READING MY MORNING text messages gives me an anxiety jolt stronger than coffee.
My bottom lip splits under my teeth. I absentmindedly stroke Felix’s head with one hand as I scroll through my phone with the other, tasting the metallic tang of blood. I cross and then uncross my legs, scooting against a display of records at the front of the store.
The only person who could’ve told her any of this is Dylan. I’ve never met the vindictive side of him but somehow always knew it was there. Does he get to keep my friends in this break up? I exhale in a whoosh. Mad at Patrick for coming in between my two best friends. Mad at Dylan for telling Lexie things I should’ve told her myself. Mad at Maddie for asking me to keep a secret and then selling me out. Mad at Lexie for not loving her sister when some people don’t get to ever experience the love between siblings. Mad at Henry for having such a kissable, out-of-reach mouth. But most of all, mad at Pop. For dying and putting me in all those other situations to begin with.
“Something wrong?”
I look up. Henry eagle-eyes me from his perch behind the register.
“Yeah. Lots of drama going on back at home.”
The front door opens, sweeping in a roar of street noise. I climb to my feet and join Henry behind the service counter. A group of customers enters the store and files into the classic rock section. Felix trots away to the stairs and curls into his favorite spot on the landing.
“Want to talk about it?” He leans forward onto the counter and props his chin in his hand.
I don’t, but things have been weird between us since that night in the darkroom, so I’m okay with faking normalcy.
“My two best friends hate each other’s guts now. Over your brother.”
Henry’s eyebrows shoot skyward. “Seriously?”
“They’re sisters.”
His eyes grow wider still. “I’m sure he’s enjoying himself.”
“I don’t think he is.”
“Oh please,” says Henry. “Patrick loves being the center of attention. At any cost.”
“I told him he should leave them both alone, and according to them, he has.”
“Hmm.” He crosses his arms. “Perhaps he’s miraculously turned into somebody else, then.”
I give him a look and open my mouth to ask him why he’s so harsh about Patrick, but a lady steps up to the counter to check out.
“Goodness. It’s so quiet in here,” she says. “Don’t music stores usually play music?”
Henry points to the listening stations. “You can listen to anything you like as long as it isn’t cellophane-sealed.”
“Oh, I know, I meant for background noise. Feels like a library.”
Henry gives her a tight smile as he hands her a receipt. “Have a nice day.”
“She has a point,” I say as we watch her exit the store. He glances sideways at me. “I wondered the same thing when I first got here.”
“Mum always said we shouldn’t force our musical tastes on patrons. They should be able to listen to what they like.”
I shrug. “Maybe they don’t know what’s good.”
Henry grins.
“Kind of like you,” I add.
“What, because I’m not a Beatles superfan, I have no taste?”
“Other than the offhand comment about being more of a Stones kind of guy, you’ve never mentioned what music you like.”
“Other than the Beatles, neither have you.”
“Fine, but I asked you first,” I challenge.
“I never heard a question.”
I roll my eyes. “Henry, what’s the last song you listened to on purpose?”
“The eye roll was a nice touch.” He laughs. “Really convinced me of your sincerity.”
“Fine.” I round the counter to the used section and thumb through a few albums. “I’ll go first.”
When I find the record I’m searching for, I take it to the listening station adjacent to the cash register. The record swishes as I pull it from its sleeve. I drop the needle onto the vinyl, unplug the headphones, and leave the door open.
The opening chords from Memory Lane play.
“This is the last song I listened to before falling asleep last night.”
He rubs his jaw. “You like Elliott Smith?”
I shrug. “Sometimes.”
He nods like he knows exactly what I mean. We listen to the melody, the tortured lyrics, in silent reverence. When the song ends and I lift the needle from the vinyl, Henry finally speaks.
“Such a shame somebody killed that guy.”
I squint at him, puzzled. “He killed himself.”
Henry shakes his head. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Um, yes. He stabbed himself in the heart.”
This seems to ruffle him. “I know the story, thanks. But I don’t believe that’s what happened.”
I point behind me at the stopped record. “Did we listen to the same song? The guy who wrote that song wanted to die.”
Henry starts to pace behind the counter. “You don’t find the whole thing is suspicious? People don’t stab themselves in the heart.”
“He talked about killing himself constantly.”
He rounds the counter, on some kind of mission now, and changes the song to Twilight. It plays for a moment and he sticks a finger up in the air. “This.” He points. “He was working on this album when he died. Why would he be so optimistic if he was thinking of stabbing himself—arguably one of the most painful ways to go?”
