The Truth About Unspeakable Things, Emily Myers [bookstand for reading TXT] 📗

take a deep breath and push the swinging door open to splotchy, dull light. My eyes adjust as my ears find a familiar tune playing softly on the record player. The cracks and pops on the track take me back to early morning shipments. Lucid is a small shop, so there was only ever one worker at a time, maybe two during high tourist seasons. Half asleep, I’d lug in cardboard boxes filled with records and t-shirts. Pupils dilated, legs heavy, the only thing that kept me awake was the sizzle of the record dancing through the darkness.

A small smile lifts my lips and . . .

“Oh, Emma! Long time no see!” Mr. Edgar’s raspy voice brings me from my memory. My eyes search the space for him.

“Mr. E!” I say, finally finding him. He stands next to the checkout bar wearing jeans, a white t-shirt, and a fedora as old as me.

“Oh, sweet child,” he says as I cross the room and pull him in for a hug. “What have you been up to? Seems it’s been forever, but you haven’t changed a bit.”

“Oh, well, don’t let the makeup fool you. Wish I could say the same for you, though. I see a few more greys peeking out from underneath that cap since the last time I saw you,” I tell him as I pull away.

“Oh now, don’t you lie to an old man,” he tells me. “You’ll go straight to Hell.” He wiggles his finger at me and we both laugh.

“So, what can I do you for?” he asks. “You know it’s fitting you came in today. You’ll be one of my last sales.”

“Last sales?” I ask. My forehead wrinkles. “I thought . . . I thought you were staying on as manager even though . . .” I stop myself, unwilling to verbalize his wound.

“Even though I had to sell, yes,” he mumbles, dropping his eyes to the concrete floor beneath us. “Yes, well, I was. But it’s just too painful, too many memories,” he admits. I nod. I know the feeling all too well.

“Anyway, the, uh, the new owner seems nice. Well . . .” He pauses. “Nice enough for someone who now owns your family’s legacy. I just—I couldn’t sit back and see this place torn to shreds like all the other local shops. Just couldn’t stomach it.”

I shake my head in frustration. My cheeks flush, red and hot.

“It’s not fair,” I say.

“Oh, sweet child,” Mr. E says, placing his withered hand on my shoulder. “Don’t you know by now that life isn’t fair? If not, you will soon.”

With that he moves past me and drags his fingers over a row of dust-topped albums. The dust fills the air, illuminated by the light hanging above it, and we both cover our mouths and noses.

It’s an unspoken custom at Lucid. When the dust flies, don’t complain—just cover your mouth and keep on working. It’s perhaps the only thing this place and my hometown have in common and as such, I’ve been living by the ill-thought-out philosophy my entire life. It’s exhausting and I’m this close to . . .

Mr. E’s eyes shift to look behind me, and I’m suddenly aware of the footsteps drowning out the record player. My eyes squint. I purse my lips. To hell with professionalism. I spin on my heels, moving my hand to my hip. My mouth opens and— “Julian?”

Chapter 8

“Emma?”

Julian mimics my surprise as he makes his way from the storage loft to Mr. Edgar and me. “Is everything okay?” he asks, looking me up and down. My cheeks blush and I fail to answer out of pure shock. Is he the new owner? There’s no way!

Julian’s eyes and parted lips shift from surprise to concern in a matter of seconds, and I’m pulled from my confused state and reminded of our encounter last night—or rather, the encounter he rescued me from.

“Oh, yes,” I finally say, waving off his concern. “I—I was just um . . .” I move my eyes to my shoes in an effort to regroup but am hardly given the chance before Mr. Edgar interjects.

“Wait,” Mr. Edgar says. “You two know each other?”

Mr. Edgar looks between Julian and me with eyes yellowed from age. His cheeks, speckled with coarse gray hairs, light from within and before I can explain, he bursts into a fit of laughter.

“Mr. Edgar?” I ask, as the old man hunches over, eyes watering. Mr. Edgar waves his hand out to me as the laughter takes up much of his oxygen. Julian closes the distance between us and helps me get Mr. Edgar up right again.

“I’m fine, child, I’m fine,” Mr. Edgar says, gasping. His hand shakes in mine, yet the light in his face still glows. “It’s just . . . maybe there’s hope after all,” he says. My lips part in confusion, and I search his eyes for answers. What does he mean, hope after all? And what does my knowing Julian have to do with it?

Mr. Edgar gives me one last look and a nod of the head that tells me thank you. I know he’s not one for emotions, and saying goodbye would be just too hard. I return the gesture with a nod and a slight squeeze of his hand. Tears blur my vision, but I fight through them. I won’t make this moment any harder for Mr. Edgar than it already is.

He lets go of my hand and shifts his gaze to Julian. His lips fall into a flat line.

“Take care of my family’s legacy, young one,” he says to Julian. “Approach every day with a love for music and a respect for creativity.”

He turns and gives the room one last look. Rows of records stand before us. Walls filled with memories surround us.

He turns back to us then. “And take care of the ones you love. Without family, without someone to share the fruits of your labor with, the job is just a job. And this place, this city, and those who step through that door, deserve better than that, you hear me?” Mr. Edgar asks Julian.

“Yes,