My girl did that.
I might just let her do it again when I get back home.
The Uber stops in front of the jeweler’s, watching me in the rearview mirror as he reluctantly asks, “You want me to wait?”
As if I hadn’t noticed him cracking the windows after I got in.
“Nah, I’m good.”
It’s past eight, but the door is still closed. When I check the opening hours sign, it says they open at eight thirty.
Fuck.
I cup my hands and look through the glass, spotting an older guy, sixties maybe, moving around behind the counter, busy setting up.
I knock.
He looks up. Frowns. Shakes his head.
I knock again, harder.
He walks over, annoyed, and yells, “Ain’t open yet,” through the door.
“It’s an emergency, man.” I hold up the necklace, hesitate, then scrounge my black Amex from my wallet and slap it against the glass. “Please?”
He looks at the broken chain, the credit card, then at me—hungover, desperate, probably looking like I just crawled out of a ditch—and sighs.
“Emergency jewelry repair?” he mutters as he opens the door. “That’s a new one.”
It’s warm inside, furniture polish filling the air with a fake floral smell.
The man walks around the counter and takes the necklace from me without a word, examines it under a light with one of those monocle-style magnifying glasses.
“Chain broke,” I say, when the silence becomes too much.
“You don’t say.” He lets out a slow breath. “Be cheaper to replace it than repair it.” He glances up at me. “Or you could just buy something that’ll last longer than a week.”
“It’s—“ I stop. “It’s sentimental.”
He nods like he’s heard this a thousand times before. “I can repair it, but it’ll just break in a different place.”
“Fine. Give me a new chain.” I lean on the counter. “Strongest you’ve got. Titanium. Platinum. I don’t give a shit. Just make sure it won’t break again.”
He raises an eyebrow as he glances down at the cheap pendant. “For this?”
I look at the butterfly.
“Yeah.”
He turns it over. “I’ve got some very nice pieces. Much better quality.”
“No.” The word comes out harder than I mean it. “Just fix it.”
He shrugs. “Your money. I’ve got a nice platinum chain?—“
“Do it.” I stare down at the tacky pendant, the one I’ve been taking in and out of that envelope for years. How many times did I read that letter, wondering how different things would have been if I’d sent it? “Wait…could you…do you have a proper stone to put in there? Like a real sapphire or something?”
I get another arched eyebrow. I suppose my smell has finally overpowered the furniture polish.
