Page 30 of The Glittering Edge

Alonso has his back to the front door. He’s placing orange price stickers on tattered vinyl covers, his movements mechanical. Right when Penny is about to say something—she’s not even sure what—she triggers the sensor. It announces her with a recording of George Harrison’s “Ding Dong, Ding Dong.”

“Can I help you?” Alonso says without turning around.

Penny is already hiding behind a stack of old amplifiers, pretending she didn’t hear him.

“Whatever,” Alonso mutters, and the rhythmicsmackof the price-tag gun starts up again.

Penny presses a hand to her mouth to muffle her breathing. She needs to get out of here and regroup. Let this coffee get out of her system. She’ll come back in a few hours.

At least, that’s the plan until a familiar head of curly hair catches her eye. Penny turns to one of the band posters, and there, gazing at her with blue eyes that are a mirror of her own, is her dad.

It’s a faded poster of him with his band, Quicklime. It sits in a plastic black frame on the wall, its torn edges lovingly reassembled so they’re barely noticeable behind the glass. And underneath it is a sign:

QUICKLIME

IDLEWOOD’S GRUNGE LEGENDS

RIP NATHAN EMBERLY

“I have all of their albums.”

Penny’s breath catches in her throat. She uses the sleeve of her jacket to quickly wipe away the tears—she blames it on the coffee and the trauma—and she turns to face him.

Alonso stands at the end of the aisle, the price-tag gun propped on his shoulder like an actual weapon. He watches her with an emotion Penny can’t identify.

“Did you put this up?” Penny asks.

“Yep.”

“Oh.” Penny searches for the right words, but all she comes up with is a weak “Thanks.”

Alonso glares. “I didn’t do it for you.”

The venom in his tone brings Penny crashing back to reality. It takes her a second to realize she’s laughing. It’s official: She’s delirious.

Alonso’s lips thin. “What?”

“Iknowyou didn’t do it for me. And I’m saying thank you anyway.”

Alonso shifts on his feet, looking away from her. “Right. Happy shopping, I guess.”

“Wait.” Penny steps forward, willing her voice to be less squeaky. “Do you have a minute to talk?”

Alonso holds his arms out. “Does it look like I’m busy?”

Penny glances around the empty store. “No?”

“So talk.”

Penny opens her mouth, but words have abandoned her again. Her eyes are drawn to a brown glass bottle sitting in the pocket of Alonso’s jacket—or is it a robe?—and she barely keeps her jaw from dropping.

Alonso follows her gaze. “What? You want one?”

“I drove here,” Penny says, as if Alonso would care about something like that.

Alonso frowns. Slowly he lifts the bottle out of his jacket so Penny can see the label:FIZZY BARREL ROOT BEER.

“That’s… not booze?”

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