Page 64 of Resonance

“It is. It’s a clothes pound.”

“But what about thrift stores? How is that different?”

I nudged a crate with my foot and then arched my arms over my head in a stretch. “Because those clothes at thrift are usually preworn, so they’ve already been loved. The clothes in Ross have never been pulled over someone’s head or been wiggled up someone’s thighs. Or worn to a prom or a movie.”

“If we go with that logic, isn’t a thrift store sadder, though? Because they were loved and then given away when they were no longer loved.”

“I guess maybe they get a second chance, though? Which is optimistic. Okay. Crap. Quit making me deeply examine my weird tendency to apply sentience to material objects.” Itwasweird. I knew that, and I’d always been this way, randomly sentimental about the strangest things. I picked up pennies from the sidewalk regardless of whether they were heads or tails. Clearance bins at big-box stores were a weakness not because there were bargains to be had but because no one had wanted the stuff enough to pay full price. And seeing the disheveled racks of a Ross made me sad. Sue me. “Better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all?”

Dan’s smile faltered for a second, then righted itself as I held up a smaller record sleeve I’d set aside to ask him about. The record within had “Nook Island, 1975” written in faded ink on it. “What’s this one? Please tell me it’s some incredibly rare Beatles’ studio track so I can then be angry that it’s buried in here.”

Dan chuckled and reached out to snatch the sleeve. “C’mon, I’ll let you hear it.”

In the den, he opened up the old record player and set the needle down on the record. “Under the Boardwalk” started playing, but not the original. It was a studio track. A couple of beats later, a man and woman’s voice began singing, crystal clear and on key, but broken up by occasional laughter.

Dan smiled fondly, fingers drumming lightly over the table where he stood. “My parents. There used to be these recording booths. I guess you probably know that. Go in, pay your money, get your record after. My parents could never resist any time they saw one. There are more records lying around somewhere. This was always my favorite, though.”

“They sound fun.”

“They were.”

“Where’s Nook Island?”

“Off the coast of Georgia. It’s pretty.”

“I’ve never seen the ocean. I’ve always wanted to, though.”

“No shit? Really?”

I nodded. “It’s on my bucket list.”

He cocked his head at me in silent study. My hips picked up the rhythm and started swaying to the beat. Dan laughed as I did some hula, then surveyed me skeptically as I reached out a hand and crooked a finger at him.

“I thought dancing only happened when you were drunk.”

“Ru lied. It’s another factory-installed setting. The same way you came installed with boringness. C’mon, no one can or should resist ‘Under the Boardwalk.’”

“You’re one of the quirkiest fellas I’ve ever met.” Dan said it in a musing sort of drawl that didn’t seem like it required a response. And besides, I knew it was true anyway.

He took my hand, spun me around, and curled me close to his body.

“Your two-step is strong,” I said into the next turn.

“Can’t see why that’s surprising.”

“You stepped on my toe twice last time at the motel,” I reminded him.

“Only once,” he corrected me. “And I’d been drinking a lot.”

I meant to keep joking with him, because I enjoyed it more than I’d ever want him to know, but instead we slipped into this lull—not unpleasant, just shuffling around listening to the perfect harmonies lilting from the record player—and it made me that much more aware of his hand pressed firmly below my shoulder blade, the slight increase or decrease in pressure whenever we were about to transition.

“Used to be one of my favorite parts of doing the shows. Before we hit big, we’d play these dance halls and Ryder and I’d be watching the people on the floor as much as they were watching us. Maybe more than, given the dancing. It was fun to see. We’d usually end up staying late, too. The owner would give us a tab at the bar, and we’d hang out dancing and drinking. Ryder wasn’t even twenty-one yet, but no one gave a shit. That voice up on stage always made him sound older than he was.”

“Bet y’all got laid a lot.”

“About as much as we cared to. Then we put out ‘Long Empty Road’ and got that Grammy and we didn’t play dance halls anymore. I never told him that I missed it, but I did.”

“How long were you two actually together?”