Page 9 of For the Record

Taking a deep breath, I reminded myself that I’d survived hell in training. I had gone five days with only ten hours of sleep, enduring every pain you can imagine and hallucinations. I was top of my class at that. A natural leader they’d said as I graduated. I saved men from plane crashes and war fights for a living. Anxiety wasn’t something I knew.

And yet I sat here outside a stupid record store, sweating my balls off because I was too freaked out to figure out the name of a woman I’d spent a single night with.

I shook my shoulders out and nodded to myself. I wet my lips and ran a hand through my hair before forcing myself to take the few small steps to the door and inside.

A bell chimed quietly above me as my boots stomped across the black-and-white checkered floors. Band posters hung on each of the walls, a few recognizable to me but not many. It was warm, a dash of pastels here and there, with woven light fixtures like the ones my sister-in-law had begged me to put in her new house. It smelled of cinnamon and oranges, almost nostalgic. A steady thrumming played over the speakers around the room, a man singing about learning to fly.

A sweet, almost angelic voice with a hint of firmness called out. “Hi! Welcome. Let me know if there’s anything I can find for you.”

It was her. There was no doubt. I took a step farther into the store, craning my neck to follow the sound of her voice. Her back was to me, and she was bent over, sorting through what looked like a mountain of files. My eyes trailed up from her platformed boots to the short denim skirt that had a white T-shirt tucked into it.

Her blond ponytail swayed as she bobbed her head along with the music playing above. My lips tipped slightly. I was willing to bet she was in charge of picking which songs to play in the store.

Realization dawned on me as I watched how she innocently had no idea I was standing on the other side of the counter. This was creepy. I was being creepy. What woman would want some scarred man walking into her workplace after extensive research just so he could know her name?

I was quiet, sure. I liked being alone, and I wasn’t exactly social, but I wasn’t a creepy guy. Or I never had been before. My brain began ticking off things about me that it had apparently decided were very not-creep-like, such as, the other day, I carried a stack of laundry to my bedroom, and I tripped over my coffee table. And I had a stuffed dinosaur in my closet from my seven-year-old nephews, who insisted I take it with me to “keep any monsters away.”

None of those things helped. This still felt weird.

Part of me wondered if I could slowly back out of the store before she realized I was here. My left foot descended after my right as she began turning around.

Seeing her face in broad daylight felt like a punch to the gut. In dim lighting, with only a few lamps on and neon flashing lights at the bar, I knew she was pretty. I knew she was far out of my league. Far prettier than anyone I had seen in a long time. Maybe ever. But now, watching as she stared down at a few files in her hand with a small book on top, flipping through them as she hummed, I knew this was a mistake. She was far, far more beautiful than I’d allowed myself to remember.

She smiled to herself, her rosy cheeks lifting and her pencil tapping against the corner of her mouth like she was considering something. Like she was excited about it. Faster than sound, her eyes met mine, and realization struck across her face, her mouth opening and her chin dipping.

Shit, too late.

The papers in her hand and the thin book, along with her pencil, crashed to the floor.

Her voice dropped, raspier this time. “Oh…I—it’s you…”

It’s you. Was that a good thing? She didn’t seem entirely turned off by me being here. More so confused. Her head tilted to the side and her eyes widened.

My knees bent as I knelt down to pick up her assorted papers, and…a sudoku book. Along with a tiny mini golf pencil. Huh.

She cleared her throat, watching as I tried to organize the papers in a neat stack for her. “Funny. I’ve seen your house, and I know what color couches you have, but I don’t even know your name.”

I laid her stack on the counter, lifting my gaze back to her, forcing down the natural part of myself that said to stay silent and nod along.

“Adam. My name is Adam.”

Now tell me yours so I can rush out of here and never come back.

At my name, she took a deep breath, like she was inhaling the words. Memorizing them? Her initial shock had eased into a soft smile, and I was grateful to see not a hint of regret in her eyes.

She nodded her head at me. “I’m Rachel.”

There. That was it. All I needed. Time to be on my way and back to my cold apartment.

Except I had this dying urge to ask more. How long have you worked here? Do you have plans for if they decide to close? When is your birthday? None of the answers to those truly mattered, considering I wasn’t going to see her again. But it was like I had to fight my own brain to convince myself to leave.

“So…” she dragged on, rocking back and forth on her feet with her hands clasped behind her back.

Oh. Yeah, I probably should have explained why I was even here.

I rubbed the back of my neck, taking notice of the heat forming there. “I was just walking and thought I would look for…a, uh, record.”

That was the only reason people came to record stores, wasn’t it? Although I did see a book section off in the corner, so I could have said that too. I was flustered, too concerned about what she thought of me now that we were in broad daylight, where I couldn’t hide behind a smug smile and a few beers.

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