Page 88 of Beyond the Stroke

A coincidence? Or, did Rory buy them for me?

The thought sends my stomach aflutter, so I close the door before I can get carried away.

I pour myself a glass of water, and lean against the kitchen island to drink it. When I lift the glass, my wedding band sparkles, catching my eye. Holding my hand out in front of me, I inspect the foreign piece of jewelry.

That’s when my eyes land on Rory’s record player across the room. When I saw it earlier, I’d been excited. I used to have one in my apartment, but had to downsize when I moved into my van.

Listening to music has always been enjoyable for me, but there’s something about the sound quality of vinyl that hits different. It’s warm and textured, the music somehow softer around the edges. Even the faint crackle and pop from the needle settling into the groove is so satisfying.

I walk over and drop to my knees on the floor to check out Rory’s collection of records.

Bruces Springsteen, Hozier, Radiohead, Tom Petty, The Rolling Stones.

We hadn’t talked about it, but it’s interesting to see Rory’s taste in music is similar to mine. Eclectic, classic, with some pop hits thrown in. I smile because he’s also got ABBA and Taylor Swift next to Frank Ocean and Nirvana.

My fingers stop on a record I remember my grandmother playing often. Fleetwood Mac—Rumours. Carefully, I slide the record out of the sleeve and load it on the turntable, then flick the on switch and move the needle to the rotating vinyl.

There’s a moment of static, then Stevie Nicks’ raspy voice fills the room. It’s whiskey-warm, a mix of gravel and velvet. I let her natural vibrato serenade me while I explore the kitchen.

I’m not a great cook, but I wouldn’t mind learning to do more now that I have a full kitchen at my fingertips. This time I stop in front of Rory’s refrigerator to look at the magnets clinging to the stainless-steel finish.

A giant taco-shaped one that says “Tacos Are Life.”

A bottle opener magnet.

A Carolina Current Swim Club magnet.

A polaroid of Rory and his teammates tucked under a “I got crabs in Charleston” magnet.

There’s also a bunch of refrigerator letters you can spell words and phrases with. Most are pushed around haphazardly, the only readable phrase is “IN HARD, OUT WET.”

“Is that a swimmer thing?” I ponder out loud.

There’s a crackling pause between songs, then “Go Your Own Way” starts playing.

I’m reminded of how Scarlett and I would belt this out in our dorm room. It was my anthem for most of my senior year, as I yearned for a life far different from the one my parents were dictating at the time.

I grab my phone off the counter and text Scarlett.

Listening to Fleetwood and missing you

She responds immediately with a video of us singing together. I laugh watching our younger selves belt out the song while dancing around our dorm room.

Scarlett

Miss you like crazy. I need to come visit.

A moment later another text comes in.

Scarlett

Don’t forget the microphone

I glance around Rory’s tidy kitchen, my eyes landing on a utensil canister sitting on the counter. After a quick perusal, I select a whisk as my microphone of choice.

When the chorus hits again, I’m dancing around the house, belting the song at the top of my lungs. My hair, mostly dry now, but wild and wavy, is giving Stevie Nicks vibes.

My movements aren’t graceful and I know I’m off tune, but there’s no one here but Edgar to witness it.

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