Chapter Twelve
I’ve looked it up. It’s a jewelry shop.
I don’t know how I feel about that fact, but I’m going anyway.
I’m not exactly sure what a gift of jewelry could actually mean.
I mean, I know what a gift of jewelry means in the ordinary sense.
I’ve seen the “Forever Begins Here” or the “Say It Without Words” advertisements for Halloway’s.
But this is different. This is from my secret guy who, so far, has been faithfully unconventional and hard to predict, so that eases my mind a little. Maybe.
The front of the store matches the rest of the street, with its brick facades and plate-glass windows, but the iron pillar clock out front, with its ever-ticking hands, and the luminescent sparkles coming from the window, is pretty, um, shall I say, romantic.
Or ominous. I’m not sure which. One part of me feels light and special, like who am I to have someone want to give me something so, potentially, sparkly.
Another part of me feels embarrassed, like I’m unqualified to be here and will be turned away upon entry.
I shuffle through the heavy door as a small gold bell rings joyfully from the frame.
An elegantly dressed man in a crisp, black, pinstriped suit, white shirt cuffs exposed the perfect amount, leans on a glass case and eyes me over his glasses, then through them.
“Good afternoon, sir,” he says. His cuff-links sparkle radiantly.
“Hello,” I say, approaching the glass case.
My eyes dart around the displays of diamonds and gold and gems, all under glass but illuminated in a way that’s intoxicating.
My heart warms a little to think that something in this store has been reserved for me.
I keep trying to dismiss the idea that my secret guy has somehow left me a sandwich or a hammer or something totally unconventional for a jewelry store to have.
Deep inside, I’m actually wishing for something random like an apple pie so that I can just laugh along as intended and carry on with my life.
I’m terrified that it’s actually an item from one of the glass cases that sparkles or shines.
I can handle an apple pie. Or a sandwich.
“Do you see something you like?” the man says, spreading his hand to highlight the display cases. “Are you buying for you or your special someone?”
My gaze turns to him and I can’t help but smile. My “special someone.” What a great term.
What am I thinking?
I start at the beginning: “I’m actually here to pick up a package. I’ve been instructed to pick up an item that’s been left here for me.” Avoiding eye contact, I look past the display cases at the wall of shelves beyond. They sparkle too, but with more color, rubies and sapphires maybe.
“Oh, you do say.” He clasps his hands together in a ball and smiles broadly. “And the name, please.”
“Liam Everett,” I stumble. I’ve known my name for my whole life, so I look away when I have trouble getting the syllables out.
“Of course, Mr. Everett.” He turns and approaches a shelf behind him with several small boxes, each with a tag. He flips each tag to inspect them and finishes, then starts again, repeating the same action and turns to me, “Might it be under another name, sir?”
We try “William” instead. Same result.
I feel the pulse rise in my neck, my ears grow warm. I have no other information.
“Are you sure it’s not here? I’ve been asked to come retrieve it,” I say.
He looks me in the eye, then to the rear of the store, and back again. He points a single finger my way, says, “Allow me one moment,” and disappears into a doorway I hadn’t noticed before.
I take the opportunity to spin slowly in place and absorb the entire shimmering universe that is Halloway Jewelers. You can’t help but smile in a place like this, and feel a little sparkly.
He returns quickly and meets me in the middle of the store, between the glass cases. “I’ve spoken with my colleague, and I am sorry. There is no item for pickup for a ‘Liam or William Everett.’”
I stare at him for a moment. Heat is running up the back of my neck. I don’t know what to think. “Are you certain? Nothing?” I’m rubbing my palm on my forehead.
“Yes, I’m certain. I’m sorry, Mr. Everett.”
It can’t be. I know that my “special someone” has been wholly unconventional, but this feels outright mean.
There must be some error. I decide that what this man needs in order to find my package is my life story.
I mean, the story of how I came to be standing in Halloway’s on 3rd Street.
I tell him all the details of my secret person and the grand adventures, smiling deeply, until I get to the moment we’re both experiencing.
I do skip the part about the book theft.
“What a lovely story,” he coos, and then frowns. “My apologies. Perhaps there has been a miscommunication. We do not have a package for you, Mr. Everett. Again, I’m sorry.” He doesn’t break eye contact in what is the most professional heartbreak I’ve ever seen.
