He turns, our eyes meet, and I suck in an involuntary breath. For a long moment, I’m frozen on the spot, lost in the familiarity of him. His eyes are still the same pale ocean green mine are. He still has the scar I remember over his left eyebrow and the bump on the bridge of his nose. He’s gained some weight since I last saw him, and he has crow’s-feet and wrinkles he never had before, but seeing him for the first time since I was three instantly takes me back.

“Hi,” he says in return, smiling at me. “Can I help you with something?”

There’s not a hint of recognition in his eyes, which I suppose shouldn’t surprise me, if I’m going to be realistic about things. After all, it has been thirteen years.

But now he’s looking at me expectantly, probably wondering why I’m standing there gaping at him.

“It’s me,” I finally squeak out softly.

He squints at me and lights up. “Oh, right!” he says. “You’re the one Zach told me about. The one who was asking for me the other day. Is there something I can do to help you?”

This isn’t how this moment was supposed to go. I slowly take off my glasses and stare at him, hoping that I’ll look more like me without them, willing him to look at me and see the little girl he lost years ago.

“Don’t you recognize me?” I finally ask in a near whisper. Of course he doesn’t. I don’t even know why I’m asking.

“Weren’t you in here last week, asking about guitars? Sorry I didn’t recognize you right away. Welcome back. What can I do for you?”

I stammer out the first question I can think of. “Um, which guitar is better, a Gibson or a Fender?” I blurt out.

“Well, that depends what you’re looking for,” he says. He walks over to the wall and touches the neck of a Fender. “Now, this one we actually have a sale on right now,” he says. He indicates a Gibson. “But this baby is worth every cent too. Do you play?”

“Yes,” I answer in a strained whisper. I feel tremendously sad all of a sudden. Seeing him in person like this is driving home the point that I’ve lost thirteen whole years—almost all my life—with him.

“Great!” he booms, oblivious to the fact that I’m about a second away from bursting into tears. “That’s terrific. It’s nice to see a gal take up guitar. Now, you know we offer lessons, right?”

“Do you teach them?” I mumble hopefully, thinking I might just sign up if it means nailing down a time and place to see him again. I realize I can’t just spring who I am on him. I need more time.