Page 87 of Gilt

Jerry pauses from rearranging a display of Civil War-era pistols and glances up to greet his customer. His joy is instantaneous when he realizes it’s me. I’ll bet he’s been waiting a long time for his lunch break. He hurries out from behind the counter to greet me, pushing his floppy hair out of his eyes.

“I was wondering when you would be coming back.” He goes for a hug, and I let him, patting him awkwardly on the shoulder as he squeezes. “This place isn’t the same without you.”

I’m pretty certain that what he means is paychecks are irregular, deposits aren’t making it to the bank on time, and he’s stuck here all hours of the day. But I’ll take the compliment.

“I just popped by to grab something.” There’s no way to soften the blow, so I don’t try.

The smile falls from his face. “Oh. I thought you were home to help for the summer.”

“My Mom doesn’t want me working at the shop, because of…the accident,” I lie.

Jerry lets out a long whistle. “Do you think that’s wise? I don’t know how we’re going to keep this place running.”

We’re not.

“I’m sure dad will make sure everything stays on track.” I sidle past him towards the cash register. He watches me with interest, but he doesn’t try to stop me. I’m not here for money. I doubt there’s any to speak of, anyway.

“We both know that isn’t true, Emma. He can’t keep this place up without you.”

Apparently, Jerry managed to grow some balls while I was away in Palm Springs. I’ve always pegged him as more of a ‘take it and like it’ type. The kind of guy who spends his nights in one of those scuzzy little hole-in-the-walls getting spanked by a woman in leather. I open a drawer and dig until I find the business card I threw in here a couple weeks ago, slide it into the back pocket of my cut-offs, and close the drawer.. Jerry deserves better than to be lied to, especially after all the years he’s put into this store. “You’re probably right, but I can’t spend the rest of my life holding him up.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” he says in a soft voice. “You’re too young...and pretty,” he tacks on awkwardly.

I give him a small smile, hoping it doesn’t encourage the crush he’s been nursing on me for the last few months. Jerry’s sweet, but I can’t stay behind to help him out. I head toward the door, finally ready to leave this place behind for good. I pause and drink it in one last time.

The jerseys signed by long-retired athletes, guitars played by former rock stars, guns used in war, and knickknacks collected by children who grew into adults who no longer needed their treasures. The whole place is like a warning to let things go. Here, time doesn’t seem to flow. It just stops, and if you’re not careful, you can get trapped. I turn and push up on my tiptoes to give Jerry a kiss on the cheek. “You shouldn’t get stuck here, either,” I advise him.

“Somebody has to keep it running.” He scratches his head, following my gaze around the large, open store, and I can see that he’s trapped here.

“Yeah, my dad has to keep it running,” I remind him. “These aren’t your burdens, and they’re not your treasures.”

I leave it at that, calling out over my shoulder one last time. “See you around, Jerry.”

“See you, Emma.”

Before I get in the Mercedes, I pull the business card from my back pocket and stare at it for a moment.

Dominic Chamber.

He came to me with a forged Babe Ruth baseball card. In the end, he left with the fake and gave me this. I hadn’t known I’d need to use it. Now I know why I saved it, but asking for help—drawing attention to a problem I’m not sure exists—makes me feel sick.

I shove the card in my glove box. Maybe I’ll let it marinate there for a few days until I know what I want to do. As I pull out of the parking lot of Pawnography, I know it’s the last time I’ll visit.

It’s bittersweet. I thought this place was my future—a ball and chain that I’d have to drag with me my whole life. Maybe things never would be the same between my Dad and me, but I have to admit that his actions finally set me free.

“Ugh, Emma,” I say to myself, gagging a bit. “Can you sound sappier?”

Reaching into my purse, I search for a pair of sunglasses to ward off the midday glare coming through my windshield.

There’s only one person I want to see right now. I’m about to call him when I notice a maroon Monte Carlo behind me. It sticks out because the same Monte Carlo was parked at the back of Pawnography. You tend to notice the other car in an empty parking lot. Against my better judgment, I slide on my phone and hit Instagram. It looks like The Dealer’s been busy today. On the top of his feed, there’s a photo of Josie carrying a Weckman’s drugstore bag full of toilet paper. I try to scroll down while keeping my eyes primarily on the road, but there’s nothing new of me...yet.

The Monte Carlo’s windows are tinted, so I can’t get a good look inside, and the driver is staying far enough back that I can’t see any other details. Flipping on my turn signal, I decide to test my theory by maneuvering across a couple lanes of traffic at a suicidal speed to take the closest exit. Sure enough, Mr. Monte Carlo follows me.

I’ve got The Dealer in my sights, or at least my rear-view. Now I just have to figure out what to do with him. So far, this asshole has been content to channel his inner-paparazzo, but what happens if he realizes I know he’s following me? The thought chills my blood, and I hit auto-dial.

Jameson answers after one ring. “Morning, Duchess.”

“It’s nearly afternoon,” I inform him.