“Okay,” I admit, wiping down the tweezers. “It’s sort of a big deal. But not a huge one. That pitcher was only worth about a hundred bucks, and Harold got it from some estate sale for like thirty. It’s not going to make or break us.”
“Still,” she says, then sucks in a sharp breath as I find and remove a tiny sliver of glass.
“I told you, some of the stuff at Virtu is more fragile than it looks. And yeah, you shouldn’t be picking glassware up by the handle. But I also should have been out there to help you instead of leaving you alone. So, consider yourself absolved.”
There’s a moment of silence while I adjust her hand to get a better look at what I’m doing.
“You said you came here once as a kid. Did you meet Graham?” I ask, keeping my attention on her injury even though my eyes desperately want to find hers.
Her head moves in my peripheral vision—a nod, I think. “Yeah. He was really nice to me.”
“He was a good man,” I say quietly, uncomfortable with how much of an understatement that description is. In reality, he was the best. Out of nothing but the kindness of his heart he decided to teach me—a kid to whom he owed absolutely nothing—everything he knew about antiques and about life, all while allowing me to feel the sort of parental love and support my mother never had the time or inclination to provide. But that isn’t the point I’m trying to make, so I let it go. “He was also incredibly accident-prone. Apparently, one time shortly after he and Harold opened the shop, he tripped on the corner of a rug and fell straight through a seven-thousand-dollar hand-painted panel screen.”
I do look up then and find Annie’s eyes have gone wide. “Holy shit! Seventhousand?”
“Yep. So these sorts of things happen. And it’s often much, much worse than a one-hundred-dollar pitcher.”
“That does make me feel a little better,” she says. Her free hand grips the edge of the chair as if she might get launched off any second while I tweeze out another piece. “Jesus, I wish you could stop doing that already.”
“I wish I could too. It feels sort of like playing Operation, and I never particularly enjoyed that game.”
“You don’t seem the type to enjoy games at all,” she says with a slight slant to the corner of her mouth.
I frown. “I like chess.”
“Of course you do.”
The wound finally clear of debris, I dig around in the box for the antibiotic ointment. “I’ll have you know, Annie O’Neill, despite everything you think you know about me, I am actually averyfun person.” I can’t even manage to get through the sentence with a straight face, it’s such an egregious lie. Fun has simply never been high on my list of priorities. I had too many responsibilities for much of it as a child, caring for my ailing grandfather while my mother worked two or three jobs. Then, as a teen and young adult, it seemed more important to spend my free time studying and improving myself, so I’d become the person Graham believed I could be. So that he wouldn’t regret the kindness he extended to me when I probably didn’t deserve it.
I’m grateful the sardonic quip at least gets a chuckle out of Annie. “Of course you are,” she says placatingly.
We both turn serious as I put some antibiotic ointment on a square of gauze, then place it over the cut and secure it with medical tape. Our fingertips slide against each other as I pull away, and our eyes meet at that exact second. It feels sointimate. I don’t know if I glance away first, if she does, or if we manage to do it simultaneously, as if coming to a mutual agreement that it’s all just a bit too much for two strangers who won’t be knowing each other long enough to bother getting comfortable having capital-M Moments like this.
Although it’s interesting that it seems like she isn’t totally opposed to the idea. Or at least not as opposed as she might have been before.
“I’m actually the one who owes you an apology, anyway,” I say, hand planted on the corner of the table as I hoist myself up from the floor. “I know I haven’t been particularly welcoming ornice and…well, I’m really sorry about that. I’m under quite a bit of stress at the moment, but that isn’t an excuse for how I’ve treated you. I’m going to try to do better going forward.”
Annie looks up at me from where she’s sitting on one of the dining room chairs, and I realize for the first time that, despite how challenging I’ve found it having her here while I have so many other concerns needing my attention, it has never actually feltwrong.
“Okay,” she says. “Thank you. For that, and uh, this.” She holds up her bandaged hand. “And if you change your mind about me paying for the pitcher…”
Annie’s words generate the image of the broken glass all over the floor downstairs, which reminds me that I didn’t actually lock the shop door in my hurry to take care of her. “Ah, fuck,” I say. “We’re still open downstairs. I need to go make sure no one came in while we were busy here and close things up for the afternoon.”
“I can help—”
She starts to stand and I lightly press her shoulder until she’s seated again. “I’ll be right back. Make yourself at home.”
SEVEN
Annie
I flex my handa few times to test the bandage there and find it secure. Cal did a solid job.
Callahan Leitner. What an enigma he’s turned out to be.
The last four days, the impression I’ve gotten of him was so…well,dickish. But then he took such good care of me just now, both patching me up and reassuring me that I don’t need to feel too bad about breaking the pitcher. Then he actuallyapologizedfor the way he’s been treating me. I truly don’t know what to make of it all. Or, especially, of him.
It strikes me that I’m alone in his apartment. What better way to start understanding someone than to see where they live? And he did tell me to make myself at home.
