Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
But the best part is . . .
“Back here. There’s a jam space.” I throw out my arm in a ta-da move to highlight the multiple stands of various guitars, a drum set, and a circa-1970s gold floral couch complete with an orange tabby cat, who’s curled up in the corner of one end as usual. “That’s Ginger Spice,” I inform him, dropping my voice to add, “but she should’ve been named after a different Spice Girl—Scary Spice. She’s a lookie-no-touchie cat.”
While I’m not kidding about Ginger Spice being a guard cat, Ben looks around like the whole place is filled with snakes, alligators, and spiders that might attack him at any second.
“It’s cool, right? I thought you’d like the music,” I say uncertainly. He smiles, but I can see his nervousness returning. “You don’t have to play. I’m not forcing that on you . . . again. I just thought you’d like it.”
His grin is real this time. “Thank you. I do. So, uh, what kind of music do you listen to?” He moves toward the closest record bin, flipping through the albums quickly.
“A lot of Taylor Swift, and I’ve recently become obsessed with Stephen Sanchez. Have you heard of him?”
“I’ve heard of Taylor Swift,” he replies with a laugh. “Football fan, right?”
“What do you listen to, then?” I’m actually curious, not prepping to tease him. He played the Beatles twice, and plucks on his guitar randomly throughout every day and night. I’m dying to hear the song he’s been working on, but haven’t asked because I was afraid that would be too intrusive.
“I’m poly-jam-orous. If it’s good, it’s good. I’ve been listening to a guy named Ren a lot lately, but I’ve got mainstream-established artists too—Bowie, Slipknot, Tool, Zeppelin, Chris Stapleton, Elvis, Disney songs, Bocelli, BTS, Skrillex, Beyoncé, and yeah, Taylor Swift too. Then there’s the harder stuff—Code Orange, Nova Twins, Loathe, Ghost, Amon Amarth. And I could listen to Lorna Shore all damn day. Will Ramos is a beast.”
I stare at how easily all that rolled off his tongue, like his playlist is currently running in the back of his mind as a movie soundtrack to his life. I knew he liked music. I didn’t realize he likes music. “I know roughly half those words, a little less of those . . . bands? Musicians?” I start to laugh, feeling way out of my league here.
An idea strikes me, and I grab a record, holding it up so Ben can see. “Thoughts on”—I glance at the cover—“Sailing the Seas of Cheese?”
“Jerry was a race car driver,” he answers cryptically. When I look at him in bewilderment, he spins his finger, telling me to turn it over.
When I do, I discover it’s a song title on this specific album.
“How did you—” I sputter, and he laughs, shrugging like it’s no big deal. “No way.”
I pull another, and then another. When I’ve pulled ten albums and he’s known something about each one—a song title, a fact about the artist—or hums a little tune, I give up.
“Hope, your friend’s got impressively broad musical knowledge,” Vincent, the owner, tells us as he comes over and offers Ben his hand.
Ben shakes Vincent’s hand but seems to realize we’ve had an audience for our show-and-tell game, and his playful grin melts as he steps to my side protectively. “Thanks.” His voice has gone flat and hard, totally un-Ben-like for some reason.
Vincent holds up his hands in surrender and grins. “No worries, man. Me and Ginger are on Team Hope,” he reassures us, shooting double thumbs-up my way. “Gotta keep your dad happy. He’s one of my best customers for the old stuff.” I nod, sure that’s true. “You play?” Vincent asks Ben, pointing toward the jam space.
Ben frowns, seeming on edge. “A bit. You?”
“Nah, I wish. I’ve got the love of music, but the best I can do is a kick-ass air guitar.” He demonstrates, squeezing his eyes shut and grimacing as he plays a silent solo on an invisible instrument. He does indeed add a kick of his leg and then throws both hands up and whisper-shouts, “Thank you, New York!” He cups his hands around his mouth, creating the sound of roaring adoring fans.
Ben smiles more warmly, telling Vincent, “Ten out of ten air guitar rating. Jack Black would be envious.”
“You two let me know if I can help with anything,” Vincent says, gesturing to the store; then he pins me with a look. “And that goes doubly for you. Maple Creek’s a beast sometimes. Gotta beat it back with a stick so everyone’s not all up in your business.” He winks and then glances from me to Ben with what seems to be a happy smile.
The next few stores are more of the same, to my surprise. Everyone’s friendly and welcoming, and while some of them are probably faking it in an attempt to get fresh dirt on my situation, if even half of them are being genuine, I’m thankful for it. Of course, there are some outright stares, lots of curious gazes from locals, and a few whispers as we pass people on the sidewalk, but I don’t feel outright hostility the way I expected to.