“Yay,” he cries.
I consider telling him that guys our age don’t sayyayno matter the circumstance. I don’t though. I can’t bring myself to say anything because he’s so happy I’m going with him to the dumb store that he’s practically skipping. He’s smiling so big that all I can see when I look at him is a dimple and teeth.
As we walk—me normally, him with a gait that can only be described as frolicking—I notice him reach for me a couple of times. Or at least, he starts reaching for me, but stops himself, hand in midair, before touching me.
I’ve seen him enough with his friends to know it’s no big deal. He’s touchy-feely with everyone. Still, I notice it. I can’t decide if it’s more or less problematic that he’s stopping himself from touching me.
Is it because he doesn’t know me that well, or because he’s attracted to me?
“You’re going to love this place,” he tells me. “Other than my dad’s store, it’s my favorite shop in the city.”
The store in question is different from the first one we went to. This one has gold lettering on the window too, but there’s nothing faded about it. It’s pristine. Perfect. The display in the window is moody and interesting. A little like Connor’s shelves at home, things have been put together to tell a story. They drawthe eye in that slightly creepy, mysterious way old things often do.
There’s a bell on the door that chimes when Connor opens it for me. He waves me in again, a little more gallantly than the first time. I give him a look I fully intend to be withering, but I guess I don’t get it right because Connor’s cheek dips from the effort it costs him not to smile.
The store smells like old books and beeswax furniture polish. Connor is so happy he’s all but vibrating. He darts from beautiful thing to beautiful thing, using both hands to touch the things he likes best. I remember him telling me that if I touch something, he’ll know I want it, and wonder if that means he wants everything in this store. When he’s not looking at me, I study his features. He looks calm, like always, but there’s a thread of excitement that pulls his cheeks up. His breathing is fractionally shorter than usual.
He’s as happy as I’ve ever seen him, and all he’s doing is walking through an antique store.
Seeing him like this gives me a pit in my stomach. A heavy feeling deep in my gut. I try to remember what it was like to be like this: completely, perfectly happy about little things. I let my mind wander, not too far back, not as far back as the bad thing, but far enough.
I come up with nothing.
To distract myself, I fan out, leaving Connor to peruse on his own while I do the same. I spot an old typewriter I like. My grandmother had a similar one in her house before she moved into the retirement village. Caroline nabbed it, and it caused a big fight between us. My mom, ever the peacemaker, suggested we share it. I kid you not, that was her solution. It was decided that the typewriter would belong to both of us, and we would take turns keeping it at our respective homes for a few months at a time. Needless to say, it hasn’t worked out like that.
I take my phone out of my pocket and type a message.
It’s my turn to have Gran’s typewriter. And FYI, I’m keeping it for as long as you’ve had it.
I delete the message without sending it because I know all too well what her response will be.Where the hell are you? Mom and Dad are losing their minds.
I can’t deal.
I’m not in the mood.
I put my phone away and meander farther into the store. I find myself in an alcove in a back room that isn’t as polished as the rest of the place. There are a few imperfect pieces on display. A chip here and a crack there. A painting of old roses above a dusty pink velvet settee draws me in closer. Once there, the pressure of beingonleaves me. I’m out of sight. Finally on my own for the first time in what feels like an age. Without the pressure of attentive eyes on me, I relax. I open the tiny drawers of a jewelry box and close them again. I flick through old books and test a fountain pen to see if it has any ink in it. It doesn’t.
I come upon a stained-glass table lamp and stop moving. It’s intricately made with various shades of blue and teal sheets of glass that have been cut, their edges wrapped with copper foil before being fused together. I don’t know my ass from my ear when it comes to antiques or vintage lamps, but it looks like fine work. It’s tall for a table lamp, and the shade is curved, which I assume must be hard to achieve when working with a material as unforgiving as glass.
I carefully reach behind the lamp, find the cord, and follow it with my fingers until I reach the switch. I flick it, and the lamp bursts into life. Splashes of watery blues dance on the walls, and the crystals that hang from the lampshade glimmer.
I trace the lines where the copper has been soldered together with my finger. It’s smooth, with tiny bumps and irregularities that can only be felt when I close my eyes.
“Mm,” says Connor, making me jump. “You have a good eye.”
With that, he turns and strides purposefully to the owner.
It isn’t until he pulls up a chair at the front desk and gets handed a glass of water that I realize just how seriously Connor Lockwood takes this kind of thing. There’s an easy smile on his face and his voice is soft and smooth like always, but there’s a determined glint in his eyes that I haven’t seen before.
He approaches the negotiation with humor and a lighthearted grin. He rattles off a long list of the lamp’s flaws and does his best to look sad about them.
The owner, a bald man with dark eyes and small glasses balanced on the tip of his nose, gives as good as he gets. Or at least, he tries to. Connor wears him down in the end. By the time my knees are feeling stiff like they usually do when I’ve had my back to the brick wall on campus for too long, the owner is flagging.
“So many crystals missing,” Connor says woefully.
“They can be replaced. You know that,” replies the owner.
“Yeah, but what a mission, and who really does that anyway?” Connor looks out the front window and sighs.
