In the afternoons, the restaurant remained closed for dine-in customers, as it was a church day. However, that didn't deter Avery's father from making extra profits through delivery services; though he forbade him from taking the car to unfamiliar neighborhoods, which meant deliveries were often made on Avery's trusty bike.
Every Sunday evening, like clockwork, the record store a few blocks away would place an order. The owner, a woman named Kiara, with an soulful smile and a handful of crumpled bills, would wait by the door, anticipating her usual feast of savory pork rice and crispy fried chicken. But on this particular day, Kiara had ordered more than her usual fare.
Hao, the kitchen's steady hand, handed Avery a hefty, green delivery bag that crinkled with the weight of its contents, along with a paper receipt stained with ink from a well-worn pen. "For the record store lady," he announced, his voice echoing slightly from the back.
"Got it," Avery replied with a hint of urgency, sprinting toward the exit. Just as he was about to step outside, his father's voice reverberated from the kitchen's depths, laden with authority.
"Don't loiter around out there! We catch more orders when dinner rush hits!"
"Ain't like I'm goin' anywhere special!" Avery hollered back, bolting through the door before his father could deliver another reprimand.
Watching Avery's hasty departure, Hao chuckled as he resumed preparing the rice for the next order. "I bet you he's not coming back anytime soon, Mr. Walker."
Nathaniel, standing over the simmering stove, rolled his eyes with a fatherly exasperation. "He better, damn kid," he muttered, stirring the pot as the savory aroma filled the air.
Pedaling furiously, the cool wind whipped through Avery's hair as he zipped across the bustling street. The sun was beginning to set, casting a warm golden glow over everything, and for a moment, he felt invincible. He often found himself yearning for something more than just the monotonous routine of standing behind the cash register at the restaurant, where the hours seemed to drag on endlessly. The thrill of biking, the wind on his face, and the sense of freedom as he escaped the constraints of his job, brought a rush of exhilaration he craved. Sometimes, he had to stop himself from getting too happy, otherwise the scattered leaves and debris on the ground, warm electricity lingering in the wind, would follow after him and his trusty bike, as if his body had some magnetic pull to the elements of Mother Nature herself.
Technically, he did.
Each ride was a small rebellion, a chance to reclaim a piece of his freedom before plunging back into the demands of everyday life; anything to get the hell out. The afternoon sun stretched long over the cracked pavement, bouncing off hubcaps and the chrome rims of parked Cutlasses and Caprices. His Walkman clipped to his waistband thumped faintly through his headphones, the bassline barely keeping steady with each bump in the sidewalk. He had one hand on the handlebar, the other balancing the green insulated bag against his hip. The scent of fried rice and soy sauce mixed with the usual city funk — car exhaust, and the frequent scent of sewer. Instead of heading straight back after his delivery, Avery would sometimes linger around the neighborhood, allowing the exhilaration of the fresh air to stray him further, feeling alive in the warm afternoon. Occasionally, he would veer off toward Tito's house, who always had a knack for making him laugh. They'd hang out for a few minutes, fooling around on the porch and cracking jokes as randoms passed by. However, he wouldn't have time for Tito that evening, as Avery would spend his spare time with someone else instead.
The record store came into view, tucked between a shuttered laundromat and a shop that sold bootleg DVDs and incense. The gold-painted sign above the window read Kiara's Record Haven, the K halfway peeling. Posters of Tupac, Janet, and Wu-Tang curled behind the sun-bleached glass. The box fan in the doorway whined like it had been fighting for its life since '89.
Avery coasted to a stop, hopping off and propping his bike against the rail. The heat clung to him like a second shirt as he adjusted the delivery bag on his shoulder and stepped inside.
The bell above the door jingled.
Inside smelled like Nag Champa and plastic wrap from shrink-sealed CDs. A Ashanti song played low in the background — Foolish, maybe. The store was dim and cool, with patches of sunlight falling in through the blinds, streaking across stacks of records and cassette singles.
He barely noticed her at first, crouched near the R&B shelf, sliding records into place. All he saw was the slim frame of her shoulders and her long hair that swept gently against the carpeted floors.
Then she turned.
Isabella.
Her eyes widened for half a second — the kind of look you give the past when it shows up uninvited.
