Page 30 of Playing With My Heart Strings

“Come on.” He grabs my hand and, to my surprise, I let him link our fingers together. He pushes open the door, and the bells hanging on the handle jingle as we step inside.

Checkered tile spans throughout the store, and vinyls hang from the ceiling like disco balls with fairy lights weaving between them. Record jackets with album covers plaster the walls that don’t have shelves, and smaller stands create aisles leading to the back.

“Welcome in! Let me know if you need help finding anything,” the employee behind the counter greets us.

Dusty gives him a nod of acknowledgment as he thanks him.

At this point, the camera crew has moved in front of us, recording our faces as we browse the vinyls. I’ve never loved being on camera, but I’m starting to get used to it. I have a feeling I probably need to tone down my facial expressions, though. I’ve been told, by my parents and Daniella, that I let all my emotions show.

A record catches my eye as we pass the country music section, and I slow my stride, causing my arm to yank slightly on Dusty’s.

He slows as I pull out the Johnny Cash album from the late sixties.

“Johnny Cash and June Carter,” Dusty murmurs as he looks at the record with me.

“My parents always used to listen to them when I was younger. I remember sitting at the kitchen counter while they sang ‘Jackson’ together.” I recall those moments like it was yesterday. That was back when they encouraged music and would have been happy for me if I pursued a career in it. I’m not really sure what changed that.

I’m nine years old, and the twang of guitar strings fills the kitchen as the intro to “Jackson” starts playing. Mom stops what she’s doing, spinning so her back is to the stovetop, as Dad rushes into the kitchen.

I rock back and forth on my stool set up by the kitchen counter as Dad grabs Mom’s hands, and they spin in circles on the linoleum tile.

They’re laughing more than they’re singing, mostly due to the fact Dad can’t carry a tune to save his life. But Mom makes up for it with her melodic voice.

“Come here, Baylor!” Mom calls for me, and I hop down from the stool before making my way over to them, my socks sliding across the floor.

Dad picks me up and holds me in one arm as his other wraps around Mom.

The memory fades as Dusty walks away, leaving me a bit confused. I shrug it off, continuing to flip through the albums. A couple minutes later, he comes back with a vinyl in hand.

“This was my favorite album growing up.” He flips up the record to show Elvis Presley’s face.

“I never would have pegged you as an Elvis fan.” I grin, taking the opportunity to play around with him. “I didn’t think country music stars these days listened to anything older than the nineties.”

He rolls his eyes at the joke, but there’s no malice behind the gesture.

“I’m not like those other country singers, darlin’.” He winks, and I roll my eyes. “Come on, let’s see how else I can surprise you with my music taste.”

We spend a good hour or so looking at records, and I realize Dusty was right about me liking this place. I’ve really enjoyed the time we’ve spent together so far. Today feels like just another day, not a date being recorded on camera to be televised to thewhole country. And I can’t decide whether I’m happy about that, or if I hate it.

By the time we walk out of Casanova Records, he’s got three new vinyls in his hand and I have two.

“Where to now, Romeo?” I smirk.

“Romeo?” He gives me a quizzical look, and I shrug. “No, no, no, you’ve got to choose a better name than that. I’m not going to have my nickname be a dude whose whole love story ends with them both dying.”

“What if I come up with something entirely worse?”

“Then we’ll keep trying until something sticks. Come on, I’ve got somewhere else to take you.” He takes my hand, and we continue a bit further down the street until we reach a small dive bar. The place is admittedly cute, with outdoor patio seating and lights strung up everywhere. Music filters out through the open doors, inviting us in.

We step into the bar, and a blonde woman who looks to be around Dusty’s age is up on stage, singing with her band. When she sees Dusty, however, she pauses the song. “Everybody, give it up for my friend Dusty Wilder!”

Everyone in the bar swings their heads to look at us. I swear Dusty’s face turns three shades redder as he lifts his hand in an awkward wave, the expression on his face looking more embarrassed than egotistical.

“Dusty and I go way back, occasionally singing together in bars just like this one. But now he’s a big-time singer!” the girl on stage carries on. “Why don’t y’all come on up here? It’d be just like old times.”

Dusty shakes his head as he gives anotype gesture.

“Aw, come on, Dusty. What do y’all think? Do you want to hear Dusty Wilder?”

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