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Dean turned the music down and started counting the drawer while I straightened the front display, putting away records and cassettes customers had left in random places around the store.

I’d done this before, hundreds of times, it seemed, although logically it couldn’t have been more than a few months over the summer.

The rhythm returned without effort. I checked the cassette rack, stacked the receipts, wiped fingerprints off the glass counter, and knew without looking that Dean would count the drawer twice because he never trusted the first total.

“You’re three cents over,” I said.

His head came up. “How do you know?”

“You’re always three cents over.”

He looked at the pile of changes then counted again.

“Three cents.”

“Thank you.”

“That’s disturbing.”

“I pay attention.”

His eyes stayed on mine for a moment longer than necessary.

“Yes,” he said. “You do.”

I looked away first.

By ten-thirty, the store was clean, organized, and ready for the next morning. Dean switched off the front lights, leaving only the lamp behind the counter and the yellow glow from the stairwell leading up to his apartment.

“You want a drink?”

I should have said no. It was late enough that my mom would notice when I came home, and she’d ask questions I didn’t want to answer.

Instead I looked toward the stairs.

“Do you have any wine coolers?”

“Strawberry.”

“My favorite.”

Dean smiled.

Otis grunted and struggled to his feet, hoping for a snack.

His apartment was stuffy and smelled faintly of coffee, books, laundry detergent, and dog. He opened two windows while I stood near the small kitchen table, listening to traffic below.

I’d been up here before, but that was another memory I’d polished so often over the years that seeing the actual room again felt strangely intimate.

The apartment was only three rooms, consisting of a kitchen that opened into a living area with a worn brown sofa, a mismatched chair, and stacks of records leaning against the wall. The bathroom was so small you could open and close the door from the toilet. A tiny bedroom stood beyond an open doorway, just large enough for a twin bed, a dresser, and a milk crate that served as a nightstand.

His aviator sunglasses sat folded beside a paperback western on the dresser. Louis L’Amour.

A framed photograph rested on the shelf above the sofa. Dean stood beside a younger woman with the same dark hair and serious eyes, though she was smiling broadly enough to change her whole face.

“How’s Beth?” I asked.

Dean glanced over while filling the coffee pot. “You remembered?”