Here Comes the Sun | ✓

Chapter Fourteen - Libby

    A giggle escapes me when he sighs and looks up from his plate, cream smudged on his chin and upper lip. He tilts his head at me in confusion and I blush, handing him the napkin that had been covering my brown to-go cup of coffee. "There's, uh, cream," I mutter, tapping my chin to show him where. His mouth drops into an "O" and pleasantly takes the napkin from my hand, a laugh bubbling from him.

    "My dear," he sputters between chuckles, "I think this is the most amount of fun I've had here at Cornelia's."

    My heart thumps in my chest and I place my hand over it. "That's so sweet, Mr. Bentley, thanks."

    He waves his hand at me like he's telling me to calm down. "No, no, don't thank me, thank you," he replies, wiping the mess off his mouth. "Laughing's good for the soul." He pauses. "And the life span." He dabs at some cream that had somehow gotten on his shirt, and my breath catches in my throat. He looks up at me, "Are you alright?"

    Coughing, I nod. "It's just, um, " I stutter, "your shirt is awesome."

    He looks down at it as if he forgot what he's wearing, and then he smiles. "The Smiths?" he asks, reading off his own gray band t-shirt. "Oh yeah, they were great."

    "I listen to them all the time," I say, thinking to my piles of ancient vimyls Dad had passed down to me to listen to. "It's good for the soul," he had told me when I was younger. He gave me them when I was twelve, but I didn't start really listening to them until I turned fifteen and the idea of vintage stuff was getting popular.

    "Oh yeah?" he asks, placing the now dirty napkin onto the plate. "I own a music shop down off of Times Square. We do all sorts of music lessons, and we sell records, CDs, instruments..." he says, pride in his store obvious in his tone. He smiles. "You should come by sometime."

    Hesitating, I glance at my phone to check the time and take a look around the cafe. It's thirty minutes past. He's not coming.

    Sighing, I pull on my best smile and say, "I'll come now, if you don't mind. I've got nothing else to do, and it sounds like my type of store."

    He gives me a look, and I suddenly feel like he's looking right through me - like I'm a window and he's reading my thoughts and feelings like an open book. "Yer not waiting for somebody?" he asks, clearly knowing the answer already.

    I sigh, slouching in my seat. I feel like he's known me for years and we've only been sitting in these seats for twenty minutes. I take a sip of my now cold coffee, trying to drown my thoughts with caffeine. "This guy," I mumble, and Bentley chuckles.

    "He's not comin'," he pans.

    I frown. "Why not?"

    He crosses his arms on the table and leans forward. "Is he from New York?" I nod, even though I don't really know. He had a small accent, but he'd only spoken so many words to me that I can't be sure. "Then he ain't comin', dear."

    I sigh, my eyes burning. I flashback to the safety I felt in his arms; the warmth his words gave me. He had been so sincere. I wouldn't have ever imagined he would be a no-show during those few minutes with him.

    "Let's go, hon."

    Picking up my coffee and shaking off my disappointment, I go up to the counter and politely ask Jenny to warm up my coffee. After refilling it instead, I thank her, and then Bentley and I exit the cool coffee shop. "So how far away is this shop," I ask, blowing on my coffee in an attempt to cool it down faster. This weather is surely not helping.

    "Eh, about ten minutes away. Where are you from?" he asks, shoving his hands in his jean pockets. For such an old man he walks pretty fast. I change my pace to catch up with him.

    "Houston."

    He nods, his face seeming to clear from understandment. "I thought I knew that accent," he teased, and I blush. I have an accent? After a few minutes of walking in silence, Bentley says, "My son works at the shop - at Juke Box Hero. Or, he's not really my son, but he's like my son." His tone shifts to a more melancholy tone. "You see, my wife was unable to have kids, but when my boy, Nottes, walked through my door at the small age of fourteen, searching for a job, it was like God had sent him to my wife and I for a reason.

    "I wouldn't usually employ a kid, but he was so sad. He had this terrible backstory and he was lonely and had no where else to look to, so, of course, I took him in." He sighs. "He's a great kid - very brilliant. He just... he won't push himself hard enough, y'know?"

    "Does he know what he wants to be?" I ask, wanting to learn more. Kids were always a favorite of mine, with me not growing up around any and constantly being around Liv's three siblings.

    "Looks like he's looking at working for me for the rest of his life, but, Libby... look at me. I'm a ticking bomb. My time is coming, and it's like he can't even see that. He needs an education. He needs a better life than the one I'm giving him."

    "Is he not attending school?" I ask, trying to get a handle on the plot twist he's just given me.

    "No, he's done. He's, uh, about the same age as you," he says, giving me a once-over. "Nineteen, going on twenty."

    Shit, I think, having been thinking we were talking about a teenager all this time - not a grown man. "Oh," is all I can come up with.

    "Yep," he says, motioning to the next door on the right. "Here we are."

    On the front door is gold lettering, reading "Juke Box Hero; music extraordinaire." Smiling, I hold the door open for Bentley and enter after him, being overwhelmed with the amazing decor. On every wall there are different signed posters of vintage bands from way back in the sixties and seventies, and hanging off the walls are beautiful, newly-polished guitars. I've never even been interested in playing an instrument, but after being in this store for less than ten seconds, I want more than anything at this moment to buy lessons from Bentley.

Over to the right of the store are the records he had been talking about, and behind those are the CD racks. There's a main counter in the middle of the store where Bentley had wandered off to, and I hesitantly walk up to the cash register. "So this is where you work everyday?" I ask, my eyes wandering back towards the posters of the people I listen to in my bedroom every day.

Bentley nods, smiling. "Yep. Beautiful, eh?" I nod, mute, and he laughs. "Yer cute, kid. I think I'll keep you around." I laugh and playfully punch him in the arm, and he chuckles, calling help from "Nottes."

    "No, no, he's fine!" I call to the stranger, but the guy didn't seem to hear. He walks out of the back room that must be the storage closet and looks at Bentley, and then at me.

    Locking gazes with him, I stop in my tracks.

    Oh.