Chapter 7
VIVIAN
Iflip the sign to CLOSED and lock the door, giving it a quick second check before I step onto the sidewalk.
The shop is dark behind me, quiet and orderly, everything exactly where it should be.
I take a second to look at it through the glass before turning away, slipping into the rhythm of Old Town on a Friday night.
Lights flicker on overhead and people drift between storefronts, their laughter carrying just enough to remind me I’m not the only one out here ending a long week. I tuck my hands into my jacket and start down the street, already thinking about tomorrow.
The jewelry making doesn’t worry me. That part is easy. I could do that in my sleep. It’s everything else. Like how to get the girls to actually interact. To work together instead of sitting side by side, quietly focused on their own pieces.
I turn the corner, my mind already organizing it the same way I would a display case.
Shared trays of charms, maybe. Limited options so they have to reach, negotiate, talk.
Pair them up, then switch halfway through so they don’t get too comfortable staying in one lane.
And, because we have to, friendship bracelets.
I spent most of the afternoon between customers sketching ideas and scrolling through team bonding suggestions that felt either too complicated or completely impractical. I want this to be good. Not just something they get through, but something that actually works.
Emma asked me to do this, and I didn’t hesitate.
I like her. The way she runs things. Clear.
Direct. No wasted effort. I want to meet that same energy.
Plus, this is new for me. New for Sullivan’s Fine Jewelry.
I’ve felt like I needed to shake things up a little at the store to be more relevant; this could be it. I want this to work.
I adjust my sleeve as a cooler breeze moves down the street, my attention being dragged to the storefronts.
Signs hang in windows for summer fairs, one already touting the July Fourth party happening in a couple weeks, with special guests from the Dominion hockey team, and that’s when my thoughts shift—uninvited but not exactly unexpected.
Ty.
I’m going to see him again tomorrow. Funny how someone can suddenly land directly on your path and you hardly know them at all. As if fate or the universe or someone upstairs was messing around with divine intervention, or at least their interpretation of it in a matchmaking way.
I mean, my track record with him at this point isn’t horrible.
So far, if we’re keeping count, I’ve managed to kiss him and save his life.
And by save his life, I mean taking a ring off his finger before it became a situation, but still.
It counts. Especially considering the look on Emma’s face when I said I’d have to cut it off.
My mouth presses together, the memory landing sharper than I’d like. Because if we’re talking saving lives, I wouldn’t be opposed to a situation where I have to give him CPR.
Strictly for medical reasons. Obviously.
Look. Is he hot? Yes. Actually, he’s beautiful. And that’s inconvenient, because I’m not built for that part of the story. Not the one where things turn into something real and stay that way. I’ve seen how that goes.
People like me…we don’t get the happily ever after.
We circle it. Show up for our friends when they find it. Sometimes we help other people find theirs. So if all I’m doing here is standing on the sidelines, watching him from a safe distance, that’s fine. It has to be.
I exhale, shaking my head once like that might reset things. Focus. Charms. Organization. Not…CPR. No thinking of delicious Ty biceps nor of soft lips attached to hot men who are also like Ty.
My stomach interrupts before I can go any further. Right. Food. The thought hits all at once, immediate and undeniable.
Crabcake sandwich. I stop mid-step, pivot without hesitation, and head back down the block. Yes. That’s exactly what I’m doing.
According to our shared calendar, and the ten million text messages she sent me today, my grandmother should be in Atlantic City by now, which means the house is mine for the weekend. Completely mine.
I smile to myself as I walk, already picturing it: I’m going home, taking off my bra, eating a crabcake sandwich, and sitting in a T-shirt and my underwear while I watch something mindless on TV. No schedule. No expectations. Just quiet, and I cannot wait.
The restaurant is already starting to fill when I step inside, the low hum of conversation wrapping around me as the door swings shut behind me.
I spot an open seat at the bar and, without breaking stride, head right over.
I slide onto the stool, setting my bag on the hook beneath the bar and pulling the menu toward me more out of habit than necessity.
“Crabcake sandwich to go?” the bartender asks, already reaching for a glass.
I glance up, caught off guard for half a second before I smile. “Is it that obvious?”
“You’ve got the look,” he says, pouring a glass of white wine like we’ve already agreed on it.
“The look?”
“End of a long week. You’re the kind of person who wants something good, but doesn’t want to think about it.”
I consider that, then nod. “Accurate.”
He sets the glass in front of me. “Kitchen’s moving fast tonight. You’ll be in and out.”
