Love in the Time of Serial Killers(27)

A few things clicked into place—his seemingly random comings and goings in the middle of the day, those fucking khakis. I gestured to his outfit. “I guess this business casual look is your uniform?”

He glanced down at himself. “Technically, they call it neutral professional. It’s supposed to be a solid light-colored shirt, no logos, and khaki pants. Navy or black are too harsh, apparently. I just bought a few sets of this exact outfit because it was easier that way.”

“So if I opened your closet, it’d look like Doug Funnie’s, a row of white shirts and khaki pants all lined up?” I shook my head, wanting to dispel any image of his closet or why I’d be in his bedroom in the first place. I started walking toward the music store. “Let’s go inside for a sec,” I said. “I could use some . . . well, nothing from here, actually. But I’m hot and the air-conditioning sounds good.”

Really, I just wanted to look around. Now that at least one of Sam’s mysteries had been solved, I was curious about this place where he spent some of his time. I didn’t remember it being there when I was a kid, but then again, I was never very musical. I’d tried to teach myself guitar in high school when it seemed like the cool thing to do, but I should’ve tapped out after mandatory recorder lessons in fourth grade.

Inside, the place was bright and filled with instruments of all types—violins and violas hanging in a glass case by the door, keyboards set up to form one walkway through the store, and a couple of drum sets that had to be the bane of every employee who had to hear small children banging on them every day. There was a kid in front of one set right now, happily pounding a loud, percussive beat while his mother talked with one of the clerks.

“So what lessons do you teach?” I leaned down to peer inside another glass case by the front counter, showing various expensive items that appeared to be replacement parts for instruments I’d barely be able to name. Another clerk appeared from behind the counter, greeting me with the sunny solicitousness of someone who thought she might be about to make a sale. I stood back up quickly.

“Oh, hi, Sam,” she said, apparently spotting him behind me. Was it me, or did she sound a little breathless when she said his name? You have no claim on him, I reminded myself. You’re not jealous.

“Hey, Jewel,” he said. “We’re just browsing.”

Jewel? Now I was jealous, because that was a beautiful fucking name. I wished my name was Jewel.

She arched her eyebrows at us. I could tell she was curious about who I was, but I could also tell that she wasn’t going to ask. She made some general noise about letting her know if we needed anything, and turned to help another customer who’d come up behind us.

Two more people stopped to say hello to Sam as we walked through the store, which was I guessed my fault for wanting to come inside a place where he spent four to five hours a week, depending on who was signed up. I realized he’d never answered my question about the lessons he taught, so I asked it again.

“Guitar, mostly,” he said. “Some piano.”

“How many instruments do you play?”

He seemed chagrined, as if he knew the number was a lot and he was pre-embarrassed to have to reveal it. “Proficiently?” he said. “Not that many. Wind instruments are not my specialty, for example, so I can only play the saxophone at the level of a mediocre high school student.”

“So how many do you play proficiently?”

He ran his fingers over the ivory keys of a keyboard as we passed by, depressing one slightly with the dull thud of an electronic instrument that wasn’t plugged in. “Maybe nine? I think I should be allowed to count the tambourine. I play a mean tambourine.”

We’d ended up in a small room set off in the back, guitars double-stacked in rows hanging on the walls—acoustics all along one side and electrics on the other, with a few amps plugged in next to stools clearly designed for people wanting to sit down to try an instrument.

“Play something,” I said.

“Come on,” he said. “No.”

“Why not? I already know you’re good.” I widened my eyes. “Or is that the problem? Is this like me casually asking . . . who’s a great guitarist?”

“Which era? What style of—never mind. Off the top of my head, John Frusciante.”

I made a face. “Red Hot Chili Peppers? Okay, we’ll come back to that. So is this like me casually asking John Frusciante to just play me something, when it’s like, he doesn’t even touch a guitar pick for less than ten thousand dollars?”

Sam laughed, but I could tell he was embarrassed again. “No,” he said. “Nothing like that.”

“You’re worried I’ll be so impressed I’ll, like, drop my pants,” I said. “I won’t be able to help myself, because your playing is so magnetic. It’ll be like a John Mayer concert, or what I imagine a John Mayer concert would be like if I had the stomach for it.”

I reached up for one of the electric guitars, even though there were multiple signs that specifically said to ask an associate for help. Sam was here, still dressed in his neutral professional. Close enough.

“Play me the dorkiest thing imaginable, then,” I said. “And I promise I’ll keep my pants on.”

He took the guitar from me, giving me a dry tilt of his head like, really? To which I made an exaggerated gesture for him to take a seat on one of the stools like, yes, really. He reached down to plug a patch cord from the amp into the guitar, turning the volume knobs low before tuning the guitar up. Which of course he could do by ear, the bastard. One of the main reasons I’d stopped trying to learn to play was because I’d lost the digital tuner my mom had gotten for me one Christmas.