She stood up slowly, brushing dust from her jeans. She wasn't behind the counter—not officially — but the emptiness of the store told him she was covering.
For an intense beat, neither of them said anything.
Avery's heart finally took a beat, as if it too were utterly caught off guard from the girl in front of him. His mind briefly revisited a few nights ago, where she promised he wouldn't see her around, not by a long shot. Yet, there they were.
From the back came Kiara's voice, distant but unmistakable. "Tell me my rice and chicken are in there!"
Avery blinked, like he wasn't sure this was real.
He cleared his throat and walked toward the counter, voice steady even though his pulse jumped. "Yeah. Hot and fresh."
He set the bag down on the counter, his gaze locked onto Isabella, whose cheeks glowed with a hint of embarrassment—a deep shade of red that contrasted starkly with her otherwise caramel skin.
Should he pretend that last Friday didn't happen?
As much as he wished to dismiss it, he found himself ensnared by the memory. Her sharp brown eyes captured his attention again, compelling him like a starving fish lured by a glimmering hook. She returned the favor by glaring into his lighter brown eyes, obviously wary of his presence, like maybe she hadn't meant for their paths to cross again either.
Kiara rushed out from the back, her loose-fitting t-shirt hung slightly askew as she balanced her newborn baby against her hip, a soft white towel draped over her other arm. It was evident to Avery that she had just been breastfeeding, a common sight he'd become accustomed to, complete with the towel. Kiara's hair was pinned up as if she worked in a sweatshop, (she might as well have with the lack of air circulation in that store) and she wore ragged shorts; fashioned from old, worn jeans, exposing the patches of vitiligo that formed intricate patterns on her skin,
Looking between Kiara and Isabella, Avery realized with certainty that he had never once seen Isabella organizing discs on a Sunday afternoon in the record shop. He'd never mistake her face for anyone else's.
Was she new?
Not that it was any of his business…just morbid curiosity.
"Here, honey," Kiara said, her voice warm as she placed five crumpled singles on the counter, accompanied by two extra quarters as a tip, the usual total. She glanced at Isabella, a radiant smile breaking across her face as she handed over the green takeout bag. "Eat up, sweetheart. Just make sure to leave some for me; I've got to finish putting the baby down." No sooner had she spoken than her baby let out a soft whine, a sweet yet demanding sound that tugged at the heart. Kiara turned and made her way back toward the sanctuary of the backroom, disappearing behind the beaded curtain that acted as a feeble barrier between the shop and the outside world. The moment Kiara vanished, Isabella shifted her focus entirely, turning her back to Avery and meticulously realigning the perfectly arranged records on the top shelf. With every subtle movement from side to side, her thick, glossy hair cascaded in waves, catching glimmers of light that danced in the small, cluttered space. As she shifted from side to side, her luscious hair followed suit.
Avery felt an unwelcome surge of emotions swirling in his chest—frustration intertwined with intrigue—as she seemed to completely disregard his presence, immersing herself in her work. He never imagined he would witness the day when a girl would choose to ignore him so effortlessly, and yet here he was,
Well, he never rejected a challenge.
He strolled through the isle slowly and gained a false interest in the records and CD's beneath him, pretending as though he didn't notice Isabella glance over her shoulder, checking to see whether he'd left or not. He settled for the cassettes, and moved his fingers through each one, until he settled on a familiar name, Aaliyah. He grabbed the tape and walked to the counter, setting it down gently like it was a love letter instead of a dusty cassette. When she didn't bother to turn around, Avery cleared his throat and dinged the tiny silver bell sitting in the corner. He reached for the tiny silver bell and gave it a polite ding.
At the soft chime, she paused, her hand hovering over a record. Then, slowly, she turned to face him.
Her face was neutral — almost — but her lips twitched at the corners, like she couldn't quite fight back a smile.
"How can I help you?" she asked, arms folded loosely over her chest. Her voice was gentle, but there was a subtle playfulness in it now — like she already knew he was about to try something.
Avery leaned forward on his elbows, closing the space between them. His throat was dry, his heart was pounding, and his brain was yelling abort mission, but he pressed on.
"Well, uh," he began, already regretting every decision that led him here, "I'm thinkin' of buying this record, but I'm not sure whether or not it's worth it."