“Is it optimistic, though?” I cross my arms. “I always thought that line meant he’d rather die than lose the things he loves.”
“Dying means losing those things anyway, though.”
“Maybe he didn’t see it that way.”
Henry changes the song again, a little frustrated. “What about this last one?” When we’re halfway through the song, Henry adds, “He’s self-aware. He has willpower.”
My neck gets hot. I’m defensive for an artist who was dead before I was even born. “I’ve read the articles, Henry. He had no illegal drugs in his system when he died. All prescription ones. Doctors think antidepressants are some kind of magic cure all, but they’re not. So maybe he was murdered. By his prescriptions.”
Henry stares at me like he’s deciding what to say next. Finally he says, “You think his antidepressants made him do it?”
I nod. “Maybe he wanted to feel something. Maybe shoving a blade through his chest felt better than walking around numb all the time, either from the heroin or the pharmaceuticals.”
“He loved heroin, though.” Henry cocks his head to the side. “Referred to it as his friend.”
I shrug. “Maybe he wasn’t afraid of pain or numbness he thought he could control.”
“I could see that.” There’s a subtle shift in Henry’s voice. From speculation to a hollow understanding. His throat moves as defeat settles over his face. “That’s how I felt when I took antidepressants. Or didn’t feel, I should say. I felt nothing. But that didn’t make me want to shove a blade into my chest. Twice.”
The vulnerability of that statement floors me. Maybe that’s what forces me to admit something aloud that I’ve never even admitted to myself.
“They made me feel that way, too. For a while, death seemed like it would be a relief.”
His face falls and he goes silent for a moment.
“Then that wasn’t the right medication for you. Just like it wasn’t for me. But that doesn’t mean all medication is bad, Jo.”
I sense it coming: the spiel I’ve been hearing from Dylan and my mom for ages.
“It’s cowardly,” I say, flexing my jaw. “Trying to control yourself with chemicals. Prescription or otherwise.”
Henry shakes his head. “Cowardice is knowing you need help, yet refusing it.”
A chill spreads over me, ceiling to floor. The unspoken statement hangs between us, ugly and obvious. It’s what Pop did. And maybe he’s suggesting that by not taking my meds, it’s what I’m also doing. Tears flare.
“Not all depression looks the same, Henry.”
He flexes his jaw. “That’s exactly my point.”
A shrill ring makes me jump—his phone. I give myself a minute to recover from our conversation while he answers it. I reach under the cash register and slide the stack of photos we developed out and thumb through them on the counter. Most of the folks from Abbey Road came by this week to pick up their prints. Not the older couple, though. I stare at the picture and try to escape from the remnants of our conversation; half rattled, half listening to Henry’s conversation.
“I can’t leave this week because Dad is gone… yes… he says he has a vendor meeting.” He laughs. “Yes. Allegedly.” He laughs again. “Sure, Saturday night. I’ll be there. Of course. See you then.”
My ears perk up. When he hangs up, I ask him, “You don’t think George is really at a vendor meeting?”
“Uh—”
“Sorry to eavesdrop.”
“Yeah. Pretty sure he’s seeing the festival organizer. He doesn’t want me to know about it. Thinks I can’t handle him replacing my mother.” As he says this, he steps over to the used records and searches till he finds one. “Now where were we? My turn, yes?” He selects one and walks it to the turntable. A guitar and piano harmony begins to play. We listen together. It Takes A Lot to Know a Man fills the store with its cautiously optimistic melody.
“Damien Rice?”
He nods.
I wonder if he’s trying to send some sort of message with this song choice, but I just keep sorting through the photos on the counter as it plays. He steps over beside me and studies them over my shoulder.
“This one,” he says, pointing to the picture of the older couple. “The light is perfect.” He stares a while longer. “Only people who spend a lot of time in darkness can truly appreciate light.”
I try not to read into it too much, but reading into things is one of my specialties.
“Register for the workshop,” he says.
I look up at him. “I don’t know if I can make it work.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t give me that. With a little formal training you’ll be incredible. Stop putting your life on hold.”
It’s like he’s giving me permission to pursue something I want. Shoving me in the direction I already want to go.
“Henry?”
He looks at me. “Hmm?”
“I appreciate that you don’t treat me like a wilting flower.”
He nods and fixes his gaze on the picture again. “Why would I? You’re anything but.”
I pull up my phone browser and fill out the registration form online. A few minutes later, a confirmation appears in my inbox.