pasta.”
“Right down my alley,” I reply. “Plus, I’m so hungry, I will eat anything right now. How much do I owe you?”
She waves her hand in a dismissive manner. “Don’t worry about it.” Leaning over the counter, she asks, “What are two working on?”
I turn the laptop so she can see our flyer designs. Trevyn and I both cringe a little when her mouth turns down.
“Ah.” It’s all she gives us.
Trevyn states the obvious. “You don’t like them.”
Amber pulls on her earlobe some, still scrutinizing the fliers onscreen. “You remember that I took some graphics design courses in college, right?” she tells Trevyn. “I would’ve gladly helped you guys with this.”
Trevyn and I let our breaths out at the same time, not out of exasperation but out of relief.
“Please, Amber,” I say, folding my hands into praying pose. “You still can help us. Please fix these sad excuses for flyers.”
Her mouth twitches into a smile. “Gladly, darlings.” She slides her bag off her shoulder and nods toward the takeout. “You two get eating.”
And we do. We gobble down that Italian food while Amber bends over the laptop, furiously hitting keys and rapid-firing the mouse. Fifteen minutes later, she flips the laptop so we can see her progress.
“How does this look so far?” she asks.
I know this doesn’t sound pretty, but I swear, the noodles I just shoved into my mouth slide back out when my jaw goes slack.
The flyer is incredible. It has a fitting retro vibe in its fonts, color scheme, and television-static texture. But all that is mixed brilliantly with a classic rock feel. At the middle-bottom, there’s a silhouetted graphic of an electric guitar with its chord snaking to the edge of the flyer. The shop’s address is typed in a single line across the bottom. In large bold font, Miles of Vinyls stretches across the top. And below that in smaller and simpler type: Walk the road. Enrich your soul.
“Holy smokes,” Trevyn remarks.
Amber, pleased with our reactions, pulls the laptop back and continues working, a proud tilt to her lips.
Chapter Eight
Following Aiden’s confession about the wine incident, Aunt Miranda sort of wordlessly ungrounded me by simply not objecting whenever she saw me leave the house. Of course, immediately after Aiden left, she made a big fuss over having mistakenly punished Dylan. Dylan said nothing to her in reply, didn’t acknowledge her in the least, just walked past with a stoic expression and went up to his room again to play guitar. The soulful wails of “While My Guitar Gently Weeps” followed, winding their way down the staircase and around Aunt Miranda and me where we stood in the kitchen, not looking at each other.
It’s Friday now and hard for me to believe I’ve been living in California for almost two weeks. Aunt Miranda is gone for a weekend of wine tasting in Napa Valley with some of her college sorority sisters. I still can’t decide whether it was funny or pathetic seeing middle-aged women act like they did back in college, squealing and screaming and shuffle-running in four-inch heels into each other’s arms. I’m just glad they didn’t stick around for long because I don’t think my sanity, or Uncle Jim’s and Dylan’s for that matter, would have lasted. We very nearly turned to savages and clawed each other’s eyes out, just to vent.
I stand at the bottom of the stairs in a debate with myself over whether I feel like holing up in my room for the day or driving around town just for the hell of it. I haven’t been out much, what with putting so much time into Miles of Vinyls, so I could probably use the sun and fresh air on this day off from work. Maybe I’ll take a day trip to Sausalito.
But just as I open the door to head out, Uncle Jim’s voice stops me.
“Hey, Delilah.” There’s a question in it, I can already sense that. I shut my eyes and roll them beneath my lids before I turn around. He
“Right down my alley,” I reply. “Plus, I’m so hungry, I will eat anything right now. How much do I owe you?”
She waves her hand in a dismissive manner. “Don’t worry about it.” Leaning over the counter, she asks, “What are two working on?”
I turn the laptop so she can see our flyer designs. Trevyn and I both cringe a little when her mouth turns down.
“Ah.” It’s all she gives us.
Trevyn states the obvious. “You don’t like them.”
Amber pulls on her earlobe some, still scrutinizing the fliers onscreen. “You remember that I took some graphics design courses in college, right?” she tells Trevyn. “I would’ve gladly helped you guys with this.”
Trevyn and I let our breaths out at the same time, not out of exasperation but out of relief.
“Please, Amber,” I say, folding my hands into praying pose. “You still can help us. Please fix these sad excuses for flyers.”
Her mouth twitches into a smile. “Gladly, darlings.” She slides her bag off her shoulder and nods toward the takeout. “You two get eating.”
And we do. We gobble down that Italian food while Amber bends over the laptop, furiously hitting keys and rapid-firing the mouse. Fifteen minutes later, she flips the laptop so we can see her progress.
“How does this look so far?” she asks.
I know this doesn’t sound pretty, but I swear, the noodles I just shoved into my mouth slide back out when my jaw goes slack.
The flyer is incredible. It has a fitting retro vibe in its fonts, color scheme, and television-static texture. But all that is mixed brilliantly with a classic rock feel. At the middle-bottom, there’s a silhouetted graphic of an electric guitar with its chord snaking to the edge of the flyer. The shop’s address is typed in a single line across the bottom. In large bold font, Miles of Vinyls stretches across the top. And below that in smaller and simpler type: Walk the road. Enrich your soul.
“Holy smokes,” Trevyn remarks.
Amber, pleased with our reactions, pulls the laptop back and continues working, a proud tilt to her lips.
Chapter Eight
Following Aiden’s confession about the wine incident, Aunt Miranda sort of wordlessly ungrounded me by simply not objecting whenever she saw me leave the house. Of course, immediately after Aiden left, she made a big fuss over having mistakenly punished Dylan. Dylan said nothing to her in reply, didn’t acknowledge her in the least, just walked past with a stoic expression and went up to his room again to play guitar. The soulful wails of “While My Guitar Gently Weeps” followed, winding their way down the staircase and around Aunt Miranda and me where we stood in the kitchen, not looking at each other.
It’s Friday now and hard for me to believe I’ve been living in California for almost two weeks. Aunt Miranda is gone for a weekend of wine tasting in Napa Valley with some of her college sorority sisters. I still can’t decide whether it was funny or pathetic seeing middle-aged women act like they did back in college, squealing and screaming and shuffle-running in four-inch heels into each other’s arms. I’m just glad they didn’t stick around for long because I don’t think my sanity, or Uncle Jim’s and Dylan’s for that matter, would have lasted. We very nearly turned to savages and clawed each other’s eyes out, just to vent.
I stand at the bottom of the stairs in a debate with myself over whether I feel like holing up in my room for the day or driving around town just for the hell of it. I haven’t been out much, what with putting so much time into Miles of Vinyls, so I could probably use the sun and fresh air on this day off from work. Maybe I’ll take a day trip to Sausalito.
But just as I open the door to head out, Uncle Jim’s voice stops me.
“Hey, Delilah.” There’s a question in it, I can already sense that. I shut my eyes and roll them beneath my lids before I turn around. He
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