“Leave it to you to see an old man talking about a weird lamp on TV and go, ‘Yes, that’s someone I want to bang,’ ” Bridget says. “Bet he’s not even that cute.”
“Shut your mouth, he’s gorgeous.” Or at least he was on the episode ofAntiques RoadshowI saw him on a couple months ago. My dad told me Uncle Harold mentioned that his business partner would be on the show and I thought,Oh, how nice. I had fond memories of Graham from when I met him the one time I came to visit as a kid; he reminded me a little of Santa, and he gave me a lollipop that Uncle Harold then warned me not to eat inside their store under penalty of tongue removal. Then Callahan appeared on the screen, and I thought,Wow, who isthisguy?My eyes drifted down to his name and I was surprised to see “Virtu Antiques and Collectibles—Baltimore, MD” beneath it. That’s when I remembered that Graham passed away three years ago and left his half of the business to his and Harold’s young protégé. “He’s also not old. I think he’s in his early thirties.”
“Wait, seriously?You?Attracted to someone born after the Ford administration?”
“Hey, Russell was born in ’78. I’m pretty sure that’s Carter. So rare, but not unheard of,” I tell Bridget. “I have to go inside now. What did you want, anyway?”
“To make sure you were alive,” she says.
“Oh, right. Yeah, I am. Talk later.”
“Maybe,” she says before I hang up on her.
I scan my reflection in the window, planning to adjust my hair and check my lipstick. Instead, I’m struck by the entirety of myself staring back at me, the wholeness. I spent so much of my life wearing a mask I knew was more likable, desirable. And now it’s just me, as I am. As I always was, probably, underneaththe disguise. “You are enough,” I tell myself, and am pleased to realize I almost completely believe it.
Feeling properly gassed up, I reach for the front door’s handle. Bells jingle as it creaks open, making me feel like I’m about to sit through a middle school holiday concert, and I’m greeted immediately by the warm, slightly musty scent of old things mixed with citrus wood polish. It’s exactly how I remember it smelling when I visited twenty-something years ago, and my lips part in wonder as I glance around at all of the furniture, ceramics, art, books, and miscellany tucked into the modest space.
“Good morning.”
“Baltimore,” I whisper-sing to myself as my distracted gaze slowly drifts from an art deco pendant light suspended from the ceiling to the source of the greeting.
Oh.
It’s as if my brain flickers off and back on again, unable to register the reality of someone I’ve only seen on television (and also on my phone screen as I innocuously stalked the business’s Instagram account to catch glimpses of him) standing in front of me. Callahan Leitner as a real-life person. One with dark hair and fair skin and eyes the exact color of the type of olives they put in martinis. Standing in front of me. Ripe for the picking.
I mean. For thelearning from.
Although the idea that I could learn anything from this man about running an antique shop seems foolish right now, as I’m pretty sure there’s no room in my head for anything except a thick lust-based fog, permanently settling into all the crevices. Somehow, despite that, I’m still looping “Good morning, Baltimore.” But now it’s transposed over the footage of him carefullyrunning his fingers over the fragile shade of a Handel lamp some guy in Philadelphia brought for televised appraisal that I’ve watched way, way too many times.
“Can…I help you?” he asks politely when I don’t respond.
“Oh. Sorry. Brain broke for a second,” I say, moving toward him. I reach out my hand. “Hi. I’m Annie O’Neill, Harold’s niece. Reporting for duty!” My free hand comes to my forehead and I find myself saluting. It is too enthusiastic, too weird. Toome.
Ideally, Callahan Leitner’s first thought upon meeting me would have been,Wow, this woman is smart and sexy. But instead he’s probably thinking,This woman is a nut.
Despite the immediate impulse to throw up my shield, to protect myself from judgment and say something else that will make him warm to me, I instead cling to the hours and hours of therapy and self-reflection that got me this far. Beingtoo meis kind of the whole point of everything I’ve been working toward. If he thinks I’m a nut, well, that’s better than having to pretend I’m not for the next four weeks.
He takes my hand, a frown on his face. “Callahan, but you can call me Cal. It’s easier,” he says, releasing me as soon as we get the cursory amount of shakes out of the way. “Sorry you had to come here with so little notice. If this whole thing is at all inconvenient, please don’t feel the need to stay. I’m sure I can handle it.”
Wow. I know that was not the best first impression I have ever made, but I don’t think it was bad enough that he should be actively trying to get rid of me already.
“Not at all.” I smile back in a way that may actually just be baring my teeth. “I was so glad that Uncle Harold asked me to come help out while he’s away. You know, I visited Virtu oncewhen I was a little girl and I’ve secretly always dreamed of working here since.”
“Similar thing happened to me. Except I actually did work here,” Callahan says distractedly as he turns back to the counter and scribbles something down on a legal pad. “And now I own it.”
Okay. What the fuck are these vibes? I can’t tell if he’s being standoffish, or apathetic, or…I don’t even know. I like to think I’m good at reading people, but whatever language this man is written in is not even remotely coherent to me so far.
“Well, youhalfown it,” I say.
This gets his attention, his head popping back up so that he can glare daggers at me.
“Right?” I ask innocently. “Uncle Harold owns the other half. You’re equal partners.”
“We are,” he says, writing again. A moment later he adds, “Harold tells me you ‘upcycle’ antiques and sell them online.” He does not say this as if it’s a good or impressive thing. In fact, I think I canhearthe dismissive quotes he’s mentally placed around the word “upcycle.”
“I do. It started as a pandemic side hustle and now it’s my full-time job. Which is nice, because it gives me flexibility to hop in the car and drive three hours to Baltimore on a moment’s notice to help rude men with the stores they half own.”
His pencil freezes for a second. Then it starts back up. Callahan—Cal, I guess—continues focusing on his task, ignoring my barb long enough that I have time to start wondering if I maybe shouldn’t have said it. Finally he finishes, tears the lined sheet of yellow paper off the pad, and holds it out to me with a little jut of his stupidly handsome chin that says,Come on, I don’t have all day.
