by Calia Read
What I need to do is stop thinking about the damn picture. That’s why I can’t get any work done. Every second of the day, it’s been on my mind, yet I can’t throw it away. The thought makes me cringe. To me, that feels borderline sacrilegious.
“What do you say?” Will says.
I tilt my head all the way back until I meet his eyes. I know sitting around isn’t going to help anything. Will is right. What I need to do is get out of the apartment, get some fresh air, and give my mind a break. “Let me get dressed.”
He leans down and kisses me. “Sounds perfect.”
THIRTY MINUTES LATER, the two of us are out the door, my heels rhythmically hitting the sidewalk. Going through inventory isn’t exactly glamorous, and it feels nice to shed my jeans and bulky sweater for a pair of black stilettos and a sleeveless, turtleneck plum dress, that hugs my curves.
When I stepped out of the bedroom, Will whistled and asked why I’d been hiding this dress from him.
We’re going to his favorite restaurant, Heirloom, which doesn’t exactly have a fancy dress code, but I can count on one hand the number of times in the last year when I truly took the time to dress my best. Tonight, I can say that.
I feel good. Even the cold air against my skin feels good. My hand around Will’s arm feels good. Being out in the real world shows me how much I hole myself away in the back of my store.
“What are you smiling about?” Will asks with a grin.
I squeeze his arm tighter and look at him. “Just happy to spend some quality time with you.”
“It’s about time. I feel like I hardly see you anymore. You’re always at work or thinking about work.”
“Well, I’m not at work now and I’m definitely not thinking about work,” I reply with a smile. Which isn’t exactly the truth. That damn picture isn’t at the forefront in my mind, but it’s there in the background, taunting me.
“Good,” Will says as the restaurant comes into sight. “Because it’s time we catch up.”
He holds the door open for me. Almost instantly, I’m flooded with warmth. The foyer of Heirloom is dark and, with the dim light, almost gloomy. Yet I think the ambiance is created that way so you lean a bit closer to the person you’re dining with. It’s definitely not a family restaurant. At least not at night.
Will’s hand settles on the small of my back as he guides us toward the hostess.
“Hello,” the small brunette behind the maître d’ station says. “Welcome to Heirloom.”
“Hi. I have reservations under Myles. Some people from our party might already be here.”
As the hostess views the schedule, I look at Will. “We’re not eating alone?”
“I thought it’d be fun to get out and meet up with our friends.”
That doesn’t sound promising to me. Probably because Will and I don’t have a lot of mutual friends.
Before I can reply, the hostess smiles at us. “Yes, they’ve already arrived.” She glances behind her and signals to one of the waitresses. “Will you show them to table seventeen?”
Will takes my hand as we follow the waitress toward the back of the restaurant. I catch sight of a few of his friends and my happiness plummets a bit.
“Why didn’t you tell me they’d be here?” I ask out of the corner of my mouth.
His friends glance our way and smile. Instinctively I smile back. “I thought it’d be a fun surprise,” Will replies.
Fun for whom exactly? I like his friends, but I have to take them in small doses. Anything more than that and I start to find them uptight, and snobbish. It’s as if I’m beneath them because I didn’t become a curator or art buyer. When I first told them I was opening up an antique store, they all smiled, but I saw the truth in their eyes. An antique store? How nouveau riche.
“You finally showed up!” Brent, the loudest of the group, says.
His wife, Julie, is so quiet and mousy, I always wonder if she’s ever given a chance to voice her thoughts and opinions. She’s sitting at the table, staring at us with her diamond necklace gleaming in the light and her hair perfectly straight and swept away from her face with a black headband.
“I had to talk this one out of the house,” Will says.
Brent turns to me. “Busy at the shop?”
It’s impossible not to hear the slightly mocking tone in his voice. I shrug it off, reminding myself it’s the start of dinner. Suddenly I’m regretting this impromptu night out.
I take off my jacket and drape it across one of the free seats. “It’s going great. Busier than ever.”
“Really?” He appears genuinely shocked that anyone would find my shop interesting.
Before I can reply, Will speaks up. “Business has been good for her. Especially because of the holidays. I hardly get to see her anymore.”
“That’s great to hear,” Brent replies. It’s hard to figure out whether he’s being sincere or not.
I sit down and stare at the other faces around me. Will’s college roommate, Sean, sits to my right. He’s a blond of average height with a smile so brilliantly white it looks as though he belongs on a Crest Whitestrips commercial. He’s a stockbroker and probably the most successful out of this group. He’s not a trust-fund baby like the rest. He had to work hard for everything. If I have to talk to anyone, it’ll be him and his girlfriend, Sarah. Across the table from me are Brent and his wife, and beside Will is Heath and his wife, Michelle.
This particular group of people reminds me of my parents’ friends back home. All the false smiles, air kisses, and phony conversations easily chip away at my energy. But I try though, because I love Will and for whatever reason, he likes these people.
“How have you been?” I ask Sarah, thus beginning a long, long night.
THREE HOURS LATER, we’re finally walking through the front door.
“That was fun,” Will announces as he locks the door.
I flip on the light and give him a look. “For who exactly?”
