AVA
He shakes his hair out of his eyes and flips through albums at The Vinyl Kitty—my favorite record shop in all of Chicago. I don’t want to be standing here, gawking, but my eyes are drawn to him.
He’s tall, so fucking tall, easily six-foot-four or five. He clearly works out; the size of his biceps screams that he lifts heavy, yet he doesn’t look like a typical gym dude. My eyes trail from his arms to the front of his shirt—a Bob Seger concert tee. Intriguing. I wonder if he’s more of a We’ve Got Tonight or Old Time Rock N’ Roll kind of guy.
His hair is dark, almost dark enough to match mine. I like the way he’s left just a little bit of scruff on his face. His Converse look like they’re falling apart, like he’s traveled many places in them.
He stands dead center in the rock section, one row away from me. I’ve never been the type of girl to walk up and introduce myself to a guy, but he makes me want to. It isn’t love at first sight—I don’t believe in that garbage—but it might be infatuation at first sight. I feel a slight pull toward him. Like the universe has conspired to put me directly in his path.
He turns in my direction, and I snap my head down to the albums so hard I think I’ve given myself whiplash. I start thumbing through them like I’ve been doing this the entire time, as opposed to checking him out.
“Hey,” he says, and when I don’t answer, because I’m blissfully unaware that he’s speaking to me, he says it again.
I look up and around, trying not to seem too obvious. When we finally make eye contact, I see his are a beautiful emerald green—the kind you can get lost in, make bad decisions because of, and swoon over.
“Come here often?” he asks.
Did he really just use that line? My face must display my thoughts, because he immediately starts in again, smiling. My God, his smile.
“Yeah, that was stupid. My bad.” He laughs, walking my way, where he extends his hand over the albums that separate us. “I’m River.”
I take his hand in mine and he’s fire to my ice.
“You’re freezing,” he observes. “What’s your name?”
I forgot to tell him my name. Jesus Christ, this is going really well. “Ava Keyes.”
“Well, Ava Keyes,” he starts, smiling at me again—and his teeth are damn near perfect, blindingly white, “The Doors or Black Sabbath?”
I smile nervously. “That’s kind of like asking me to compare apples to oranges.” I stare at him as he holds both albums up on either side of him. “The Doors would get my vote every time, though. Jim Morrison is one of the greats—a lyrical genius.”
He nods, cocking his head to the side and pursing his lips a little. “Hmm.” He studies me, looking me up and down, and I’m fully aware that he’s taking me in. “Thank you, Ava Keyes. It was very nice to meet you.” With that, he flashes another toothy smile, putting the Black Sabbath album back in its place before walking over to the cash register with the Doors album in hand. He glances back at me once before focusing his attention on the transaction.
I stand and stare at the space he’s left me in—wondering what the fuck that was all about—until I hear the bells chime, signaling his departure.
After walking around to the spot he’d stood in while browsing, I’m happy to see two more of the same record. My fingers make their way to the specific Doors album and I trace the lines of Jim’s face, admiring him, then I turn to head to the checkout.
Right before I leave, Frankie, the owner of the shop—and one badass seventy-year-old tattooed and pierced grandma—calls out to me.
“Ava!” She rushes around the counter toward me, her bright pink mohawk staying in perfect Aquanet place. “I almost forgot to give you this. That guy who just took off, he left this for you.”
She hands me a small folded piece of paper—with a phone number—that reads:
There are things known, and things unknown, and in between are the doors.
Call me, Ava Keyes.
Track Two: We Are Family
by Sister Sledge
AVA
Everything I’ve learned about life, love, and being a decent human has come from my father. He’s my number one go-to, the coolest dad to ever exist, and he likes to remind me of it often.
My family is comparable to the annoyingly perfect sitcom kind. My mom and dad were high school sweethearts who married at nineteen, had me at twenty-one, and my brother Dillon at twenty-four. The only time I can even remember things being almost rocky is when we were waiting to receive an answer on my brother’s autism diagnosis. But even if—or when—they were struggling, they seldom let it show.
I want a love like my parents have, the kind that sweeps you off your feet. I want a family like mine, even if we are annoyingly perfect.
My mother glances over at my father. “Honey, can you please get a haircut? It isn’t the seventies anymore. I love you, but you’re starting to make the neighbors think we just smoke doobies and listen to old-school rock music all day.”
My dad turns to look at her, obviously perplexed. He arches just one brow and brings his hand to his chin, rubbing at his blond scruff. “Honey,” he playfully mocks her, “isn’t that exactly what we do?”
“Hey!” Dillon yells out. “Drugs are bad. It isn’t something to joke about.”
“Dill, there’s nothing wrong with taking a load off.” My father flashes a grin, puffing at an imaginary joint, and my mom swats him on the arm.
“No, you’re right, babe. Your father just thinks he’s hilarious,” she says, patting Dillon on the shoulder before she returns to washing dishes.
But I know that wasn’t all joke. I found a joint in his nightstand when I was looking for money for takeout when they went to see The Eagles last summer. I know all about their little recreational activities. My mom would never admit that, though. At least not to us. While the two of them are pretty open with us, that’s a line she won’t cross.
“Dad, what’s this one?” Dillon asks. The Devil Went Down to Georgia blares on the stereo. He’s been trying to learn the names to our parents’ favorite songs.
While our father explains the origin of the ballad, I remember being a few years younger and asking him these same questions. Now, at seventeen, I can name them all easily.
I look down at the table, admiring the doodle my dad is concentrating on. He always has a sketchbook with him, insisting that inspiration can strike at any time.
He’s a freelance graphic designer and one of the most talented artists I’ve ever known. My mom, on the other hand, works solely with the left side of her brain. She’s an executive at a record label here in the city. She’s less artistic and more conservative all around. They balance each other out.
I love both my parents equally—most of the time—but I have a connection to my dad that runs deep. It’s almost as if we’re the same person, just in different bodies.
When I was younger, he’d always tell me, “Kid, there are going to be good days and bad days. You’ll have them both. It’s inevitable. But as long as you’ve had more good days than bad, you know you’re doing all right.”