It totally would.
“But no. War novels, mostly. The odd knights and kings kind of deal. Stuff with complex issues for the people to overcome.”
“I had a friend who read romance novels in college.”
“Didn’t like them?”
“Didn’t like the hope they gave me that nice guys exist.”
He stops walking when we reach an intersection and turns toward me. “Ouch.”
I lift my eyebrows. “You’re trying to tell me you can be a part of this,” I say, waving my hands at his badges and labels, “and be a one hundred percent through and through nice guy?”
He chews his bottom lip and stares down at me over the rise of his cheekbones. “So you,” Jinx counters, “Can charge people forthosekinds of subscriptions and tell me you’re still a through-and-through nice girl?”
The label sends a little thrill along my spine. “You have me there.”
The road clears for us to cross, and Jinx leads me toward the antique store on the opposite corner. “Figured we could start here.”
“How’d you know this is where I wanted to go?”
“Because you don’t seem like a new and flashy kind of girl. You seem more like the kind of woman who wants a connection to the things she buys.”
Well, hot damn.Maybe he watched me closer than I gave him credit for back in school. “You’d be right.”
I walk inside and take a deep breath, relishing the dusty, leathery, and brassy smell of things that have been well-loved and cherished, time and time again. Where most people would see a room full of junk, I see tiny warriors, proud of their ability to bring joy to people’s lives over and over again. Where mass-produced trinkets have lost their luster and ended up in landfill, these soldiers have stood the test of time, gathering tiny battle wounds that paint a rich history.
My imagination runs riot in these kinds of stores, wondering who owned these items before and how they ended up here. Were they a gift initially? An impulse buy? Did they stand proudon someone’s mantle or table for decades before moving on to a new home?
I reach over a pair of candelabras and carefully extract a stone statue, the base no bigger than the palm of my hand. It’s a rabbit, but unlike so many other decor items I’ve seen, it’s not in the typical pose on its hind legs, or crouched low to shrink itself. No. Its head is tossed back on a slight angle, one front leg extended forward, and its barrel body rolled slightly as though ready to run.
I love it.
The curiosity it invokes. The wonder.
“Interesting,” Jinx mutters as he nods to my find.
“That’s why I’ll have it.”
He points to a brass candlestick with decorative leaves along the stem. “What about that? It’s old and vintage-like.”
“Too common. But this…” I retrieve a marble-like bust of a woman wearing a wide-brimmed hat, her face hidden. “This is curious.” I can picture it placed on an entry table with a lush green houseplant spilling tendrils all around the base.
My shoulders square, breath pulling a little deeper. I’ve searched for this feeling for so long—the sheer joy of doing something just for me, that’s wholly me—and never quite managed to grasp it more than a few fleeting times.
But now. I sigh, looking about the space. Now I get to create a home that’s all mine.
Not some landlord’s. Not some college dorm. And not my parents’.
Mine.
Jinx hangs back in silence, seemingly content to follow me through the store as I push myself to the point of overwhelm with all the curiosities there are to take in. I visited the store the first week I returned, but with no house to put anything in, my mind wasn’t really in the game.
Today… The man will regret suggesting this is what we do.
“If you want to move on, let me know,” I whisper, somehow filled with the need to stay quiet and respectful in the cluttered shop. “I could be here for hours.”
“So be here for hours.” He reaches for the items in my hands. “I like watching you do things that make you happy.”
