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“Talk to me about the playoffs,” I say. “You seriously think we have a shot?”
The conversation moves on, but a part of my mind lingers on what he said. Devon called me after Chari came back from our trip. He said Chari’s been walking on air and reminded me not to fuck it up.
Part of me worries it’s already happening.
26
Chari
Where the heck did Mom find this?
I pick up a small glass frog from the shelf, thinking about Enzo, and how he spent his childhood catching frogs, keeping them as pets. Naming them. Talking to them, both his own and ones in the wild. Pretty much everyone knew he had an obsession with them for years.
He’s given me so much, maybe I’ll give him a little gift too.
I’m filling in for Mom this Saturday morning at the shop so she can attend an antique show to pick up more eclectic finds. It’s a slow month. Tourism in Bridgewater doesn’t really pick up until April, and some years not until May. But Mom is smart about her finances and plans for the downtime.
She’s a savvy business owner, and I know it’s slightly disappointing to her that I don’t want to take over the shop. But it’s just never called to me.
I turn the glass piece over in my hands.
Does teaching call to me? I thought so. In college, after three majors, I finally landed in elementary education after working as a camp counselor for two summers. Everyone said I had a “knack” for working with kids. And I’ve always loved children. Their curiosity. Their imagination.
But the deeper I get in the education system, the more I realize how broken it is. Some days I feel like I’m just spinning my wheels, not really getting anywhere.
“Chari?”
I take the frog, intending to give it to Enzo, and head back to the register. I don’t recognize the voice, but as I turn the corner, I freeze.
Lusanne DeLuca.
She was a year behind me in school. And I know her, of course, because Devon and I spent a lot of time at their house as kids. Lusanne and I have always liked each other, but hanging out at the DeLuca house never translated to hanging out anywhere else, and we don’t really travel in the same circles.
“Hey, Lusanne,” I say, sliding behind the counter. “How’s it going?”
She’s definitely looking at me a bit more intently than usual, but then again, I haven’t seen her since Enzo and I started dating.
“Good. I’m heading to a birthday party out of town tonight, and I figured it might be fun to bring something unique, something local.”
“Is it for an adult?”
She nods, her long, glossy hair so pitch-black against her cream coat that I can’t stop staring. The DeLucas have better genes than any other family in Bridgewater. Or PA. Maybe the East Coast.
“My college roommate.”
Like Enzo and Gian, Lusanne left home for college. Enzo is the only one who never came back to Bridgewater.
Aside from the frog and a few other new glass figurines, I don’t think there’s anything new in the stock, but I do have an idea.
“Take a look at these,” I say, walking around the counter and navigating shelves toward the back of the shop.
“Something smells so good.”
It always does. The shop smells like a combination of the vanilla wax melts Mom loves, plus a very slight musky bookstore scent. If only we could capture that scent and bottle it.
“Right?” I say, arriving at a jewelry line that Mom discovered a few months ago at the Penn State Arts Festival. “What do you think?”
“Oooh.” Lusanne picks up a silver bracelet. “These are so pretty.”
