Chapter One: Margot: Now CHAPTER ONE Margot now
I’ll admit it: I’m a creature of habit. Change scares me.

Or maybe it’s less that change scares me and more that familiarity is reassuring. Living a couple of hours away, I don’t often drive through my old neighborhood in Long Beach, but whenever I do, it’s like rewatching my favorite movie. Knowing what to expect means being able to savor the details.

There’s something charming about how the Pete’s Hardware sign hangs slightly crooked. And the mist puffing out from the decorative mug above the door to Blossom’s Bakery.

Even the red-and-white awning as I pull up to Ruiz Music is the same. It’s been twenty years since I stepped inside, and I wouldn’t again if not for the old shoebox I discovered this morning while cleaning out my grandma’s attic. Inside was a note—a love letter—to and from people I’d never heard of, alongside cassette tapes. Probably mixtapes, but I couldn’t check. The player I also found was broken.

But I knew who could fix it.

Before I can weigh the merits of being a coward, I gather the cassette player and the shoebox from the passenger seat and walk through the music store door. The bell above jingles, and nostalgia at being here again tingles down my spine. To the left are rows of sheet music books. Guitars hang from the wall above, while amps and keyboards sit in a display on the floor. Classical music pipes through speakers.

To the right, a man stands behind the counter, his back to me. Broad shoulders stretch a black T-shirt, his forearms tensing as he transfers an amp to a nearby table. Though I can’t see his face, how he moves is distinctly familiar.

“How can I help—” He turns toward the door, his words coming to a halt as his gaze meets mine.

My stomach tumbles like it’s in a cocktail shaker.

I don’t know what I expected Leo to look like after all these years. Identical, I suppose, like he’d been frozen in time. For the most part, I still see the boy from high school in a man’s body. The brown eyes I used to know like the back of my hand are the same. So are his lips, which very well might be the best part of his face, with their soft slope and gentle peaks.

Other things have changed. He didn’t used to have stubble I wanted to run my fingers across. Or a voice so low and gravelly, it sent goosebumps down my arms. He abandoned the close-cropped haircut he once favored, his dark strands longer now, swept back in waves I didn’t realize he had. And the last time I saw him, his arms were bony—not muscled with biceps that more than fill his sleeves.

Teenage Leo was cute. This Leo is a wildfire. If I’d known he would look like this, I don’t think I would have summoned the courage to come inside.

Deep breath in. Breath out.

“Hi.” I force a smile, stepping forward as if drawn by a magnet, and set the shoebox and the player on the counter between us. “It’s been a long time. I wasn’t sure you still worked here.”

Very cool, casual. If my throat were gripped by a vise, that is.

His gaze slides over my brown curls, my face, then down my body. He studies me with the kind of deep concentration he used to have when fiddling with electronics.

“Margot.”

That’s all he says. I suppose he’s forgotten how we used to spend so much time together, our moms had a running joke about paying each other rent. Or all the times we sat on the roof outside his bedroom, talking under the stars. How he once kissed me like it was more vital than air.

Then he rounds the counter, closing the distance between us, and wraps his arms around me. “You’re back.”

I rest my cheek against his chest and return the embrace, oxytocin rushing through me as I inhale. The familiar scent of his detergent is an addiction I’ve never overcome.

He pulls back but doesn’t let go, holding my arms. “It’s so good to see you. I’ve been thinking about you.” Before I can consider why, he adds, “I saw the obituary for your grandma. I would have come to the wake if there’d been one.”

“Mom and I decided to keep it small.”

As small as my family. I don’t have aunts or uncles. No cousins. Gram never married. Without her saying it, I sensed that her relationship with my absent grandfather hadn’t been a loving one.

Same story with my dad. He left when I was a baby, claiming he wasn’t ready to be a parent, so Mom and I lived with Gram. Ironically, three years after he moved to Arizona, he got married, and within a decade they had three kids. He’s never shown an interest in my life.

“I’m sorry.” Leo’s lips press into a thin line. “I stopped by the house a while back, hoping to offer my condolences to you or your mom, but no one was home.”

“It’s okay,” I whisper past the lump in my throat. “Gram had a long, full life. I got more time with her than most people get with their grandparents.” But she was more than a grandparent. She was like a second mother.

It’s been two months since she passed, and I keep obsessing over the last time we spoke. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have rushed her off the phone, eager to keep reading a romance novel. I would do anything to get back that last conversation and let it stretch all night. To have one more piece of her to hold on to.

“How old was she again?”

“Ninety-three.”

He lets out a low whistle, releasing me. “And she was still driving.”

“How did you know?”

“She stopped by once in a while. Brought me cookies on my birthday.”

Gram had a calendar with special dates she meticulously transferred over every year. I hadn’t realized his birthday was one of them.

“Everything is exactly the same.” I walk a few feet to a keyboard and test a few keys.

“Do you still play?”

I curl my hand away. “No.”

Leo scans me again before shifting his attention to the counter. “So what brings you in? I’m guessing there aren’t cookies in here.” He points at the shoebox.

There’s no ring on his finger. I shouldn’t notice. It shouldn’t matter. But I do, and it does.