I exhale sharply. “Thank you,” I stumble. “Thank you anyway.” My body slumps and I trudge toward the door, which opens with its ever-joyful ring.
“Good luck,” he offers with an outstretched hand.
I let the door fully close behind me before walking on.
I don’t know what to think. Something must have gone wrong. My secret person hasn’t left me hanging a single time. He wouldn’t just leave me stranded. I know it. I trust it.
I decide I’m going to text him. On our app.
This shouldn’t feel weird, but for some reason it does.
I pull out my phone and send a brief message.
“Went to Halloway’s. It wasn’t there.” I click send and stare at my phone, surprised at myself: I didn’t overthink it.
I didn’t edit and reword it. I just sent it.
This realization lights a warm fire in my core, as I start the walk back to my truck.
Me and my “special someone” have grown close enough to skip the edit-and-revise phase of our relationship.
We just communicate and don’t think about it too much.
It makes me feel puffy inside, and I feel like I’m floating down the sidewalk.
Well, maybe a little diminished from being turned away at the jewelers. And a little defeated because there’s still no response. I guess I thought he would respond immediately, so I’m feeling a little letdown. And exposed.
By the time I reach my truck and I still haven’t heard back, I find myself texting Martin. “Is this a good time to call?” I text. No response from him either.
I have a mental block that prevents me from driving, like I can’t drive and receive a text at the same time, so I sit. And think. Until I ultimately realize that I can do both. But I don’t need to multi-task because my phone still doesn’t require my attention.
By the time I get home, I still haven’t received a text. This concerns me a little, but I put my phone away and let it go. Martin will text me when he gets a chance.
A day passes. I keep checking my phone all day at work. Still nothing from my secret person, but my growing concern is that I still haven’t heard from Martin. It’s not like him to ignore me.
It’s two days later when my phone rings, and it’s Martin. Something feels off. I don’t make any jokes about his neglect, and when he speaks, my heart sinks. “Liam … I’m so sorry I didn’t call,” his voice breaks. “It’s my mom… she passed away. Last night.”
The rest of our conversation is a blur. I can’t even process thoughts. All I can think of is how his mom had been doing so much better, and how hopeful he was, and how close they were. I’m blurting without thinking, “Where are you?”
“I’m at my parents’ house, Liam.” I pocket my phone and am on my way. I’m not even sure I said goodbye.
“Martin! There’s a man here to see you!”
That’s how I’m welcomed at the door of Martin’s parents’ home.
His sister, carrying two infants while holding the door open, is looking at me but screaming into the house.
Sighing, she says, “Come on in,” and motions me into the modest living room with a polite smile.
I step inside the dimly lit room looking for Martin.
The house is one of the older ones in the east side and is made up of a bunch of small rooms connected by a hallway that parallels a staircase.
The only space I can see is the living room, I guess, where several people are sitting on old sofas, trying to understand who I am and why I have interrupted whatever conversation they were having, or maybe not having.
I smile, and several of them smile back, but no one speaks. Or blinks.
“I’m here for Martin,” I say.
There may have been blinking.
I’m wondering if I should ask the sister to call out again for Martin, when she suddenly heads down the hallway into the room beyond.
From above, I see a figure emerge from the dim staircase and begin to descend. It’s Martin. He looks exhausted. He also looks confused.
“Liam?” he asks in a soft voice, continuing down the stairs. “What are you doing here?”
“I, um.” I hadn’t thought this through exactly. I just knew I wanted to be here. “I wanted to make sure you were okay, to see if you needed anything.”
He is standing now in front of me below the staircase, the living room occupants still staring at us. He looks at his feet, “I really appreciate it, but you didn’t have to come.” His eyes tilt up slowly.
“I’m sorry about your mom,” I say. I watch tears well up as he tries to blink them away.
“Come with me,” he whispers, turning. We’re heading into the hallway, and he speaks quickly to the living room saying, “Everyone, this is Liam.” Then we’re headed away.
We pass another room, dining room presumably, and enter a small, but fancy kitchen area with its own table and a giant window overlooking a porch and a small yard beyond.
Behind the counter is an older man, looking worn, and a man about Martin’s age.
They have matching genetics and so I start making assumptions about their relationship.