Repeat - Kylie Scott Page 0,54

he’s gone. So that didn’t go so well. Guess the word trust should be shelved from all further conversation.

Iris shoves a paint scraper and a bottle of turpentine at me and I get busy cleaning up the mess. The paint is already half-dried. Iris and Antonio have washed away most of the still-moist stickiness, so we are now left with the hardened underside. After a while, Antonio has to go open the gelato shop and Iris is occupied with customers inside the bookstore, so I’m on my own. It’s hard work. Of course it is. If you’re going to vandalize a shop window by splashing paint on it, you’re not going to use any nice water-based acrylic. No, sir. You’re going to use some nasty oil-based enamel that only comes off with paint stripper, elbow grease, and what seems like an infinite amount of turpentine.

I pop in my earbuds and put on some music while, inch by inch, I reclaim Iris’s shop windows from the vandal’s work. Because fuck them. Whoever they might be and for whatever reason they might be doing this. I’m not running or going into hiding. Sure, flight might have been my first response. No way, however, will I give them the satisfaction. I’m building a life here. One hopefully including Ed. And that’s worth fighting for. Though I should probably start hitting up the relationship section of the shop once we’ve got the glass sorted. Oh God, the drama of having a love life. I’m not sure my heart can take it. Organizing an existence with other people in it, especially a romantic interest, is so much harder than just hanging out with Frances and ordering pizza. Those were the days.

Also, if whoever is doing this is trying to scare me into doing some stupid, then taking off on my own probably definitely falls under that category, now that I stop and think about it. Ed was right. Of course Ed was right. He’s a smart guy. Truth is, the man is worth any amount of emotional mayhem and occasional commotion.

Soon my life is consumed by the shop window, the awful smell of enamel paint, and the fine sounds of my playlist. It’s the main song list that previous me made. I’ve listened to it a few times now and it’s good. Just like her favorite movies, some of her music is from the eighties too. I guess that’s what Mom grew up listening to. Songs like “When Doves Cry” by Prince, “Bizarre Love Triangle” by New Order, and “Love is a Battlefield” by Pat Benatar top the list. Maybe I’ll never know my mother in the way that I used to. Actually, it’s a definite, given she’s dead. But I can still get a feeling for her through the photos and stories, the movies and songs. We don’t have to be total strangers. Next the music moves onto more recent decades with songs like “The Scientist” by Cold Play, “Dancing on My Own” by Robyn, “Do I Wanna Know” by Arctic Monkeys, “Wasted on Each Other” by James Bay, and “River” by Bishop Briggs. A brief wrap-up of the last twenty or so years. But mostly, whether recent or ancient, it’s all pretty new to me.

I wonder if I used to like dancing or if I’d ever learned to play an instrument. It would be cool to just sit down at a piano and know what to do. Though Frances probably would have mentioned something if I was a secret virtuoso. Every kid usually has a couple of hobbies, however. I’ll have to ask. There had been a photo of me in a middle school play portraying a tree. But what with me not being particularly graceful, I doubt ballet or something cool like that would have been high on my list of after-school activities. Some sports, maybe? Gordy likes the way I throw a ball. Though even with the doggy slobber, he’s still a way better catch than me.

At any rate, slowly but surely the worst of my worry is pushed back as the music and contemplating the past takes over. But it always lingers just a little. Fear of so many things, both the known and unknown, casting a shadow over my world. Maybe I’ll never know what it’s like to live without the anxiety. Maybe there’ll always be things to be unsure of. Then again, maybe that’s just a part of life.

Finally, the work is done. My arms ache, and the