Page 15 of Something Borrowed

“If you were, you’d be a cactus,” she mutters.

“Like I said, I know you don’t like him.”

“It’s not that. I’m sure he’s lovely. He’s just a bit…”

“What?” I ask.

“Bossy,” she finally says, and I’m sure her posture is slumping. “He’s so bloodybossy.”

“He’s not so bad.”

“Gosh, Stan. You really must stop gushing,” Kem says, his voice full of laughter.

I snort. “He’s alright.”

“For now,” my sister offers. “While you’re waiting.”

I frown. “Waiting for what?”

“The coffee smells lovely today. I might get one,” she says quickly. “Kem, do you want anything?”

“I’d love a latte.”

“What about me?” I say crossly.

“You’ll have a flat white like usual.”

“And you said Bennett was bossy.”

She laughs, and I listen to her footsteps tapping away. She’s worn heels for most of her adult life, viewing flat shoes as an abomination. She even wears them with her pyjamas when she puts the bins out.

“The downside to having coffee here in the shop is that I now drink so much of the fucking stuff I have the sleeping habits of a startled bat,” Kem says glumly. “It was obviously a good investment, though.”

The cafe next door had come up for sale last year, and I’d bought it, got a liquor license, knocked through to the shop, and set up a brilliant barista. Now, during the day, people can browse records, sit and listen to music, drink coffee, and eat the cakes Kem’s mum makes. At night, the small stage showcases local bands. All for a mortgage that I’ll probably still be paying when I’m dead.

“Tell it to my bank manager and his grey hairs. He’s only in his thirties, and Raff says he looks like Anderson Cooper already.”

Kem laughs.

“Are you coming to the Refresho gig next week?” I ask him.

“They sound like a toilet cleaner brand. Is that the jazz-funk band?”

“Yeah, Raff and I went to their gig at the Palais last year. They’re amazing.”

“Yeah, I’ll be there.” He pauses. “Speak of the devil.”

The door jingles, and I don’t need my sight to know Raff has come in. Something about him registered on my bandwidth many years ago, and no matter how hard I try to tune into another frequency, my dial is stuck. He’s lodged in my mind like a particularly catchy riff.

“Afternoon, my little record shop bitches.”

His voice is beautiful with its soft Irish accent—well-modulated and warm. It has always had a lightness to it, an undercurrent of amusement at the world. It’s my favourite voice in the world and never ceases to make me smile.

I try to picture his angular face—the long, wavy strawberry-blond hair, the sharp jaw and high cheekbones, and the full pouty mouth. He’s frozen in my mind at the age of twenty like a fly trapped in amber, because that was the last time I could really see him. However, I don’t need to experience Raff with all mysenses. He’s a part of me, and so I know him as well as I know myself.

“You don’t look good, Raff,” Kem says in an admiring tone.

I lift my head to stare at Raff’s blurry form.

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