Page 63 of Go Back to December
“It’s not urgent. It is obstreperousness.”
“You lawyers and your expensive vocabulary.”
Considering our previous conversation, it doesn’t land as funny as I hoped it would.
Baz juts his chin at the gift. “Open it.”
When I lift the lid, I want to disappear inside.
The box holds my father’s old record albums. Wrinkled, dog-eared and ripped at the corners. Worthless to any collector.
But for a lover of classic rock with two shelves of albums on his wall, immediately interesting.
“Is that—” Baz leans over, and when he gets an eyeful of Pink Floyd, his face lights up. “Holy shit, is that an original Wall?”
“A beat-up one. If I recall correctly, there’s a scratch on the record that matches the cover.”
He shuffles around the counter. “Can I see it?”
I can’t deny him without looking rude or crazy, so I hand it over.
What’s lying beneath, at the bottom of the box, is a thousand times worse.
Bowie stares up at me.
It’s my favorite album cover, the one with the black-and-white photo that makes his mismatched eyes more pronounced. His hair falls back in soft waves, one hand crosses his heart, the other curves upward, like he’s casting a spell. Miraculously, it survived the purge of my father’s belongings. The mess he left for me to clean up.
Baz’s breath catches. The sound must come from him.
I’m not breathing at all.
Tears are falling too fast and too hard, and I can’t gather the wits to inhale or find something to wipe my face.
Baz reaches for the roll of paper towels, rips one off and folds it carefully before handing it to me. This makes me cry harder, but he doesn’t move. He stays right by my side as I shudder and choke on sorrow and salt.
Somehow, I stem the tears and mumble an apology.
He swallows. “I’m sorry.”
“Whatever for.”
His chest rises and falls erratically. “They belonged to your dad. The albums.”
I nod as I hastily place The Wall back on top of Bowie.
“That shitty Christmas—”
“It was his last one before he died.” I sweep up the box and walk it over to the dresser. “Eight years ago.”
“Eight years ago when?”
I freeze. “What?”
His crutches thud against the cheap carpet. “What day?”
He knows I’m an abysmal faker, that my face will betray my thoughts before my words will, and when I turn to him, it must be chatty, because a harsh noise rises from his throat.
Our phones buzz in unison.
