We Are Inevitable by Gayle Forman (read aloud txt) 📕

when the phone rings, I pick it up without thinking.

“Aaron,” Mom says. “I’m so glad you answered.”

“Oh, hey, Mom. Ira’s out.”

“That’s okay. I called to talk to you.”

“Oh.”

A silence falls over the line.

“How’s the weather?” we both ask at the same time.

“Sunny and cold,” Mom answers.

“Rainy and cold,” I answer.

“Jinx,” Mom says.

“Haven’t we had enough of those?” I say.

The line goes silent again.

“What’d you want to talk to me about?”

“I was thinking maybe you might want to come for a visit,” she begins in a halting voice. “Silver’s not that far from you. You could drive.”

“Maybe in a few months,” I say. “Things are really busy right now.”

“Of course, my love.” I can tell she’s trying to hide her disappointment and it makes me feel like shit. “Your father mentioned you’re having some work done on the store.”

Knowing the work is for naught, I hear Penny say.

What have I done? Now, not only am I going to let Ira down, but Ike and the guys too. Chad was right. I’m the biggest coward.

“Did you say something?” Mom asks.

“Uh, just muttering to myself.”

“Something bothering you?”

“Just money stuff.”

She chuckles. “Money problems are just math problems.”

“Insanely hard math problems,” I reply. “Like calculus level.”

“You boil down your priorities,” she says. “The rest sorts itself out.”

In my experience, nothing sorts itself out, and at first, I write this off as Mom New Age gobbledygook. But then I think about what she said. Priorities. Maybe she’s right. Maybe it’s not calculus level at all. Maybe it’s basic arithmetic: Betraying Sandy < Saving Ira.

Suddenly, I know how to dig myself out of my hole. Dig Ira out of his. The truth is, I’ve known it all along.

“Thanks, Mom. That was helpful.”

“It was?”

“Yeah, but now I gotta go.”

“Oh, okay.” The hurt in her voice bleeds across the miles.

“I’m sorry. It’s important. Can I call you back later?”

There’s another heavy pause on the line because Mom knows I won’t call her back, even if she doesn’t know why. “Anytime, my love.”

After I hang up with Mom I immediately call the Corporate Health Food Emporium. It takes twenty minutes of bad hold music, three transfers, and two minor lies to get the name and number of Lou, the guy who I saw selling records there.

I get his voicemail. I leave a message: “Hey, my name’s Aaron. I have some good vinyl to sell,” and hang up.

He calls back thirty seconds later. “How many albums?” he asks. “What genre? What condition? How are they stored?”

When I tell him, his breath goes kind of ragged. “Can I come now?”

Ira’s due back any minute. “How about tomorrow, around lunchtime?” I’ll figure out some errand to send Ira on.

“You won’t sell them before then?”

“I won’t.”

“You promise?”

If Lou only knew. “I promise I won’t.”

Lou says he’ll be there. I instruct him to text before he comes in. He agrees. I’m pretty sure if I’d asked him to cut off his pinkie before coming, he’d have agreed to that too.

The next morning, the Lumberjacks are taking the morning off for what they’re calling a “scouting mission.” I have no idea what this is but I persuade Ira to go with them.

“But who will watch the store?”

“I will.”

“But you already did that yesterday.”

“It’ll give me a chance to catch up on my reading.” I pick up Karel Čapek’s War with the Newts, one of my neglected Central European novels. “I’ve fallen behind,” I add, which is the understatement of the year.

“If you’re sure,” Ira asks.

“Positive,” I say. “Do you need money?” I pull a few twenties out of the till. “Have fun. And take your time.”

Here’s the thing: Sandy never should’ve asked me to do it. Made me, of all people, the guardian of his vinyl. I refuse to feel bad about selling it. It’s his fault we’re in this predicament as much as it is mine.

But Ira . . . I do feel bad about lying to him, so as penance, I pick up the Čapek and try to actually read it. The first sentence alone takes up an entire page and while part of my brain can register all the hallmarks of good writing—a strong voice, a weird setup, humor—my attention keeps getting snagged on words like island and equator, which makes me think of traveling, which makes me think of Thailand, which makes me think of Chad, which makes me think of Hannah, who I have not heard from.

I’m still struggling to get past page six of the Čapek when my phone buzzes with a text. From Lou. I’m here. Sorry I’m so early. I got excited. LMK when I can come.

It’s ok. Come now, I text back.

When I see the dented Subaru wagon rumble down Main Street, I know it’s Lou even before he parks. People who collect lots of shit that can’t get wet, like books, like records, tend to drive old, battered wagons.

As I lead him into the basement, he has that look in his eye, the one Sandy would get when he’d see a junk shop or a yard sale and yell “Stop” because his vinyl radar had pinged. When I open the first bin, Lou’s breath judders.

I show him the laminated index. “It’s all itemized. If you want to know what’s in each bin.”

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather just go through them blind,” he says in a reverent whisper. “Treasures like this don’t come around all that often.”

“Have at it.” I take a seat on the edge of the stairs.

He starts pawing through the albums, one at a time, gasping now and then. I can see it’s going to be a while.

“I’ll be upstairs. If you find anything you like, just put it in a pile and holler when you’re ready.”

Lou does not question this, nor the cloak-and-dagger secrecy of the endeavor. He’s already in the zone.

Back upstairs, I try again with the Čapek and manage another four pages.

“Holy shit!” I hear Lou scream.

“You okay?” I call down to the basement.

“You