“He is not my boyfriend,” she says, which, in her world, means he absolutely is.
“You know,” I add, leaning against the counter, “you don’t have to sneak out of the house like you’re running some kind of covert operation. You can just tell me where you’re going.”
“But I like it,” she says, lifting her chin. “It keeps things fresh. Might even climb out the bedroom window next time.”
“Okay, now.” I laugh again, turning back toward the bench. “Let’s please table that for another conversation another day, shall we? But also, let’s start locking that window—one day we’re gonna get robbed and I don’t want to say ‘I told you so.’”
My grandmother built this place. Not just the shop, but everything it stands for. This was hers. Hers and my grandfather’s. They came here with a dream, a set of tools, and hands that knew how to turn raw metal into something people would hold on to for the rest of their lives.
They made something out of nothing.
And somehow, now, that same instinct lives in me.
It shows up in the way I sketch, in the way I shape, in the way I see a piece before it exists. It runs through my veins and settles in my hands, steady and sure. Now I’m the one behind the bench. The one people come to. For wedding rings. Anniversary gifts. Birthday pieces that mean something more than just a box and a bow.
I’ve even started designing push presents—rings for new mothers, chosen by husbands who look equal parts terrified and in awe. Tiny, perfect pieces meant to mark a moment that changes everything.
It’s not just jewelry. It’s a memory, it’s meaning, and it marks the moments people don’t want to forget.
And the best part? I don’t do it alone…but the darker side? I don’t know ifthisis what I want. But I can’t tell her that. Not yet.
I glance over at my grandmother, who’s pretending not towatch me work. We stay like that for a second, her half-turned away, me pretending I don’t notice.
I reach for the drawer beneath the workbench and slide it open, pulling out the small velvet tray I tucked in there earlier. The piece sits exactly where I left it, unfinished but close—close enough that it’s been calling to me all morning.
I pick it up, turning it between my fingers, already working through the next step in my head, trying to ignore the very obvious feeling that I’m being watched.
This lasts about five seconds.
I set the piece back down and look up. “You know, when you watch me like that, it makes me nervous.”
“I know,” she says easily. “I can be such a petulant child.”
I huff out a laugh. “Petulant is kind of a big word when what you do makes me crazy.”
“But you love it, don’t you?”
I shake my head, even as I smile. “I swear, sometimes you choose to torture me.”
She laughs, not even trying to deny it. “I’ve had years of practice.”
“Well, you’re very good at it.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m still smiling as I reach for the piece again.
“How about this,” she says, pushing off the counter. “I’ll get the jewelry out that’s being picked up today. I’ve already polished some of it, but we can have everything ready. Your first appointment will be here soon.”
“Okay,” I say, nodding. “That sounds good.”
I tap the calendar lightly, scanning the names again.
“Actually,” I add, glancing back at her. “This is the woman I was telling you about.”
“What woman?”
“The one who came in for the wedding rings,” I say. “She mentioned she works with a group—girls, I think? A class or a team. I can’t remember exactly, but she asked if I’d be interestedin doing some jewelry workshops to double as bonding sessions for the group.”
My grandmother pauses, one brow lifting slightly.
