Something in my chest shifts, subtle but there. I look back out at the street. “That’s kind of the job.”
“It’s more than that,” she says quietly. “It’s ingrained in your being.”
My gaze drifts, not really tracking the passing cars or the muted glow of the streetlights flickering on. Instead, my mind goes somewhere else entirely—back to the shop. To the small safe tucked beneath the counter. To the small velvet box locked inside it.
Exactly where it’s supposed to be. Out of sight. Out of reach. Untouched. The perfect example of “how I make things better.”
My fingers curl slightly against the arm of the chair before I force them to relax.
“We’re still talking about jewelry, right?” I ask, trying to sound nonplussed.
My grandmother hums softly beside me, like she hears what I didn’t say but chooses, for once, not to push.
“For now,” she says.
I huff out a laugh, shaking my head as I push up from the chair. “Oh, you’re quite dramatic when you want to be.”
She just smiles, entirely unbothered. Petulant.
I grab my phone and tap the screen, pulling up the app. “I’m going to order us a couple of chicken Caesar salads to be delivered,” I say, glancing down at the time. “I’m meeting the girls around seven-thirty for a drink.”
Her brows lift immediately. “Oh?”
I don’t even look up. “Just a couple of girls getting together, Grandma.”
“And are we all going out to have a nice time, or is someone playing wingman tonight?”
I pause, then glance over at her. “No one is playing anything. We’re just having a drink.”
“Mm-hmm,” she says, like she doesn’t believe me for a second.
I finish the order and set my phone down. “You’re very invested in this.”
“I’m invested in your social life,” she corrects. “Which, historically speaking, could use a little encouragement.”
“I have a social life.”
“You have work.”
“That counts.”
“It does not.”
I roll my eyes, but there’s a small smile there anyway. “We’re having a drink. That’s it.”
She studies me for a second, then leans back in her chair, satisfied. “Well,” she says lightly, “try not to be the most responsible one there.”
“I always am.”
“I know,” she says. “That’s the problem.”
Alexandria’s settledinto a perfect summer evening rhythm—storefronts are lit, groups of people lingering as we stroll down King Street, and for once, I don’t feel like I have to rush either.
Lucy nudges her chin toward a storefront up ahead. Lucy Snyder has been one of my people since middle school, back when we lived a few streets apart and spent summers biking between each other’s houses. Honestly, the fact that we’re still going strong after all these years is a testament to our friendship considering we also survived years of antagonizing moments courtesy of her twin brother, Liam.
“There it is,” she says. “The shop I was telling you about.”
I follow her line of sight, slowing a little as we get closer. The windows are still covered in brown paper, the kind that means something’s coming but not quite ready yet.