She tilted her head, one brow raised. The belt on her low-rise jeans caught the light as she shifted. "You wanna buy the last Aaliyah CD?"
He squinted, acting like it was a real dilemma. "It ain't for me. It's for this girl I wanna get to know. I'm hopin' she'll hang out with me. She's really pretty. I don't think I'm in her league, though, since she turned me down the other night. I was hopin' to win her over."
Isabella looked away, biting down a smile, her fingers tracing the edge of the counter. She tucked her hair behind her ear, shy but clearly entertained.
"You must be desperate if you're trying to bribe her with Aaliyah," she said quietly, her eyes still not meeting his as she grabbed the CD and placed it in a red plastic bag, the receipt printed.
He grinned. "Never desperation, just determination. Or somethin' like that."
Finally, she glanced up at him, a flash of delight illuminating her gaze from behind her thick lashes. "I said you wouldn't see me around again." she stated, though it seemed more like she was trying to convince herself of that notion.
Avery shifted the plastic bag in his hand, thumb brushing over the edge of the receipt. "So that's it?" he said, voice softer this time. "You really gon' let me walk outta here without a number?"
Finally, she glanced up at him, a flash of delight illuminating her gaze from behind her thick lashes. "I said you wouldn't see me around again." she stated, though it seemed more like she was trying to convince herself of that notion.
"Right," he nodded, trying to laugh it off, but his foot tapped against the floor without rhythm. "You said that. I still don't understand that part."
She finally glanced up at him, one brow raised. "And why's that?"
He scratched the back of his neck, eyes flickering down, then back at her. "Because if it wasn't supposed to happen, you wouldn't be over there smiling at everything I say."
She blinked, lips parting just slightly before she caught herself. "Flattery's not gonna change anything."
"Cool," he said, voice dipping lower as his confidence found footing. "Then let's skip the flattery. Let's talk real."
Isabella leaned over the counter again, this time slower, elbows resting on the surface as she gave him a look. "Real?"
He nodded. "Yeah. Real is… you're standing here telling me to stay away, but last week you flirted with me like no other. That's kind of heard to ignore, don't you think?"
She rolled her eyes. "I've just got nice manners. Don't flatter yourself."
He smirked. "You're right. I shouldn't. 'Cause clearly you got rules. Boundaries and…all that. And I respect that."
Then, quieter, more serious:
"But I can't just walk out without tryin'. I might regret it too much later."
Her expression wavered for a second, conflicted. He was getting to her, and she hated that.
Yet…she gave in.
With a small sigh, she dipped behind the counter and reappeared with a thick black marker in hand.
"This is still a mistake," she muttered.
"Probably," he said. "But it's gon' be a good one."
"Give me your hand." She demanded.
Her expression wavered for just a fleeting moment, a flicker of inner conflict crossing her features. He was getting under her skin, and she despised that. Yet, despite her resistance, something shifted within her. With a resigned sigh, she ducked behind the cluttered counter and reemerged clutching a thick black marker, its glossy surface glinting under the dim lights of the room.
"This is still a mistake," she muttered, her voice tinged with uncertainty.
"Probably," he replied, a roguish grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "But it's gonna be a good one."
"Give me your wrist," she demanded, her tone firm yet slightly breathless. A whirl of questions spun through his mind, but he was too entranced by the moment to voice any of them. Curiosity overrode caution as he extended his wrist toward her, watching intently as she flicked the cap off the marker with a practiced ease. The scent of ink filled the air as she began to carefully inscribe a series of numbers along his skin. Once she was finished, she admired her work like a tattoo artist admired their art.
"Call me?" She asked, her voice softer now. The red flush returned to her cheeks, as if the heat of the moment was finally catching up to her again. But internally, she would blame it on the lack of air conditioning.
"Don't gotta tell me twice."
Avery glanced down as his arm, observing her neat penmanship, and the way she wrote her own name on his skin. He couldn't shake the feeling that this was the beginning of something unexpected—something both thrilling and unsettling. The warmth that spread through him was unfamiliar, a whisper of a feeling he hadn't experienced before. And Isabella managed to bring it out of him.
Little did he know, this was just the start of it all.