He arches a brow. “Oh, I saw you talking to Brent and his girlfriend.”
“Yeah, because it would’ve been incredibly boring if I’d sat there and said nothing for three hours!”
“They’re not that bad.”
I slip out of my heels and all but moan with relief. Tomorrow I’m going to have blisters on my heels. I just know it. “To you, they’re not, but for me, they are. I have to take them in small doses. Really small doses. Besides, I wanted to spend tonight with you.”
Will takes off his coat and hangs it on the coatrack before he heads to the fireplace and lights a fire. When he’s done, he dusts his hands off. “Typically when I ask you to go out with me, you say no.”
“So your friends were a backup plan?”
He smirks and walks toward the kitchen. “Honestly? Yes.”
I trail behind him and lean against the doorframe. Despite the fact we just had dinner, Will is already rummaging through the fridge for something else to eat.
“Next time we go out for dinner can it be the two of us?”
He pulls his head out of the fridge and gives me a quick peck on the cheek. “Deal.”
While he makes a sandwich, I move toward the mess that is our kitchen table and try to organize things.
“Leave it. It’ll be waiting there for us tomorrow.”
“I know,” I reply as I sort through the paperwork. “But now that I’ve seen it, I won’t be able to sleep until it’s picked up.”
I throw away a stack of a junk mail and create a small pile of mail that belongs to Past Repeat. I put a Post-it note on the top to remind myself to take it with me the next time I go to the shop.
Then I come across the photo that’s been torturing me for days. I pick it up as I sit at the kitchen table and stare at it carefully. It’s amazing how you can stare at something a thousand times and still find something new with each glance. This time, I notice their hands. It seems like such a strange thing to notice. Eric and Adam have their hands tucked into their pockets. Luke is leani
ng back, his elbows resting on the step behind him. Mystery man’s forearms rest on his knees, his hands dangling between his legs. Seems innocuous, right? But when I peer closer, I see the ring on his left hand. He’s married, which I didn’t expect. He appears to be a man who would much rather spend his life alone. The kind of man who has no room for love. I snort. Good luck to the woman married to him.
Will comes up behind me and peers over my shoulder. “You still have that thing?”
I shrug, feeling my defenses rise. “Yeah.”
“Why don’t you get rid of it?”
“I don’t want to.”
“You’re acting like a crazy person, staring at it whenever you get the chance. We had a great time tonight, but now you’re ruining it by gawking at that photo.”
I arch both brows.
“Fine. I had a great time tonight,” he says. “The last thing you need to be doing is driving yourself crazy over this stupid picture.”
“It’s not stupid,” I say defensively. I point at the photo. “You can’t tell me you’re not the slightest bit curious about the people in the photo.”
“I can honestly tell you there’s not a single part of me that cares.”
“How can you not? It’s history. There’s a story behind the picture, behind each person, and I want to know each one.”
“That’s the thing—it’s not your history. So why bother obsessing over something you’ll never get?”
Any sane person would agree with Will. And a strong part of me does, but the other part fiercely disagrees with him. There’s no way I can explain to Will, without appearing nuts, that the picture feels like one big puzzle I’m dying to put back together.
“You’re a buzzkill,” I mutter.
“Nope. I’m simply a realist.” And then, he plucks the picture out of my hands and walks into the living room.
I’m up and out of my chair, hot on his heels. “Give it back.”
“Sorry. No can do.”
I have no idea what he plans on doing with the photo, and that’s what worries me the most. “Seriously, give it back.”
He stops in front of the fireplace and holds it above his head as he moves the fireplace screen. He lowers his hand and I try to grab the photo. But I’m too late. I watch as the picture lands on one of the burning pieces of wood. I stare at Will, completely stunned.
He dusts off his hands. “There. Now you don’t have to obsess over it any longer.”
“What the hell?” I push him aside and grab the fire poker, trying to guide the picture out of the flames. I finally succeed, and the picture falls to the floor.
Blindly, I grab a book from the end table and snuff the remaining flames.
After a few seconds of whacking the picture, I toss the book aside and exhale loudly, my gaze on the picture. Within a few seconds, the fire took an already old photo and turned it into a charred memory.
I lift my head and stare at Will with disbelief. “I can’t believe you did that.”
He stares at me as if I’ve grown three heads. “Take it easy, okay? It’s only a picture.”
“To me, it’s not. And you know that.”
Will’s smile fades once he realizes I’m more than pissed off. Red stains his cheeks. “You know what? You can mourn the loss of your precious picture, but I’m going to bed. I’m done.”
He walks away. Seconds later, our bedroom door slams shut.
Heavily, my hands drop onto my lap. I take a deep breath, ignoring the deathly silence in the apartment, and pick up the picture. Or what’s left of it. Half of the picture fell off in the fireplace. All that remains is the upper right portion, revealing the second-story windows of the mansion.
One of the things I love so much about my job is finding furniture and belongings that most people think are garbage and bringing them back to life. But there’s nothing I can do to fix this picture.
I walk over to the couch. The silence is starting to get to me, so I turn on the television to keep me company. The headache I had hours ago returns with a vengeance, so I go to the bathroom for some Advil then lay down on the couch.
