Page 41 of Almost Perfect
Calla
Friday afternoon just shy of four p.m., a happy chime rang out when I pushed open the front door of the small music shop aptly named Pluck. A woman with silver-blond hair pulled into a wild bun on her head stood on a step stool, arms extended above her, hammering a nail into the wall. All around her, bright pictures of instruments plastered every inch of the back wall of the shop, which was no more than twenty decent paces away from where I stood just inside the front door.
Glass cases formed anLon the far side of the room and seemed to hold everything from castanets to mallets for different percussion instruments and much more. There were racks of maracas and tambourines, and another wall displayed hundreds of slips of sheet music and song books.
Against the wall of many pictures sat several guitars, basses, violins, and snare drums. In the corner opposite the display case sat a well-loved drum kit. Clearly, people got to try out their instruments, or maybe even just play for fun.
What should’ve been chaotic and stifling in its crowdedness took hold of me by the neck and embraced me. The warmth, thewelcomeof this place, was unmissable.
“Hey, welcome in. What can I do for you?” The woman finished her hammering, paced down the steps of her stool, and got a look at me. “Oh, hey.”
I hadn’t attempted to disguise myself, and she knew me immediately. She also didn’t seem particularly flustered by it, at least so far. “I’m looking for a guitar. Acoustic.”
She tipped her head to the right, casual as anything, and walked toward the back. I followed a few steps behind, my heart pounding. This alert shopkeeper had nothing to do with it—it was the store. It was buying a guitar I had plans for.
It was Mayhem’s world bursting into Calla’s. And they might crash and burn when they collided. What would happen when I sat down as Calla to do something only Miss Mayhem had ever done?Thiswas why I’d shied away from coming in before now. It might’ve sounded stupid, but I had never felt so naked.
“I’ve got these two in stock, but I can order almost anything and have it in about two days.” She picked up a blond acoustic and handed it over.
Our gazes locked when I took it, and her blank face shifted. “She’s a model and a few kids use it for lessons. It has held up well. It can handle being railed on.”
I swallowed hard. “Sounds good.”
She nodded to two chairs. I took a seat and strummed a G cord.Good sound.Clear, and enough to send my pulse racing in my neck. I hadn’t appreciated how much I’d missed playing until this moment.
“Go for it. Let me know if you need anything.”
She returned to the counter, her back to me to give me as much space as she could. But she might as well have been outside or down the block, because I started playing and rolled through three songs before I came to and found her leaning against the glass display, arms crossed, smiling at me.
“You’re much better than I ever thought you were.”
I laughed. “Thanks.”
She pushed off the case, her eyes zeroing on my hands. “Seriously. Why don’t you play more? You barely strum at awards shows. No idea what your concerts are like, but I could swear I’ve only seen you hold a guitar like it was an accessory and play basic progressions.”
Normally, I might’ve winced or shied away from this conversation, but she wasn’t being mean. She was simply stating fact, and she was right.
“I didn’t play when I started. Then, the choreography was the bigger thing anyway. But I’ve learned and pushed myself. I haven’t played in months, though, so that felt good.”
She nodded like she knew exactly what I meant. Like she’d been there. “You here for long?”
I slid my fingers up the frets and back down. My callouses needed work. “Originally, the plan was a month, but I’m extending another few weeks.”
She flashed a smile. “Nice. Well, let’s get you set up.”
And she did. The whole time, we talked—me and Quinn Darling. We chatted about music and what she loved to play. She had an insanely dry wit, and I liked her immediately.
I left on a high I hadn’t experienced since the last great performance I had, before drugs had worked their way into Candy’s life, before… so much. I felt alive and full of hope, this guitar in my hand and more stitches weaving through the torn-up parts of me.
I couldn’t leave here yet, not when I’d just found a way ahead.
* * *
Though I probably should’ve waited until Monday, I messaged my landlord asking if we could set up a meeting tomorrow.
One minute later, Warrick’s rich voice came over the phone with a truly unexpected question. “Any interest in Olympic lifting?”
“Uh. No?”
