The Spotlight

Chapter 37

Gary emerges from the bathroom already dressed, his hair still damp from the shower. He catches me watching him and smiles.

"Morning, sleepyhead," he says, sitting on the edge of the bed.

I stretch, enjoying the luxurious slide of hotel sheets against my skin. "What time is it?"

"Nearly ten." His hand finds mine on top of the covers, fingers threading through mine with casual intimacy. "Last day," he adds, a quiet recognition of the ticking clock we've both been trying to ignore.

"Don't remind me." I groan, pulling the sheet over my head in mock protest.

He laughs, tugging it back down. "Come on. I was thinking we could take a stroll through town today." His thumb traces circles on my palm. "There's a neighborhood I want to show you. Vintage shops, record stores, and we can have a nice lunch."

An hour later, we're strolling down a street in Silver Lake. It's nothing like the polished glamour of Beverly Hills or the tourist traps of Hollywood. Here, the buildings are low and colorful, splashed with street art and draped with climbing vines. People drift in and out of cafés and boutiques, unhurried and eclectic in a way that reminds me of certain corners of East London, but with that distinctly LA glow that makes everyone look like they've stepped off a film set.

Gary walks beside me, sunglasses perched on his nose, looking deliciously normal in faded jeans and a simple white t-shirt. No one gives us a second glance here. We're just another couple enjoying the day, anonymous and unremarkable. The freedom of it feels intoxicating.

"Here," Gary says, stopping in front of a weathered storefront with peeling paint and a hand-lettered sign proclaiming 'Analog Dreams.' "You're going to love this place."

The shop is dimly lit and crammed with floor-to-ceiling shelves of vinyl records, the air heavy with the peculiar scent of old paper and dust. A bearded man with tattoo sleeves nods at us from behind the counter before returning to his magazine. No recognition, no double-take. Just another day, another pair of customers.

Gary immediately makes a beeline for a section labeled "British Imports," his fingers skimming across album spines with reverent familiarity. I follow, watching his face light up as he pulls out record after record.

"Obscura Records," he says, holding up an album with a psychedelic cover. "Tiny label out of Manchester in the seventies. Only pressed about two hundred copies of this before they went bust."

I raise an eyebrow, impressed despite myself. "How do you know all this stuff?"

"Before internet streaming and digital downloads, this was how we discovered music." A smile pulls at his mouth that softens his whole face. "I spent most of my teenage years in shops like this, saving up to buy whatever I could afford that week."

"Who's we?" I tease. "Pretty sure I wasn't alive during the heyday of vinyl."

He laughs, nudging my shoulder with his. "Cheeky. I'm not that old."

We spend the next hour combing through shelves, Gary pulling out albums and giving me mini-lectures on bands I've never heard of, record producers whose names sound vaguely familiar, and the rise and fall of various music scenes through the decades. His knowledge is encyclopedic, delivered with the passion of someone discussing a beloved old friend rather than pieces of plastic in cardboard sleeves.

"This one," he says, handing me a worn album with a minimalist black and white cover, "changed everything for me when I was fifteen."

Gary's hand finds the small of my back as he guides me out of the record store, his fingers pressing just firmly enough to feel possessive. He's carrying a small bag with the album he couldn't resist—some obscure B-side collection he swears will "change my life." The enthusiasm in his eyes makes me smile more than the actual purchase.