(Heart & Sleeve, a Friday afternoon)
Chad and Vinnie were doing what they did best: arguing about music while flipping through the crates at Heart & Sleeve, the kind of record shop that looked like it had been here since vinyl was invented, but in reality, had probably opened sometime around the Arctic Monkeys’ third album.
“Mate, you can’t be serious,” Chad scoffed, holding up a copy of "Strictly Business" by Tika Mays, the Red Blooded Translucent version. “This? You, a so-called connoisseur of ‘real’ music, are actually considering spending money on this?”
Vinnie smirked. “You wound me, Chad. You know I’m a sucker for an audaciously pressed limited edition.” He flicked through another crate. “Besides, you were just drooling over that Kara Romero Pure Snow White Marble thing five minutes ago.”
“Yeah, but that’s different,” Chad said. “Romero’s an artist. Tika Mays just knows how to work a decent synth.”
Vinnie scoffed. “That’s funny coming from the guy who owns three different pressings of *Demons* by Glamazon.”
“Two,” Chad corrected. “And it’s a concept album. Doesn’t count.”
They could have gone on like this for hours but the usual atmosphere of Heart & Sleeve suddenly shifted, voices rising, excitement creeping in. Chad glanced up.
“What’s going on over there?”
A small crowd had gathered near the listening station, heads craning, people nudging each other. Vinnie grabbed his arm. “C’mon, let’s check it out.”
They maneuvered through the cluster of denim jackets and second-hand band tees. At the center of it all was a makeshift stage (or at least, the corner of the shop where a few amps and a drum kit had been squeezed in). A bass player. A drummer. A keyboardist. And then—
Her.
Harlow Reed.
Chad didn’t need to ask. He’d read about her, heard "Distant Thunder" on a late-night indie radio show. But now, seeing her in real life, guitar slung over her shoulder, blonde hair loose and wavy, the way her fingers curled around the fretboard like they belonged there...it was something else.
He was staring. He knew he was staring. He could feel Vinnie watching him, smirking before even saying anything.
“She’s alright, I suppose,” Vinnie whispered, way too close to his ear. “If you like that sort of thing.”
“Shut up.”
“I bet you won’t talk to her.”
“Shut up.”
Harlow started playing, and the shop shifted into silence except for the warm strum of her guitar. Her voice was soft but confident, the kind that wraps around a song and makes it hers completely. Chad barely blinked.
By the time the last chord rang out, the crowd erupted in applause. A guy from the store, Heart & Sleeve’s resident music nerd, the kind of bloke who thought his knowledge of obscure B-sides made him a philosopher—stepped up to ask her a few questions.
“So, Harlow, tell us about "Blue Light" What’s the album really about?”
Harlow smiled, setting her guitar down. “It’s about growing up in a city, feeling isolated, everything feels unreal.”
Chad nodded, involuntarily. "That’s a good answer."
“And Distant Thunder?”
“It’s about how love can come and go like a storm. How it can be electric, loud, then vanish just as suddenly.”
Vinnie nudged Chad. “That sound familiar, mate?”
Chad ignored him, focused entirely on the way she answered, the way she thought about it. She’s actually interesting, he realized. Not just talented. Not just hot. Actually interesting.
After a few more questions, the Heart & Sleeve guy announced that she’d be signing copies of "Blue Light" over at the counter. The queue formed instantly. Chad hesitated.
“Oh, we’re getting in line,” Vinnie said, already dragging him toward it.
“I don’t even know if I want the record.”
“Oh, come off it. You want the record. And you want to talk to her. And you won’t. But you should.”
Chad rolled his eyes but let himself be pulled forward. The queue moved fast. Too fast. Suddenly, they were next.
Harlow looked up. “Hey,” she said, smiling.
And suddenly, Chad forgot how to speak.
She was even more stunning up close, her eyes sharp but kind, her lips curving into a polite, expectant smile.
“Hey,” Chad croaked. He immediately wanted to die.
Vinnie, the bastard, was grinning like a madman.
Harlow took a copy of "Blue Light" from the stack. “Want me to sign it?”
“Yeah,” Chad said.
Vinnie nudged him. “Ask her something.”
Then, before he could stop himself, Chad asked: “Uh, do you ever regret making a translucent vinyl?”
Harlow paused, marker in hand. “What?”
Vinnie slapped a hand over his face.
“I mean, uh,” Chad stammered. “Because of fingerprints. You know. They show up more.”
For a beat, Harlow just stared at him. Then—she laughed. A real, warm, slightly surprised laugh.
“Wow,” she said. “That’s probably the weirdest question I’ve gotten today. But no, I don’t regret it. Thought it looked cool.”
Chad nodded, swallowing. “It does.”
She scribbled something on the record sleeve and slid it back to him. “There you go.”
Chad looked down.
"To Chad – No regrets. Harlow x"Vinnie peeked over his shoulder. “Mate, she wrote you a life lesson. Think she’s trying to tell you something.”
Chad barely heard him. He just nodded at Harlow, feeling a little like an idiot, a little like a hero, and a lot like maybe, just maybe, he would be overthinking this moment for the next ten years.
