Reckless Serenade

nine | oliver

ix. in which oliver york does something surprising

• • •

TRUE TO HER WORD, Quinn had been coming into Java for the last three days, equipped with her musical weapons and determination. The first day she came in and hummed the refrain for Reptilia by The Strokes. The day after that she had an Aerosmith album tucked underneath the sleeve of her oversized men's jacket. Yesterday, she brought in an old iPod Nano and played the opening of Hallelujah by Jeff Buckley.

Each time, I gave her the death glare and grumbled the same response, "Get that shit away from me." Perhaps I should've told her that I didn't care for music; well, not anymore. Maybe that would've gotten her off my back, but somehow my resistance spurred her into a determined flurry of finding a piece of music that I honestly liked.

But honestly? I liked them all. As she hummed Reptilia, I sang the lyrics in my mind. When I saw the Aerosmith album, I thought of when the guys and I covered Cryin' for the school talent show. When she blasted Hallelujah, I had the tabs up in my brain before the lyrics even started. And everytime I remembered, I felt the pieces of myself, the pieces that I so desperately tried to glue together, begin breaking little by little again.

I never realized how much I missed it: the music.

I stood behind the register as usual, business was slow as usual, and I was bored. As usual. My eyes skimmed the wall clock - southern antique embroidered in elegant flourishes - and watched the minute hand slowly inch itself towards two 'o clock.

Quinn should be coming inside in three, two, one.

The bell chimed and I righted myself in my spot, throwing the dirty dish towel to the side and crossing my arms over my chest in a defensive position. Sleek and graceful, she sauntered through the door, her billowy chocolate brown hair waving in the breeze behind her.

"You again?" I arched an eyebrow at her as she smirked nonchalantly.

"Who else?" She looked the same as she usually did. Decorated in the usual bland attire, she wore a Dodgers hoodie, some slacks, and black combat boots. The footwear always had me wondering about how she really dressed, like on the night I first met her. Quinn seemed like a more inconspicuous mask of her true self.

Taking the usual seat, the velvet bar stool third from the edge, Quinn set her long legs on the chair beside her, stretching them out to their full length. I noticed she didn't come equipped, no album by her side, or music device. Just Quinn. I felt a little disappointment, which shocked me; was she already giving up?

"What will it be?" I asked, running a hand down my unmanageable locks.

"Caramel latte and pumpkin spice macchiato." she clarified, like she did every day since then. I turned back to the counter; I had already started on her order before she showed up, already knowing. She always ordered the same thing. I put in extra sugar, caramel, and whipped cream before sliding the steaming hot cup in her direction.

For a second I saw her frown, like she did every time I passed her the drink, but it always faded as quickly as it came. Quinn didn't bother taking a sip, playing with the cup instead. Finishing up the macchiato, I added it to her side and stood in front of her, both hands resting on the counter top on either side of my body.

"Alright. Since all my efforts were wasted so far, I'll try something else." Quinn leaned forward, as if about to spill gossip. "Tell me if you like this song."

I braced myself but the impact was so strong that I found myself blinking back in utter shock. It wasn't the same blow that hit whenever I listened to music, a blow that hurt. Instead, it was complete shock as her voice began the song, beautiful and ragged, like broken glass and eternal bliss.