Bryan wants to surprise his family by coming home for the holidays. But instead he finds himself staying at a hotel because the house is already filled with the rest of his family, including his estranged sister. Disappointed and hurt, Bryan spends his first night home at the local music store.
Things look up when he meets a cute clerk named Jordan who also seems bummed out by the Christmas spirit. The two bond, but when tensions with Bryan's family and their holiday gathering only seem to get worse, Bryan starts to wonder if he would have been better not coming home at all.
Bryan drove fifteen minutes until he found the only place he wanted to be: the Music Room. The quaint music store often allowed particular patrons to practice in the space between the shop and the ballet school that served as a joint storage area. During his high school years, Bryan would work the afternoon shifts at the store on the weekend and then practice his piano and drums all through Saturday night. Sometimes, he’d even beg Greg, the owner, for the Friday to Monday night shifts, so he could spend his entire weekend doing nothing but music. Bryan had never been professionally trained, save for a few piano lessons when he was four or five because Amber was getting piano lessons and he wanted to be included. His music fascination had come much later—at fourteen or fifteen -- when he started to get really into bands, and wanted to duplicate what they were doing.
Bryan found a parking spot in the back of the lot, and his stomach flipped with excitement. He missed this place, probably more than he missed his own teenage bedroom. Maybe giving up his room to a pack of little baby twins or boys under ten years old wouldn’t be so bad, especially if the Music Room would stay open over the holidays. Bryan envisioned practicing late into the nights like he used to do when he was seventeen, and then going back to the hotel to listen to music with his large, noise-cancelling headphones until he fell asleep, and Christmas was only a memory.
The bell rang as soon as Bryan stepped inside the store. A tall kid with faded blue hair he had clearly dyed, and re-dyed again, was working the front. He reminded Bryan of yet another high school kid Greg had found from the back of concert halls. Bryan nodded when the kid met his eyes, then headed over to examine some of the brass section. He was learning to play the trumpet and clarinet -- a lot harder than it seemed -- in his off time at school, and knew he needed a new reed. He picked up a small handful and brought them to the counter, where the kid with blue hair began to ring him through.
“Do you need help finding anything else?” the kid asked.
“No, I’m done for now. Just these.” Bryan handed over his credit card and watched as the kid slid it through. Up close, Bryan noted that he had thicker facial hair around his chin and cheeks than he first realized, along with tattoos and spacers in his ears which indicated he was not a high school kid, but probably twenty-something with a young face.
“Here is your receipt. Anything else?” the guy said.
“Yeah. Does Greg still have the practice space open?”
The guy tilted his head. “How do you know about that?”
“I used to work here. Ages ago.”
“Yeah, he does. Do you want me to call him and ask if you can slip by?”
“Sure. Yes. Actually that would be great. My name’s Bryan Grant. He should remember me, I hope.”
“Greg’s got a good memory and a big heart. He probably does. Just gimme a sec.” The guy dialed a landline phone while Bryan looked through the music magazines at the front to give him privacy. When the kid hung up a few moments later, he did so with a smile on his face. “Yeah, Greg remembers you. Says you’re free to go back.”
“Great. Thanks so much.”
“Just don’t play any country or Christmas songs while you’re back there, okay? I can’t stand them.”
Bryan laughed. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m not a country music fan, and I’m definitely not feeling the holiday spirit right now.”
“I hear that,” the guy said, then stuck out his hand. “I’m Jordan, by the way. I may join you in a little while, when my shift is done, if you don’t mind.”
Jordan’s hand was warm, his grip firm. Bryan could already sense the calluses on his fingers from his extensive playing. From the blue hair and the tattoos running up his arm, Bryan guessed Jordan was more into punk than classical music. Maybe, if he was into both, the two of them could spend most of the night talking about music. Maybe even about composing, Bryan thought, his stomach flipping again with excitement.
“Sure,” Bryan finally said, tearing his gaze away from Jordan. “Yeah, that sounds good. I’ll see you then.”