Listlessly, I stare at the TV. Pretty soon, my eyelids flutter before they close altogether.
I DON’T KNOW what time it is when I wake up. I only know that a loud noise yanked me from my slumber.
Sitting up, I see the television is still on, playing a late-night talk show. I push my hair away from my face as the host makes a joke. The audience loudly laughs. I reach for my phone to check the time. Midnight.
Next to my phone is the photo. Right where I left it. I pick it up and glare at the fireplace.
Will might be right. I’m wasting too much energy on this photo—a photo that has no connection to me. Sighing loudly, I stand and move toward the fireplace to drop the final remains of the picture into the fire. The flames aren’t as powerful as before, but it’ll still devour the picture until there’s nothing left.
I go to throw it in—and I hear feminine laughter and murmurs of conversations.
I freeze in place.
It’s a small noise, practically indiscernible, but it’s there. I turn around and look at the television. It’s still playing The Tonight Show.
“I’m losing it,” I say, because that’s a helluva lot better than trying to figure out what I’m hearing and why I’m hearing it.
I turn back toward the fireplace. The laughter and voices don’t fade. If anything, they grow stronger with each passing second.
This time, when I face the television, the room becomes colorless. One by one, the living room furniture disappears. The walls collapse as if they weigh less than a feather. The ceiling is yanked upward as the floor drops away. Then a marble floor replaces my wood floor. New white walls connect to the floor. Antique sconces adorn the walls. To the left is a large white marble fireplace. My own fireplace is gone, only to be replaced with white pillars.
The ceiling comes back down, complete with beautiful chandeliers gleaming brightly. The floor seems so spacious, almost as if my entire apartment could fit in this one ballroom.
People are all around me, dancing and laughing. I turn in a circle, feeling overwhelmed but taking in everything.
This is impossible. I’m only dreaming.
I rub my eyes, yet the image is still there. My heart pounds in my ears as bright lights make my head ache. I rub my temples. That only makes the pain increase until it becomes so unbearable, I can barely stand.
The picture slips from my hands right before I fall—only I never touch the floor. I’m sucked into the ground. A black haze surrounds me. Wind whooshes past me, pulling my hair back from my head. My legs wildly kick, like I’m underwater and trying to reach the surface. I can see my apartment above me, but it’s quickly becoming farther away until it’s a small white speck in the distance. Within seconds, it’s the size a needle prick. Then it disappears altogether.
My stomach lurches as I’m sucked deeper into this strange vortex.
I open my mouth. I try to scream. Nothing comes out. All around me, I hear laughter and music playing. The sounds grow louder and louder, making me wince.
Down, down, down I go until finally… I stop.
IN DREAMS, THE moment before you slam to the ground, you wake up.
Then you all at once sit up in bed, sweat coating your body and your heart ready to burst out of your chest.
None of that happens to me.
Instead, the darkness that swallowed me whole recedes into a murky gray before I can see clearly. My bones ache as though I’ve been in a violent fight. My skin tingles and I can still feel the air rushing past me.
I lie there, panting until I have to remind myself to take deep breaths. I lower my palms onto the floor, and for the first time, take in my surroundings. The ballroom I saw moments before is nowhere to be seen.
I have no idea where I am. Slowly, I stand.
The apartment I share with Will is so compact there’s barely enough room for the two of us. Yet this room is
bigger than our kitchen and living room put together.
The dark mahogany floors gleam in the light. Directly in front of me is a looming marble fireplace mantel well over six feet high. To my right are built-in bookshelves that practically reach the ceiling. I twist around and see a large desk. All the papers on the polished desktop are organized into three small piles. A nickel-plated lamp in pristine condition sits on the far corner of the desk, shining directly on a Corona typewriter. And to the left, straight in front of me, is a candlestick telephone. The kind I would die to have at my store. The difference between the candlestick telephones I’ve seen at auctions and this one is this appears brand new.
One by one, my fingers curl around the lip of the desk as I lean closer to read the documents. Reading everything written on the pages is difficult. Not because it’s messy. In fact, it’s the opposite. This handwriting appears pretty close to calligraphy. If my dad were here, he’d say it was the Palmer Method, popular in the nineteenth century.
A frisson of alarm dances down my spine.
I pull away from the desk and look at the windows. Heavy, striped navy drapes are closed. I pull back one curtain to peer outside. Two cast-iron lamps flank some kind of pathway.
Sometimes when I can’t sleep, I look out of my bedroom window and survey the world around me. I’ll watch the cars drive by, their taillights blinking in the distance. There will be the sound of honking horns or sirens going off. On the weekends, people stay out late. Occasionally a couple or group of friends that have had too much to drink will walk by, laughing and talking too loudly. But I see none of that right now. Instead, I’m staring at a circular gravel driveway. The apartments I usually see across the street are gone, replaced by large oaks.
A car pulls into the drive, its headlights splashing across my face for a second. I press my face against the glass to get a better glimpse. From here it’s hard to be sure, but it looks like a Model-T. The apprehension I’ve felt since the moment I opened my eyes quickly escalates into fear. Like the telephone, the car is in pristine condition.
