I woke up as the sun from the living room window warmed my cheek. I was sprawled across the couch, too tired to move after last night. I pushed myself up, my joints aching as I looked around for Cas. Grabbing my phone to send her text when I couldn't find her, I caught my reflection in the glare of the screen, where a note was plastered to my forehead.

The note read -Had rehearsal, didn't want to wake you. BTW, you look gorgeous drooling ;) Love you.

I rolled my eyes as I looked at myself in the mirror. Gorgeous my ass. There were creases all across my face from the cushion of the pillow and my hair was a matted mess. A shower would do me good.

I didn't have any shifts today, so I had the day to myself. I let my hair air dry, quickly pulling it into a loose side braid. I didn't have any big plans, so I dressed in a comfy pair of denim shorts and an old flannel shirt.

I hadn't really cleaned up the mess in my room since the night I watched Lannie, canvases, and music were strewn about everywhere. I lazed around the piles, sorting through everything. I began stacking Evalyn's canvases and loose sketches ready to place them back on the top shelf of the armoire, stealing one last look at the letters "R&E" at the bottom of the large sycamore tree.

I think a year ago if I had found these paintings, it wouldn't have been the same. All across my floor, it would have felt like the world was taunting me, reminding me of everything that was in the past and would forever be there. Paralyzed with the reality that so much of my life had become memories, life would feel painfully ephemeral.

That's the thing no one tells you about remembering. It's a heavy burden to try and repeat moments in your mind so that you can hold onto them. An unyielding cost that one bears alone in a time of pain, hoping that in the future, when grief has passed, the work of remembering holds something transient in place.

A year ago, I would have had to place the canvases back on the shelf. I wasn't strong enough to remember the past.

But right then, as I grasped the tightly bound cloth, I knew that these were memories that I needed and wanted to preserve. I began hanging each piece across the walls of my apartment, portraits, sketches, and paintings quickly filling all the blank space. The sycamore tree was the final painting that I hung above the armoire. I used to think the blank walls were a sort of blank slate, a fresh start. But with anything vibrant color replacing the white, the past felt less debilitating than ever before.

I think it was then that I was finally strong enough to remember.

~**

A little while later, I was cleaning up scraps of paper and old music sheets off of my floor when I found lyrics I had written what felt like a lifetime ago. Scribbled on the paper were the words to the Broken Windshields song, Drunk in Love.

That night when I saw Ryder for the first time after two years was only a few weeks ago, but it felt like so much had changed.

I grabbed my guitar strumming the melody to an old favorite song, Ships in the Night by Mat Kearney.

Like ships in the night

You keep passing me by

Just wasting time

Trying to prove who's right

And if it all goes crashing into the sea

If it's just you and me

Trying to find the light

I always thought there was something special in the song because no matter how close love seemed for the guy in the song, the moment he held it in his hands, he lost touch and love was lost. And despite this cruel fate, he seemed okay trusting that there was some endgame and for the time being, alone was enough. He was happy with his sad love story.

Turn the lights down low

Walk these halls alone

We can feel so far

From so close

As I strummed the last cord to the song, my hands began to finger the melody to Drunk in Love, finishing the melody I had begun scribbling many nights ago.

So why did I leave, when you

Were everything, and anything

That I could ever need

I miss being in love, drunk in love

With you...

I closed my eyes. Don't think too much, I said to myself. It's just a song. 

A beautiful song.

If I see you again

And you give me a second chance

You'll know that I need you

Because I've never felt like this

Alone in love...

In love...

Without you.

The last note echoed for a moment as I strummed the last melody one more time. As my thumb grazed the D string, I heard something snap. I twisted the bridge pins thinking something was out of tune, but that was a mistake- the string immediately popped out of its socket, missing my cheek by a hair causing a shrill shriek to escape from my lips.

"AHHHH. Great!" I exclaimed in frustration, hands in the air. Of course, it was a Broken Windshields song that caused the string to snap. Ughh. I knew I was being a little hysterical, but I could feel the universe laughing at me.

A quickly packed up my guitar and slipped on my high tops, heading over to the person who could fix this.

~**

Our small town had an old music shop called Rodeo Drive. Max Heldly built the store near the town center nearly 30 years ago. Had lived on the east coast his whole life and had these big dreams of going to California and making it big, to become this great musician who was world-famous.

With those dreams, after years of auditions and local gigs, he landed an opportunity in California. The story that all the townies know is that Max left, packed everything he had in two suitcases. He wasn't supposed to come back and our little town was supposed to be a footnote in the stories people would tell about the famous Max Heldly who went from small town to rockstar. 

But five days later, Max was back. He didn't say anything about the audition. Using all the money he saved up, he bought an abandoned library storefront and Rodeo Drive was born.

Max built a music shop that quickly became any musician's paradise. He mixed classical and punk influences, representing all ranges of music. He loved old records and the classics, band T-shirts and album covers pinned across the walls. Pics to bows, cellos to electric guitars, discs to tapes to amps, he had it all. It was a really special place where music had a forever home.

I think I was around twelve when Max told mee the full story behind Rodeo Drive. I used to help Max sort through old records a couple of times a week. I started doing it just for fun, loving being in Rodeo Drive. There was something about the musky evergreen smell and ever-present vinyl record playing that felt comfortable and permanent. It was like I could always count on that place to make me feel the same each day, like I didn't have to work so hard to remember everything because tomorrow I would be back.

Max used to sneak me of my favorite records if we found multiples in the back. It was our little secret.

One day, I was sorting through the S's, looking through Snow Patrol records, my favorite song being Chocolate at the time. Max ran the bonfire event each year and I was especially nervous that year because I had written an original song to play. "Max, can I tell you something?" I began as my fingers flicked through The Smiths records.

