outdated, confirming the worst. I have nothing to pour into my black coffee. My day officially blows. My coffee’s shit and my pretty boutique sounds like a country western bar.
The hours drag on.
Yes, with Tammy crooning on repeat about the importance of standing by her man. Over and over. And over and over… I try to pretend it’s not happening, but that doesn’t work well. Every time the song ends, a sense of sweet relief washes over me, only to have it dashed away with the start of the song all over again.
“Holy shit,” I hear hollered over the music. “What the hell is happening in here?” my best friend says as she enters my shop, her eyes wide with shock.
“Welcome to Hell, population one.”
“Seriously, why are you blasting that music?”
“I’m not!”
“What?”
“I’m not! I don’t know why it’s playing that song.”
Free approaches the counter, sets the bag of sandwiches down, and comes around to check out my laptop. I watch as she brings the music app up and does the exact same things I’ve done all morning. She stares down, clearly thinking, before reaching around the back and unplugging the small speakers, bathing the shop in silence.
“Oh my God,” I yell, throwing my arms around her and hugging tightly.
“Why are you still yelling?” she asks quietly.
