It’s a picture of a boy riding a skateboard in a tunnel. It’s a dramatic shot—the kid is getting some serious air—his knees are bent, curled up close to his body, and the board is glued to his feet as if by magic. One hand is thrown into the air in victory.
The tunnel is blacked out, the light at the end of it overexposing the image slightly. The boy’s silhouette is solid black. Stark. Simple. A shadow. A boy, not a man.
A tiny human flying without wings.
The image punches a hole in my gut, sending me careening backward into a different time altogether. A time and place where Havi and I stood together on the edge of a bowl, cheering each other on as we learned to fly.
“Wow,” I say, looking at Connor and then at his dad.
“Look at the date stamp,” says Mr. Lockwood, cheeks ruddy with barely contained excitement.
It takes me a second to find the stamp, and then I’m right there with Mr. Lockwood.
“Nineteen fifty-seven!” I exclaim. “That’stwoyears before the first commercially produced skateboard was ever sold.”
“Neat, right?” says Mr. Lockwood, adjusting his waistband and digging a hand into his pocket. “I don’t know who this kidis, but chances are, he was one of the first people to ride a board like that.”
I look at the photograph again, and my belly swoops. It lurches up to my throat and falls to my knees exactly like it used to. It takes me back and back and back, and for once, spits me out somewhere that doesn’t hurt.
It reminds me of good times.
Good things.
“It’s incredible.” My voice is so soft and sincere that it makes Connor beam. “Thanks for showing me, Mr. Lockwood.”
“Mr.Lockwood?” He looks around with mock indignance. “That’s my father. Call me Brian, please.”
The bell at the entrance chimes, alerting us to the fact that a customer has walked in. Mr. Lockwood, or Brian, excuses himself, and I hand the photograph to Connor, who carefully puts it back in the drawer and closes it.
“Show him all the good stuff, Con,” calls his dad, throwing a smile at us over his shoulder.
Connor wastes no time doing just that. He moves through the storefront quickly, pointing out pieces as he goes. Saying things like, “Edwardian satinwood settee,” and “Regency-era card table.”
He takes me to a door at the back of the store and leads me through it. “This is where all thereallygood stuff is,” he tells me.
The back room, or rooms, are smaller than the storefront and connected through a series of interlinked passages. It’s darker here. Not as curated, quieter, and there’s no one else here.
We’re alone, and that makes me want to kiss Connor.
I can’t, though, because he’s moving too quickly, pulling me by the hand from room to room and showing me what he likes best in each one.
When we get to the end of the maze, he stops. His eyes narrow, and he looks at me critically, as if to determine whether he can trust me.
“I’m going to show you my two favorite things,” he says, when the decision is made. “The only person who knows about the first one is my dad, and the second one… Well, no one knows about that one but me.”
The first thing is a jewelry box. It’s made of ebonized wood and is about the size of a shoebox. It has a mechanical mechanism that’s triggered when he opens it. A tinny waltz plays as Connor shows me a series of tiny drawers and hidden compartments. He opens each one, eyes glistening, as he reveals what’s hidden inside. An ornate silver locket. A single clip-on earring. A peacock feather. A gold strap that looks like it once had a wristwatch attached to it.
“It’s a rose-cut diamond,” he says, holding the earring up and turning it so the light hits it and throws up a pastel rainbow. He puts the earring back and picks up the watch strap. “And this is eighteen karat gold. I found the earring in the cushion of a sofa, and the strap had fallen behind a bedside drawer. I search the furniture when it comes into the store and collect anything good that I find. I keep it all in here.”
What’s happening to his face as he talks is unreal. Incredible. It’s crazy. It’s beautiful. Connor is Connor wherever he goes, but right now, he’s the most Connor I’ve ever seen him. He’s so happy and excited that whatever it is that makes himhimhas risen to the surface and is pouring out of him. It spills onto the floor around us, pooling at my feet and wrapping itself around my legs as it travels up to my heart. It’s infectious. Adorable. So sweet it makes my knees weak.
He gestures to the jewelry box. “When I was little, I used to call it my treasure chest, and the things inside it my loot.” He sayslootas if he’s a pirate. “My dad said I could keep what Ifound, but that I had to keep everything here at the store, in case someone missed something and came back for it. He told me that if that happens, I have to give it back. When I was a kid, I lived in fear of it happening, but it’s been years and years, and it hasn’t happened once, so I’m pretty sure the loot is mine now.”
He has the wonderment of a five-year-old and the enthused, slightly crazed glint of a sybarite in his eyes. It reminds me of something I read somewhere once: as humans, our love of shiny things is hardwired into us. We’re instinctively drawn to sparkly things because they evoke a sense of abundance. It might be that through the ages, glossy things have reminded us of water, and without water, there is no life.
How fitting that someone like Connor, of all people, would be drawn to something that symbolizes life.
The kiss that’s been threatening since I first saw him in the store propels me onto my toes and wraps my arms around his neck. “You’re a magpie,” I tell him, pressing my lips against his cheeks and then his lips.
