Page 118 of Catching Sparks

“Tell me about your family, Poppy. We can quiz Garrison afterward.”

I giggle. He rolls his eyes. We stay close, and as I dump decades’ worth of Huntsly family history on Cynthia, I wind up leaning my side against his chest, my legs slung over his lap. He plays with my fingers, tracing each individual nail bed, doing anything to touch me as we talk.

It’s not until my neck has grown sore from twisting it to look between Cynthia and Garrison that I give up trying. I yawn, a wave of exhaustion hitting me like a punch to the gut.

“Oh my. I didn’t even register that you may be jet-lagged in all my excitement. You’re probably exhausted!” Cynthia gasps. “The both of you need to take a nap. We can chat again at supper.”

My expression must betray me because she adds, “Don’t feel guilty for one moment. Please.”

Garrison taps my back, and I sit up, stretching before slipping off his lap. He stands soon after and takes my hand.

“Thanks, Mom.”

She waves him off, coming close enough to rub his arm. “Go rest.”

We leave the sitting room, and I let Garrison lead me through his childhood home. When we turn down an unfamiliar hall, I grow curious.

“Your mom didn’t take me this way on her tour.”

“She most likely wanted me to be the one to show you.” He stops us in front of a closed door. “This is my old room.”

The instant the door creaks open and I get my first look inside, I laugh. Not a quiet laugh either. A belly-cramping one.

The last thing I expected to see in a teenage Garrison’s room was a collection of Star Wars bobbleheads. There are too many to count at first glance.

“You have a lot more in common with Darren than you think you do,” I note while stepping into the room and taking it in.

One thing I did expect was the shelves full of vinyl records that line an entire wall of his bedroom.

He’s never spoken about music to me before, but it was just a gut feeling I had. The genres range from rock to pop and R&B. Even techno. Artists I’ve never heard of and some I have. It’s like walking into an old record shop, the type that have been shut down over the past few years but that I killed time in when I was young and desperate to get out of the house.

“Do you have a favourite?” I ask, trailing a finger along a row of them, all of which are in perfect condition.

“No. I’ve never been able to pick one.”

“I don’t blame you.”

“I don’t listen to music for pleasure much anymore,” he admits.

Turning to look at him, I ask, “Why?”

“The music I listen to now is for work. Not pleasure. Not because I want to. Sometimes, that can ruin it for me.”

“That’s sad. Especially if you used to love it so much.”

“There’s sometimes where I can’t help it. A handful of artists under the label that I enjoy listening to as much as I do making them famous.”

“Who? Give me one name.”

He sighs, settling beside me. “You can’t tell Brody. He’ll never get over the rejection.”

“I do notice a lack of country records in this monstrous lineup,” I say.

“There are only two country stars under Swift Edge. It’s never been our type of music. Mine or my father’s.”

I cock a brow. “But Brody was that good?”

“He was.”

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