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The year was 1996, and George was nodding off at his shift at the media store he worked at.
I mean, Playing the Notes (The Place For All Things Movies, Cassettes, CDs, and Records) didn't usually have much going on, even if it was the only CD shop in Sugar Springs.
George really was trying not to stare at the girl who had just entered the store.
It was emptier than usual this shift, which is why his manager had let him be. He'd been so bored, reorganizing the Rock and Pop-punk CDs in alphabetical order, knocking over the stack of random indie movies that were yet to be organized in the process.
He'd then cursed out the empty store, glad his manager wasn't here to hear this college dropout whine over the mess he'd created.
George had bigger problems then that mess five minutes ago, though.
His hand smoothes down his hair and his mouth quirks in a nervous quiver at the thought of even talking to her. She was glowing as she entered the store, to put it simply, and George had frozen up at her brown eyes gleaming as she darted over to the stack of pop-punk CDs.
Her hair falls in front of her face as she leans over a rack of Rock CDs close to the cash register he was idly tapping against, and George tries to tear his gaze away from her—he really does. But then she turns to face him, her upturned nose wrinkled in distaste, her gleaming brown eyes narrowing, and he can't stop himself.
Something about her feels nostalgic in the way that's maybe just George's brain saying he already thinks she's cute within the first five minutes of meeting her.
She stares at him, pausing to speak, and it's awkward because they're the only two people in this store and George is staring at her, transfixed.
For a terrifying second, he thinks she's going to chastise him for staring like a creep, for the fact that he had an imaginary booger hanging out of his nose. Instead, she raises an eyebrow. "Um, excuse me? Do you guys not have Hole?" Tucked under her arm, he goes over her collection: there's Weezer, Green Day, In Utero, classic, she'd just picked that out and he'd watched her—
He only then processes what she was just saying.
In Utero? And Hole?
"You listen to Hole and Nirvana?" He snorts at her. Her eyes flicker with confusion.
She raises an eyebrow, her mouth curving into a smile. "I- I mean, yeah. They're both good."
"You're weird."
"Hey, I didn't come here to get judged over my music taste." Her brown hair melts into the back of her tanned neck, and he desperately wants to smooth a curl away that's warm and inviting over her face.
What the fuck? Stop staring. Stop. Stooop. STOP.
He mentally slaps himself for being infatuated with this stranger. He basically lived in his room, writing songs in a cramped little attic while he stared out the window. That was before his army vet dad basically forced him to get a job, to get out of the house.
He was pathetic now, he was pathetic then.
"Well, it's a music store. And Hole's kinda meh." He mumbles, a little stupidly, smoothing down his hair again. He shoves his hands in his pockets instead of fiddling with his stubble.
Self-consciousness comes to him on the day he decided to come to work, dressed like he couldn't have a care in the world. And it was like that most days: he didn't care to dress up, because he could care less about being liked or stared at or whispered.
In fact, his clothing, his music, his hatred of the government kinda just…made up who he was. Loud, ambitious, angry.
He was full of rebellion, he was rebellion.
And some people were weird about that, like his older brother, Dale.
Dale was particularly snippy about George's choice in clothing before George left for work, and they'd had an argument about it. His mom and dad had already left for work, and Dale was over for a week-long college break. And of course, with the two brothers left alone, arguments were bound to happen over anything, despite their busy parents' efforts to get them to get along.
Dale was the poster child of perfection. After all, he was a pre-med student who managed straight-A's, both in high school and his second year at Harvard. He came home to meet the family, but really just to study his ass off, and most importantly, judge his younger brother for dropping out of college within his first semester, for choosing music.
His parents were partially disappointed, but not as much as Dale was. He didn't get it! George was going to make it big like Kurt or Cornell or the Ozzy. He'd become one of them—George knew he was going to hit it big one day, and he didn't need college to prove that he could succeed.
Dale always laughed at him over it, his idle dreams. He didn't care much for dreams.
Can't spend your days dreaming. You gotta work for it. Do something. Get a job.
The days George was sat up in the attic were always the most peaceful, the days where he could float away in lyrics that never hit quite right and his guitar that still needed to be tuned. (For the record, he was too lazy to do so).
The girl looks up at him again, waving her hand in front of his face, and suddenly, all his problems feel so small. "Hello? That was so mean." She grasps her chest in mock hurt, staring up at him through the hair falling in front of his face, messy and untamed at her own antics.
George's brain doesn't catch up with what she said or what he just said two seconds ago, so he trips over his own feet trying to apologize. It stumbles out of his mouth, his brain unable to read the tone of the conversation. "I'm so sorry. For the record, you can listen to anything you want. Like, I don't— I'm not gonna like, call you a poser or nothin'."
She laughs at him, the jangle of that sound bright against her face. She snorts, and Dale falls into that pretty sound. "Dude, I was joking. I know you wouldn't."
"Right." George murmurs, cheeks flushing. "So. Um, Hole, right? We might have some inventory right at the counter. Are you a fan?"
"They're okay. I liked Live Through This even if Courtney's kinda…Well."
"Yeahhh. But like, Vince Neil sucked too and you don't see anyone talking about that enough. Like, good music, bad singer. N-not like Motley Crüe's amazing, I had a phase."