I want to ask what he’s been doing with himself. If he ever thinks of me. Instead, I go over to the box, all red save for Salvatore Ferragamo printed in cursive on the side and top. According to my research, it’s a luxury Italian fashion house that’s been around since the 1920s, which is odd. Gram wouldn’t have been able to afford anything from the brand.

An unfamiliar scent wafts into the air as I lift the lid. “I found this in Gram’s attic.”

“Talk about a blast from the past.” He smiles wide, thumbing through the cassette tapes, and a melody of soft-strumming guitars plays in my chest. “What’s on them? Some Fleetwood Mac? Guns N’ Roses?”

“Gram was more of a Beach Boys lady, and Mom likes Mariah Carey.” Spiderweb-like cracks spread over the plastic case I pop open, the tape labeled 1 of 8. “See that? There should be eight, but the last one is missing.”

“Have you listened to them?”

I flip the player and open the battery compartment to show him the powdery mess inside. “Not yet. I don’t have a spare one of these.” I give him a knowing smile. “But I used to know a pretty handy guy when it came to electronics. I’m not sure if you still tinker—”

“All the time.” He pries out the batteries, then brushes the loosened corrosion aside. “I can clean this for you.”

“That would be great, thanks.” At the risk of sounding impatient I say, “How long do you think it will take?”

He shrugs. “I can do it later today and text you with an update. Is your number the same?”

“Yes.” He still has it? Interesting.

“If you leave the tapes, I can test those too.”

“Could there be something wrong with them?”

“Maybe. They’re probably fine, though. It’s also a way to make sure the player works. If you don’t want to leave them, I have a couple of tapes around here.”

I don’t know why I’m hesitating. He’s my best chance at getting everything to work. “Okay, but don’t listen to them.”

A mischievous eyebrow raises. “Why? Afraid there’s something embarrassing from your childhood on here? The Margot DuBois Diaries? Am I going to find out you secretly smoked pot? Or who else you had a thing for in high school? Ten bucks says whoever it was turned out to be a loser.”

His use of “else” tells me he hasn’t forgotten what he once meant to me.

I give his arm a playful shove. In this second, it’s like no time has passed. “Your trash talk is as stellar as ever, but I think you’re in for disappointment. They’re probably mixtapes.”

“What’s this?” He motions to the letter in the box, and I nod my permission. It’s weathered, like it’s been folded and unfolded many times. Leo spreads it out on the counter.

My Dearest TDH,

I need to get out something I’d never voice. The truth is, I love you madly in a head-over-heels, last-person-I-think-of-before-bed and first-person-I-think-of-when-I-wake-up way. I’m trying to stop, but it’s not easy. When I’m with you, I’m a blazing fire. When I’m not, I’m crackling embers. Distance helps, but I don’t want to stay away. I love hearing your thoughts on everything big and small. As soon as you’re near, though, the fire roars back to life.

Every day I imagine your laugh. Every night I think of your lips. But if all we can have is friendship, I’ll take it. Because the only thing worse than not being with you would be not having you in my life.

Love,

Vivian

Leo glances at me. “TDH? Are they initials?”

“I assume so, but I don’t know whose. Gram’s name is Ginger. Mom’s is Diane. Even my dad’s name, Lucas, doesn’t fit. And I don’t know anyone named Vivian.”

He folds the letter and sets it back in the box. “Sounds like you have a mystery on your hands.”

Though this feels like a natural break in the conversation, I’m not ready for it to end. I want to ask him everything I need to know to catch up on his life. I want to take a trip down memory lane and linger there for hours. I’m tempted to ask if he’d like to grab something to eat or have a drink. Instead, I lift a hand in goodbye and walk back to my car.

Hours later, I’m driving to Gram’s old bungalow after dropping off some clothing donations. My phone vibrates with a text at a red light.

Sorry, I couldn’t get the player to work. But I have an alternative. The first tape wasn’t clear, so I cleaned it.

I voice-to-text a response.

Did you listen to it?

Only enough to make sure it worked. I’m free tomorrow. Text me your address and a good time to swing over with it.

I don’t reply until I’m in the driveway and out of the car.

I’m at Gram’s for now. Any time after 6 works.

Gram had a reverse mortgage we didn’t know about until she passed. Mom is paying it from DC, but she can’t afford to keep doing it, so while I’d rather preserve the house exactly like it is, I offered to clean it out and meet with a real estate agent. My boss is letting me work remotely for the next month, which should be all I need.

A month to say goodbye.

When I used to pass the overgrown poppies along the walkway and cross the threshold, I knew I’d be met with the lingering scent of Gram’s perfume: a mix of lavender and baby powder. Dozens of antique teacups in floral patterns rested in the hutch where they’d always been. Cookies cooled on a wire rack, chocolate chips warm and gooey.

Poppies still spill onto the walkway as I reach her front door. The scent of lavender clings to the drapes, fluttering above an air-conditioning vent. Teacups sit in neat rows on their saucers. But the wire rack is empty.

My phone buzzes.

Great. I’ll bring something to eat while we listen.

Who says you get to listen?

I’m wondering if the joke will come across when he answers, and my worries disintegrate.

I cleaned the tape and have your only available player. That’s my price.

I think through possible responses, typing, deleting, then retyping before hitting send.

Deal.