by Paula Stokes
Stacee looks back and forth between the two of us. “Both of you. So grown-up. It’s good to see you.”
“You too,” Trinity chirps.
“Yup,” I mumble, feeling kind of stupid for avoiding her for so long.
“I just had something to give you.” She sets the guitar case at my feet. My eyes widen. I realize it’s Dad’s guitar case. With the Punk or Die stickers across the front.
“Is that . . .” I’m afraid to open it, afraid that when I do there’ll be some cheap imitation guitar inside, or maybe not even a guitar at all—maybe it’s full of pictures or something.
Right, Micah. Everyone puts pictures in a guitar case. Maybe it’s full of cereal. Or ninjas.
Stacee lifts the guitar case up onto the table behind us and pops it open. The red Gibson—Dad’s favorite guitar, my favorite—sits on a bed of worn velvet.
I let out the breath I’ve been holding, a little at a time. I reach out and run my fingers down the frets. “How?”
Stacee reaches out and touches my arm. “We bought them all, Micah. The guys and me. Right when your mom put everything up for sale last year. All the guitars. Your dad’s amp. All the music stuff.” She smiles. “I know she’s doing her best to move on with things, but we didn’t want to let them go. We didn’t want to let him go.” Her smile wavers. “So we didn’t.”
A lump forms in my throat. I stare at the neck of the guitar. My eyes trace their way down the strings. Everything gets a little blurry. I swallow back my tears. “I had no idea.”
“I kept trying to tell you, but you wouldn’t answer my emails.”
I can’t look at her or my sister. I’m still staring at the guitar, the red reminding me not of blood, but of Dad. Dad and Stacee walking in circles. Dad practicing quietly out on the porch after everyone had gone to sleep. Dad joking about how the Gibson was his first wife, and Mom was his second. “I’m sorry,” I say finally.
“It’s okay,” Stacee says. “You guys can have everything back if you want, but maybe wait until you have your own places so it doesn’t upset your mom. I don’t want her to think the money we paid her was charity. I used a friend’s eBay account so she wouldn’t know it was me.”
“Okay.” I raise my head to meet Stacee’s gaze. Her face is a mix of so many emotions, pain and loss and peace and hope. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
She shakes her head, her black hair swishing back and forth, a vibrant shock of pink peeking out from behind one ear. “You don’t have to thank me. I just want you to know that you guys don’t have to keep his memory alive all by yourself.”
“I’m starting to figure that out,” I say, my voice just above a whisper. I ruffle my little sister’s hair. “I just needed someone smarter than I am to help me realize it.”
Trinity smiles. “I just wanted you to have that guitar back. Oh, and I wanted my own CD.”
“Right. Here, share them with friends if you want.” Stacee pulls a few copies of Crow Black Dream out of her purse and hands them to my sister. “So, keep in touch, maybe?”
I nod. “Deal.” I glance up at the front counter. There’s no line. Ebony is leaning against the register watching us. “You want a drink or something?” I ask Stacee. “My treat?”
“Sure.”
I order Stacee one of our house lattes and a Death-by-Chocolate-Moose Brownie. Trinity and I sit with her at a table, where she insists on sharing the brownie with both of us. We make small talk, something I suck at, but my sister does a good job of filling in the gaps.
After Stacee leaves, I make Trinity carry the guitar out to my car so I can look up something on my phone.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“One second.” I open the trunk and help Trinity lift the guitar inside. Then I gently shut the trunk and lean against the back of my car. I swipe at a couple of more pages on my phone. “Thanks for what you did, with Amber and Stacee,” I say.
Trinity leans next to me. “Does this mean you won’t need that contract in blood?” she asks hopefully.
My lips twitch. “It means I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said. About me screwing up every year.”
“Okay . . .” She trails off, not sure where I’m going with this.
“And I decided you were wrong.” I give her a sideways glance, my mouth curling into a grin.
“Oh, really?”
“Yeah. I’m done doing stupid, reckless things. But I know I’ve also been trying to act like Dad’s death never happened—not talking about it, refusing to go to the cemetery, etc. And I never considered how hard that was on everyone. So in that sense, you were right.” I turn toward her. “I need to accept that Dad’s gone. And somehow I need to stop blaming myself. I think it’s time to change the music.”
Trinity nods. “Hey, it’s never too late to go to the cemetery.”
“I was thinking of starting somewhere a little more upbeat.” I show her my phone. “Dead Love Story is playing next weekend. I’m sure Stacee would love it if we came out.”
Trinity cocks her head to the side. “Just me and you?”
“Me, you, and mom.” I sling my arm around her shoulder. “Like a family.”
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About the Author
Photo by Kholood Eid
PAULA STOKES is half writer, half RN, and totally thrilled to be part of the world of YA literature. She grew up in St. Louis, Missouri, where she graduated from Washington University and the Goldfarb School of Nursing. When she’s not writing, she’s reading, kayaking, hiking, or seeking out new adventures in faraway lands. Paula loves interacting with readers. You can find her online at www.authorpaulastokes.com or on Twitter @pstokesbooks.
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Copyright
Infinite Repeat
Text copyright © 2014 by Paula Stokes
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EPub Edition © 2014
ISBN 978-0-06-235355-9
EPUB Edition JULY 2014 ISBN 9780062353559
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FIRST EDITION
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