She nods, and it feels like a victory to see her nod with him. "See, you get it!" The store is empty, so her voice echoes. "Sorry," she murmurs.
"You're good. Lemme see if we have Live Through This."
He turns around to the back where a few more miscellaneous CDs are. He isn't usually this bad at making conversation. Like, he could pretend to like Mariah Carey just to be nice! He did yesterday with the old lady who came around. So it shouldn't have been that hard to bond over grunge hits—let alone with a pretty customer who he was never going to see again.
Turned around, his flannel lazily falling over his shoulders and his voice a little less shaky, it's a little easier for him to talk to her now. "So uh, what type of music are you into?"
She shrugs. "I mean. Um. I like some grunge stuff, but the new pop-punk's growing on me." She twists her brown hair behind her ear. She can't really see anything now besides the back of his blond head, that awkward smile hidden from her. She has to be rambling now, grasping onto the counter as she talks. "Some of the pop stuff is okay too. Oh, and I like pinoy rock from my dad. Filipino rock."
"Cool. I love grunge too. It's like, um. The type of stuff I write." He turns back around after a moment, finding the CD he was looking for.
"You write stuff?"
"I'm trying to...be a musician," he answers, finally. "It's stupid."
"That's not stupid. I'm trying to be a kindergarten teacher. That's really cool, actually. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."
He's going to pass out. Why is she so nice. "T-thanks." He turns around again, hoping she can't map out the flush in his cheeks. "I think this should be it. Guess we didn't have it where it usually is." He holds up a CD in its casing, the album cover of Live Through This in front of her face now, the familiar blond curls and smudged black eyeliner meeting her brown eyes and dark hair.
"C-cool, thanks." He looks back at her in awe. She opens her mouth like she wants to say something. "Weird question but…do you go to college nearby?"
"I went to the community college down in River Creek. Why?"
She squints at him, and it clicks. It's that kid who was always sleeping in class—the messy blond hair confirms it. "...were you in Mr. Brown's Calculus 1 class second period? Where he'd always be screaming, 'Mr. George Hollow, sleeping again!' "
He laughs at her impression of Mr. Brown: gruff and sassy. "Um. Yeah." That class was the reason I dropped out. "W-what's your name?"
"Myra Santos." He's cursing himself for not seeing her earlier. Well, to be fair, he slept through the majority of the classes, sitting in the back with his head down. He would've have to be awake to really notice her.
It's the fact that he's seeing this girl he barely knew about after months of being in the same class that it hits him. He's met her before, this meeting fated.
"That's me." She laughs, the CD limp in his hand as he stares at her. That's all he's been doing this whole time, actually. A cute girl knows I exist. "Can I…have that? I was going to pay."
He jumps, tearing his eyes away from her amber ones. "Oh, yeah, for sure." He smooths a hand through his hair again as he works the cash register. His eyes wash over the totals, scanning the CDs she places down.
A few beeps sound as he scans the CDs, working the totals and putting the CDs into a bag.
"Okay…that's four CDs, so thirty six dollars and thirty-three cents." She hands him two twenties, and he opens the cash register again to find change. She slings her bag back over her shoulder.
He finds just enough change and hands it to her. His fingers brush against hers for a moment, they freeze. George retracts his fingers and tries to ignore how flush runs across the back of his neck. He snaps his gaze from her, which has been so difficult for no reason.
Her fingers were warm for the brief second he touched them. Of course they were, just like the rest of her personality—the random giggling, the familiar teasing—she was…just warm. Inviting.
He kind of shoves the bag into her hands. "Well, uh. Bye. I— I hope you come back, s-soon."
She stands at the counter and none of them notice the bell chiming. None of them notice it, really, because Myra has a weird complexity stuck in her eyes. Her brown eyes rake over him. "Me too. I mean, if you ever wanna talk about music—" She flushes. "Um." She reaches into her purse and pulls out a pen.
Her hand grabs for his wrist.
The onset of boldness that overcomes her is sudden and George is a stupid mess. He almost pulls away, and maybe he would've if he was more frozen than flustered. "Wh-what are you—" His palm is released a moment later, and his eyes widen at the phone number scrawled down from his right palm to his wrist, with a little note in her neat scrawl. Call me!
Is that a heart???
"Bye!" Myra walks out the door, heat high on her cheekbones and urgency in every shaky, fast-paced step she takes out the door.
The bell chimes and the door slams with alarming force that the stack of indie movies he had yet to organize tumble on the floor next to the customer. He jumps with alarm and curses at the pile at his feet.
George stares down at his hand in disbelief. It had been one day, one meeting. Yet deep down, excitement has crawled up his stomach and latched itself like a parasite to his side, and he knows it won't go away.
He barely got to watch the blur of brown hair flash away as she whisked out the store. A girl gave me her number.
It doesn't feel real, that interaction didn't, and he wants it again and wants to see her again. Myra. " Can someone pick up these fucking CDs?! Y'all can't do anything anymore." The customer near the movies section grumbles and kicks at a rom-com at his feet.
George nearly trips over his own feet, grinning as he jumps over the counter. "Right-o, sir! Isn't today a great day?"
The middle-aged man only raises an eyebrow and shakes his head.