Wednesdays at the record shop were historically the slowest days of the week.
By eleven in the morning, the total number of customers who had walked through the squeaky front door was exactly zero.
Ethan sat on the high wooden stool behind the register, staring blankly at the glass counter. His body felt like it had been run over by a small tractor. His shoulders were stiff, his lower back throbbed every time he shifted his weight, and he had a small purple bruise on his left forearm from where the couch frame had pinned him against Sarah's door frame.
"You look awful," Leo said, stepping out from the back room holding a half-eaten bagel covered in cream cheese. "Like, seriously bad. Did you fight the couch and lose?"
"The couch won round one," Ethan grumbled, rubbing his aching shoulder. "Round two was a draw because we managed to get it onto the truck."
"Where is it now?"
"In the alley. Under the tarp."
Leo paused mid-bite. "Ethan... you parked a giant, wet, three-hundred-pound sofa in the alley behind the shop?"
"It's covered!" Ethan defended himself. "And I'm taking it to the dump after work today when the gates open."
"If Mr. Henderson comes in today and sees a homeless sofa sitting next to his trash cans, he's gonna have a stroke," Leo said, shaking his head. "You know how he gets about 'visual aesthetics' in the alley."
"Mr. Henderson hasn't been in the alley since 2019," Ethan said, leaning his chin on his palm. "He won't notice."
Before Leo could argue, the squeaky front door let out its wet-shoe screech.
Ethan braced himself, expecting Julian or some random person asking for directions to the subway, but instead, an older man with thin grey hair, wearing an oversized wool cardigan and wire-rimmed glasses, walked in.
It was Mr. Henderson.
Ethan immediately sat up straight, his lower back shooting a sharp pain right up his spine. "Oh. Morning, Mr. Henderson."
"Morning, boys," Mr. Henderson said in his dry, raspy voice. He walked slowly, his hands tucked behind his back, looking around the shop with the critical eyes of someone who had owned the building for forty years. "Smells like oil in here."
"I... uh... I greased the door hinges yesterday," Ethan said quickly.
Mr. Henderson stopped by the rock section, reaching out a spotted hand to pull a random album halfway out of the rack. He looked at the price sticker, grunted, and pushed it back in. "It still squeaks."
"Working on it," Ethan muttered.
"Right." Mr. Henderson walked toward the back counter, stopping right next to where Leo was trying to hide his cream cheese bagel behind the credit card reader. "Leo, why is there a giant blue plastic tarp sitting in the alley blocking my parking space?"
Leo instantly pointed his index finger straight at Ethan. "It was him."
Ethan glared at Leo with pure hatred. "Thanks, buddy."
Mr. Henderson turned his grey eyes toward Ethan. "Care to explain why my parking space looks like a campsite?"
"It's a couch," Ethan explained, trying to sound as reasonable as possible. "I helped a friend move it last night, but the dump was closed. I'm taking it there right after my shift today at four. I swear it'll be gone before tomorrow morning."
Mr. Henderson stared at Ethan for five agonizing seconds. He didn't look angry, just perpetually disappointed, which was somehow much worse.
"If it’s still there tomorrow morning, Ethan," Mr. Henderson said calmly, "I’m deducting the commercial hauling fee from your paycheck."
"Understood," Ethan said quickly. "It'll be gone."
"Good." Mr. Henderson turned around and started walking toward his private back office. "And Leo, clean the cream cheese off the card machine before a customer tries to swipe their card through a dairy product."
"Yes sir," Leo said, pulling a paper towel out from under the desk as soon as Mr. Henderson's office door clicked shut.
Leo looked over at Ethan and whispered, "Told you."
"I hate you so much," Ethan said, sinking back down onto his stool and dropping his forehead onto the cool glass surface of the counter.
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