“Perfect.”
I take a sip, letting the wine settle as I glance around the room. Servers weave through tables with plates, the kind of controlled, choreographed madness that somehow works when everyone knows what they’re doing.
A song comes on overhead, something familiar, warm and easy. I tilt my head slightly, listening.
“I like this,” I say, more to myself than anything.
“Yeah?” The bartender glances up from where he’s lining up glasses and nods toward a small sign tucked near the edge of the bar.
“We’ve got this new tech we’re trying out, it’s a shared playlist.” He points to a television over the bar where a queue of songs is displayed.
“Patrons can add to it, so it’s user-generated ambiance. ”
I follow his next gesture to the QR code displayed on the bar in front of me.
“Scan the code, toss something in. Just don’t ruin the vibe,” he adds with a grin.
I fight a laugh. “No pressure.”
“High pressure, actually,” he says. “Since they have to make a username, and could possibly be found out later on, people take it very seriously. No one wants their taste in music to be questioned.”
I glance back at my phone, already reaching for it.
“Good to know,” I murmur. “I’ll choose wisely.”
The music hums around me as I scan the code, the warmth of the wine settling in, the noise of the room fading just enough to feel like I’ve carved out a small pocket of space for myself. Exactly what I wanted.
I set up a username, Jewelsy. A little on the nose, but the wine is making me feel like playing along. Why not?
“Let’s see what we’re working with here,” I murmur, scrolling through the list.
There’s range. Duran Duran. The Who. Queen. All layered in with Taylor Swift, Ed Sheeran, Sabrina Carpenter. It shouldn’t work, but somehow it does.
I add a song to the queue, and gleefully watch as it slides into the lineup on the app. A second later, the screen mounted above the bar updates, my username popping up among the others. Almost immediately, a small icon appears beside it.
Someone liked it. Already?
I glance up at the screen again, a quiet little thrill settling in my chest that feels entirely disproportionate to what just happened. I’ll take it.
“Nice choice,” the bartender says as he passes, like he’s been keeping an eye on things.
“Thank you,” I reply, a little more pleased than I probably should be.
I take another sip of wine, letting my gaze drift from the screen to the room around me.
Couples are at most of the tables. Leaning in. Laughing. Sharing fries off the same plate like it’s nothing.
I move slightly on the stool, resting my elbow on the bar. As much as I like working around people who are falling in love—and I do, I genuinely do—it has a way of highlighting things. Like putting a hi-vis jacket on my wounds would help ease me back into being.
There are days I feel really good about doing life on my own. Solid. Grounded. Completely fine with it.
And then there are days like this. Where I’m sitting here feeling oddly validated because a stranger liked the song I added to a playlist, and it’s… I exhale lightly. It’s not nothing. But it’s also not…this.
I glance over at a couple tucked into the corner, their heads bent together, talking like there isn’t anyone else in the room. Would I rather be sitting here having an actual conversation with someone?
Yes.
Would I also like to be at home with my bra off, eating a crabcake sandwich in my underwear?
Also yes. It’s a duality I can allow to exist in my world.
It would be nice, though. To have a person. To kiss someone without it being a whole thing. Without it being a scare tactic or necessity.
My brain, apparently having zero sense of self-preservation, immediately supplies an image, once again, of Ty and his beautiful, amazing lips.
I groan loudly. A little too loudly judging by the side-eye I get from other patrons near me, so I look back down at my glass like that might help.
Could I kiss his lips again? Yes.
Would I kiss his lips after eating a crabcake sandwich? Also yes.
Would I kiss his lips if they smelled like coffee? I fight the urge to not laugh at my internal narration, because, absolutely I would.
I set my glass down. “Stop,” I mutter under my breath. “Stop thinking about Ty and his great big, pink and pouty lips.”
“Interrupting something important?”
I glance up as the bartender sets a bag on the bar in front of me, the smell hitting immediately.
Perfect timing.
“My food,” I say, like that explains everything.
“Sure is,” he replies, nodding toward the bag. “You looked deep in thought.”
“You have no idea,” I murmur.
He grins and moves on, leaving me with my wine, my sandwich, and significantly fewer inappropriate thoughts.
I grab the bag, sliding off the stool and tossing a glance back at the screen where my username still sits in the queue.
I shake my head once, a small smile pulling at my mouth. That is a very cool idea. I’ll have to come back. But for now, I’m headed home.
Bra off.
Crabcake sandwich.
And absolutely no thinking about Ty’s lips.