The Refrain (The Bridge Series) by Ashley Pullo

story rather than the music.”
    “What kind of stories?” I place the Koosh balls back on the shelf and pull out a record sleeve from the middle of the second row. It’s a decent copy of Johnny Cash’s Man in Black . “Okay, so this one, what’s the story?”
    Smiling shyly, she says, “Why Adam Ford, you picked my very first record.” Chloe glides her hand along the surface of the album and bumps her hip against mine. “I was eleven and saved my allowance to buy a cassette, Debbie Gibson probably. So Dad took me to a local music store and I instinctively headed straight to a row of vintage vinyl. Those square covers were so much more authentic than the cellophane plastic of the latest hits, ya know?” Chloe takes a section of her hair and twists it around her finger, deep in nostalgic thought. “I spent twenty minutes thumbing through all the classics, wondering where they’d been and who owned them. People making love, people fighting, parties, drugs, depression . . . I mean, think about all the stories from one record!”
    I turn to face her – so close our bodies touch. “Tell me about Johnny Cash.”
    She rubs her index finger over the price tag like it’s a piece of braille blindly leading me into her soul. “The price was twenty-five dollars and I only had twelve. But look at it!” I don’t. My eyes are locked on hers. “The cover is almost entirely one color, no flash, no gimmick, it’s like Johnny was daring you not to listen.” She taps the record and laughs. “My dad bought it and let me keep my money. He said he would’ve paid a million dollars to bond with his only daughter over the Man in Black.”
    “And you have a story for every single record?” I ask, placing Johnny Cash back into his designated slot.
    “I’m sure of it. But now you’re part of the story, Adam.” She pulls a record from the top shelf and brings it between us. I kiss her, taking her cheeks in my hands and savoring the anticipation – Chloe can’t take it, she wants to look at the record. She breaks our kiss and holds up a copy of the greatest parodist of the ’80s, Weird Al Yankovic.
    “Awesome. It couldn’t be something relevant like The Replacements?” I smirk.
    “Right? I love The Replacements.” She beams. “But now, Weird Al has a new story with this moment – and I can guarantee it’s better than the original.” She kisses the album and places it back on the shelf.
    “Chloe, in the bar that night, what made you look at me?” She takes my hand and leads me to the bed by the window.
    “Adam Ford, are you suggesting that fate has a prominent role in the universe?” She sits on her bed with her legs crisscrossed – flashing her absence of panties. Damn, that’s hot.
    Chloe pulls me to the bed with her as I answer, “Fate? Not fate – but I do believe there’s a purpose to every action, a plan for every outcome.” I sit across from her and lean against the foot of the bed, absorbing her beautiful features and smiling uncontrollably.
    “Ah, a purpose.” She nods slowly. “Well, it was your watch.” Chloe taps the face of the silver watch my dad left me. “That night when I was a stand-in for Natalie’s blind date, I saw a flicker of light in your direction. It wasn’t like the universe was in control – I get distracted by shiny things. And what about you, Mr. I Have a Purpose . . . what made you smile at me?” She purses her lips and narrows her gaze, expecting me to lie with some cheesy line, but I’m always honest.
    “Your tits. Is that your guitar?” I nod in the direction of her guitar resting on a stand. “Play for me.”
    She smiles mischievously and grabs her guitar. Chloe places the leather strap over her shoulder, takes a dramatic breath and starts to strum. “This one’s for you, dear Adam.”
    She plays roughly, not at all how I would imagine her performing. Chloe begins the familiar lyrics, angry and catatonic . . .
    Ah, now I get it – there’s only one