"Sure thing Rosie honey," he responded as he stacked CDs beside me.

"I'm not so sure about playing this year," I paused as he furrowed his brow. "I wrote something new, but it's my first time doing an original and what if no one likes it? At least if I do a cover, people can sing along, but with something I write, if it's a flop..." I trailed off, nervously twiddling my fingers.

Max didn't say anything for a while, the only sound being the clack of the plastic as he continued to stack CDs while I mindlessly fiddled with a record case waiting for him to break the silence.

"Did I ever tell why I named this place Rodeo Drive?" he began. I quickly shook my head as he continued, "Everyone thinks I may have just snapped back in California before I got this place up and running, and I guess that's half the truth," he said, winking at me. I laughed as he continued, curious of his story that so few knew.

"Well, I went in for an audition, for a back-up singer for some up-and-coming band. I poured my heart into an original song and was so proud of it and performed the best I ever had. I thought the audition went great," he smiled remembering, but it quickly faded, "but even before the trill of my guitar stopped, the manager said 'Good. But not good enough, too small-town. Not what we're looking for, sorry.'"

My heart broke a little, even more discouraged about my original song. I felt terrible as Max smiled sadly, sharing that his lifelong dream was shattered within minutes.

He looked down at me and immediately laughed. "Don't worry Rosie, the story doesn't end there- not quite so encouraging huh?" I feigned laughter confused, desperately hoping for something optimistic. 

"Well, I was crushed, sure. And for a good two days, I wallowed. I mean I wanted to be a Rockstar and this man just told me I didn't have 'it,'  whatever that is," he said rolling his eyes.

"I just walked around LA head sulking and eventually stumbled upon Rodeo Drive," his eyes shined as if he were remembering something magical. "It's was beautiful, with bright lights, gold detailing, and glossy white everywhere, it was nearly glistening. And in the night-" he dramatically clutched his chest, talking a deep breath, "it was angelic!"

He twirled me around, exclaiming, "It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen!" I couldn't help but chuckle at his theatrics. "I was so happy, I quickly walked down the streets looking through every window. But guess what I saw?"

"What?" I asked as he leaned towards me.

"Really nothing," he shrugged. "Just plain white shops with expensive price tags. There wasn't much to it. Something that I loved about performing was the craziness of the crowd, the excitement and the strength of the voice of many, but there, the fanciness, made everything feel so untouchable. And I guess maybe that was what everyone felt because as many people were on the street walking beside me, very few opened those gold doors and walked into the storefronts."

He walked back to the counter and pulled out a tape, "It was then that I stopped feeling sorry for myself. I always wanted to be more than 'small-town,' but it didn't seem so important anymore. There was someone playing on the street corner that day, singing covers of The Beatles. I bought his tape, and that's all I listened to on my walkman during the six-hour flight home."

Max handed me the tape. There was a picture of a man with a scruffy beard hold a balck guitar close to his chest taped to the case and in the corner, scribbled was Rodeo Drive 1989. "That's when I came back to town. I used all my savings and opened up this place. Rodeo Drive. I wanted this place to be home for anyone and everyone, and show people that to create music and enjoy it you don't need to have 'it.' Music isn't about that. It's about creating something you're proud of, where you tell people a story. It's not up to you if people listen. Whether you're small-town or a rockstar, the music you make is only worth what you decide."

Max took the tape from my hand and placed it in the Walkman. The winding of the tape was the prelude to the beginning of Hey Jude.  I listened as I heard each note and the vibrato in the man's voice as he took his time with each word."He sounds incredible," I honestly said, surprised by how this stranger took a classic song and made it his own.

"Yeah," Max agreed. "He was. It's people like him why I started this place and the whole reason I have the bonfire. What makes music so great is-

"Is that it is meant to be heard, to be shared," I finished, suddenly feeling more confident. My nerves had begun to fade as I listened to the music filling Rodeo Drive.

Max grinned down at me, clapping his hands as he said, "I think my job here is done little Rosie. I think I taught you everything I know." He fluffed my hair laughing, "Just remember that the bonfire isn't about performing, it's a chance for you to share what you made with the people you care about. And here's the great thing about small-town," he began with a funny glint in his eyes, "Everyone knows everyone, and everyone here," he said point out towards the town center, "loves you!"

He messed up my hair again as I teased, "You're right! Everyone does love me!"

That was the thing about Max. Just talking to him, being around him was like a warm cup of tea on a cold day. You felt your soul warm in his presence. "Thank you Max. This was just what I needed," I said hugging him tightly.

"Sure thing Rosie. Anytime," he said, "Now let's get back to those records shall we missy?" he declared. "They aren't gonna sort themselves!"

"On it, Sir!" I teased quickly rushing back.

"What did I say about calling me Sir!" Max hollered.

"You love it!

"Haha, no. It makes me feel old!" he joked. "Oh one quick thing Rosie," Max began.

"Yes, Sir?" I repeated as he rolled his eyes.

"Is this what you were looking for back there?" he asked as he pulled out a record from behind him. The mustard yellow hue of the cardboard was enough for me to recognize it. Max coughed a little as he brushed off the dust on the case.

"Snow Patrol, Final Straw." He handed the record to me. "How did you know?" I asked a little awestruck. I had been looking for this album for weeks now.

"I have to keep some secrets," he said grinning. "Something magical about Rodeo Drive, I guess."

~**

Magic.

That must be it, I thought as I pulled open the Rodeo Drive, feeling a familiar rush.

A/N: Hey y'all! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I really loved introducing Max and sharing this sweet moment from the past. I hope this helped elucidate more about the bonfire and get you excited for it! Also check out the song Ships in the Night  by Mat Kearney, mentioned in this chapter. Song in the banner- it's a great one! Stay safe! <3 livindaybyday