He’s worried I’m going to leave.
Well.
To be honest, so am I.
“Okay, hey,” I say. “I won’t tell them I smashed the department store window.”
His shoulders relax. “Okay.”
“It’s going to be fine.”
“It’s going to be fine,” he repeats.
I’m not sure either of us believe that one hundred percent, but we’re trying.
He taps his fingers on one of the book carts and looks around the stockroom at shelving filled with boxes of supplies and fixture parts—pegs and old signage and book stands—until his gazepauses on the open door near the receiving desk. “That’s new. Used to be sitting off its hinges and the inside overflowing with junk.”
“Mom and I put it back on and I cleaned it out.” I brush off my hands and walk to the walk-in closet. “Darkroom. See? A very rudimentary, very tiny one.”
“You develop film in here?”
“Yep.”
“How does it work?”
“Like this …”
He follows me inside. “Wow. Close quarters.”
Man, he’s not kidding. I should’ve thought this through. “Uh, well. It’s normally just me in here.”
“Right, yeah. Cool clock,” he says, pointing to the wall. “Analog?”
“That’s my timer.” I try not to bump into his arm as I shuffle around him to flip on a lamp that sits on a makeshift plywood desk under the slanted part of the ceiling in the corner. Then I scoot past him, shut the door, and close a floor-length curtain over it.
“Cozy,” he says.
“That’s to ensure no light leaks in here from cracks,” I tell him, a little nervous.
“Ah.”
Best to stick to the technical details. “It already had ventilation, because someone started to turn this into a restroom at somepoint. So that’s my fan going outside. Shelves below the desk for all my pans. Tools here. And I’ve kind of got things divided into a dry side here, and a wet side here, for my chemicals, see?”
“Looks dangerous.”
“Only if you stick your face in it, so don’t do that.” I flip on the safelight bulb that’s installed in the overhead socket, and the closet glows red. “Ta-da! That’s what I use when I’m developing. Magic.”
“Whoa,” he says, turning his head to look around. His red shirt blends in with the walls. “It’s like we’re in a strip club.”
“Uh …”
“Obviously I’ve never been in a strip club.”
“Makes two of us. Does Beauty even have one?”
He snorts. “We still have strict bathing suit laws on the books. Technically, I think the town has the right to put you on trial for being a witch if you show your stomach on a public beach.”
“Beauty, Where Modern is Just a Word We Use for Our Furniture.”
