Standing there surrounded by a sax, trumpets, and a series of instruments I couldn’t even name, I realized I was out of my league. I was tempted to give up, to turn around and go home. I took a step away from the magazines and bumped right into two bronze drums. They made a clang as I accidentally knocked them into each other. I straightened them out and looked around to see if anyone saw me.

There was a salesman a few feet over. He looked up at me and smiled.

I timidly smiled back and then turned to the magazines again.

“Hey,” the salesman said. He was now standing right next to me. “Are you a timpanist?”

I looked up at him and I saw the recognition in his eyes at the very same time it clicked in mine.

“Sam?” I said.

“Emma Blair . . .” he said, taken aback.

“Oh, my God,” I said. “Sam Kemper. I don’t even . . . I haven’t seen you in . . .”

“Ten years or more, maybe,” he said. “Wow. You . . . you look great.”

“Thanks,” I said. “You do, too.”

“How are your parents?”

“Good,” I said. “Really good.”

It was quiet for a moment as I stared at him, surprised at how much he’d changed. I was trying to remember if his eyes had always been that stunning. They were a warm brown that seemed so kind and patient, as if they saw everything with compassion. Or maybe I was simply projecting what I remembered of him onto his face.

But there was no doubt that he’d grown up to be an attractive man. His face had angled out a bit, had grown some character.

I realized I was staring.

“Do you play the timpani now?” Sam said.

I looked at him as if he were speaking French. “What?” I said.

He pointed to the bronze drums behind me. “I saw you by the timpani; I thought maybe you had started to play.”

“Oh,” I said. “No, no. You know me. I don’t play anything. I mean, except for when they made us learn ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’ on the recorder, but I hardly think that counts.”

Sam laughed. “It’s not exactly the timpani, but I think it counts.”

“We all can’t play a bajillion instruments or however many it was that you play,” I said. “Six, was it?”

Sam smiled shyly. “I’ve picked up a few since then, actually. Most of them amateur-level, though.”

“And here I just have the recorder. Oh!” I said, suddenly remembering. “I also played the finger cymbals in the fourth-grade holiday concert! So there’s two.”

He laughed. “You’re an expert, then! I should be asking you questions.”

I played along with him, pretending to be a humble genius. “Well, finger cymbals are pretty basic. You mostly just want a pair of cymbals that will fit on your fingers and then you hit them together to make a clanging noise.” I hit my own pointer fingers together enthusiastically to show him. “Finger cymbaling is really about confidence.”

He laughed again. He always made me feel like I was the funniest person in the room.

“And from there, the sky’s the limit,” I said. “I know a girl who started out on the finger cymbals; now she plays the actual cymbals.”

I grew slightly embarrassed, as if because he’d laughed, I’d taken that as license to perform a stand-up comedy routine. But he laughed again. A hearty laugh. And my anxiety faded away.

“Actually, all of that is a lie. I mean, I did play the finger cymbals but . . . I’m considering learning the piano. Hence, why I’m standing in the middle of this shop looking really confused.”

“Ah,” he said, nodding his head. “Well, if you want my opinion . . .”

“I do,” I said. “Yours is exactly the opinion I want.”

He smiled. “Then I think you should get one of the Yamaha PSRs in the back by the drum machines. They’re only sixty-one keys and they aren’t weighted, but if you’re just starting out or you’re not really sure you’re going to make it a lifelong passion, I think it’s silly to spend four hundred bucks on a keyboard. But that’s just me.”

“No, that’s great advice. Would you mind showing me one of the ones that you’re talking about?”

“Oh,” he said as if he was surprised that I was actually listening to him. “Sure. I think they have one back here.”

He turned around and headed toward the back of the store. I followed him. “Do you still play a lot of piano?” I asked him.

He nodded as he looked back at me slightly. “For fun, yeah,” he said as he stopped at a short black keyboard on a stand. “This one would probably be great for you.”

I hit a few of the keys. They were silent except for the dull thunk of the key physically hitting the board.

“I don’t think it’s plugged in . . .” he said.

“Right. That makes sense.” I was legitimately embarrassed that I’d tried to play an unplugged keyboard, perhaps the most embarrassed I’d been since a few months prior when a customer told me my fly was down. “How much is it?”

“Oh, uh . . .” He bent down to look at the price tag. It was about half as much as I’d assumed I’d have to spend.

I decided to seize the day and go for it.

“OK, I’ll take it.”

He laughed. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah,” I said. “You have to start somewhere, right?”

“I guess that’s true,” he said.

Quiet settled over us.

“Wow,” I said. “I can’t believe I ran into you.”

“I know!” he said. “What are the odds of that?”

“Well, if we both live in the same city, I guess fairly high.”

Sam laughed. “I just assumed you were out in California somewhere.”

I nodded, unsure just how much Sam knew. “Yeah, well, you know.”

Sam nodded somberly. “Yeah,” he said, a dryness in his voice. “I hear you.”

And now I knew that he knew it all. And my impulse was to get as far away from him as possible as quickly as I could. “Well, my parents will be so happy to hear you’re doing well,” I said. “Thanks for your help, Sam. It was great to see you.”

I put my hand out and watched as Sam was surprised by my ending the conversation.

“Oh, yeah, sure,” he said.

And then I excused myself and headed to the register.

“Did anyone help you with your purchase today?” the woman behind the counter said to me as she handed my credit card back.

“Hm?” I asked her. I took it and placed it back into its spot in my wallet.

“Did any salespeople help you decide on your purchase today?” she asked.

“Oh,” I said. “Sam helped me out. He was great.”

“Sam?”

“Yeah.”

“There’s no one that works here named Sam.”

For a minute, I thought maybe I was in a ghost story.

“Sam Kemper,” I said. “He just advised me on this keyboard.”

The woman shook her head, unsure what I was talking about.

I turned around, shifted my gaze from left to right, then stood on my tippy toes to get a better view. But I couldn’t see him anywhere. I was starting to feel like maybe I was crazy. “Like six feet tall, wearing a black shirt, a little bit of stubble . . .” The cashier looked at me like she might know who I was talking about. I pushed forward. “Really nice eyes?”

“Oh, yeah, I know who you’re talking about.”

“Great.”

“That guy doesn’t work here,” she said.

“What do you mean he doesn’t work here?”

“He’s a customer. He comes in a lot, though.”

I closed my eyes and sighed. I’d been talking to him as if he were a salesman the whole time. “My mistake,” I said. “I’m an idiot.”

She started laughing. “No worries.” She handed me my receipt. “Do you need help bringing it out to your car?”

“Um . . .” I looked at it and decided I could do it on my own. “I think I’m good. Thanks.”