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She waves a hand in front of my face. “I’ll buy you walnut maple ice cream next time we go to an ice cream shop.”

I smirk. “I’ll go if you come running with me.”

“Heck no! I’ll buy you ice cream every day for a week instead.”

I release a mock-exasperated huff. “Okay, I’ll go.” I’ve been trying to get her to jog with me for years. She always says no, but we play this game anyway. She tries to bribe me with food, and I try to get her to run with me.

She points a fork full of pancakes at me. “I would agree to buy you ice cream for a month before I agree to go running.”

I love running. I need the asphalt under my feet, the steady rhythm of jogging steps, one after the other, the burn in my thighs and calves, and the rush of air in my lungs. That’s how I clear my head. How I wash away troubles and center myself. “One of these days, you’ll say yes, Lynn.”

“No, thank you. This girl does not run.”

* * *

The antique store welcomes us with that smell all antique stores share—a bit dusty and moldy. It’s the smell of old things, attics, and the back of closets. It’s the scent of memories and history.

I hesitate by the door, and Lynn tugs at my arm, but I hold my place and stand in the opening. Sunlight at my back and the darkened and cluttered space ahead. I’m on the threshold between the past and the present. I still myself, ground my feet, and inhale deeply. The smells of the past mingle with the fresh breeze coming in through the open door. The palms of my hands tingle. That familiar anxious pressure in my chest makes itself known. I ready myself, step in, and let the door gently close behind me.

The past calls to me like it always does whenever I enter an antique store, an old place, a church. The art historian in me rejoices in finding old objects, little treasures long-lost in time, and my soul rejoices in learning the history and in reading the memories each object holds.

Lynn bumps into my shoulder. “I don’t know why you always put up a fight. You love this.”

I smile. She’s right. I love this. I’ve lived my entire life surrounded by old things. I have the privilege of working with objects most people can only admire from behind a glass pane in a museum. An antique shop is nothing compared to my job. But I spend so much time trapped in the past, sometimes I wonder if I forget to live in the present. But that’s not something I want to voice out loud. “Because I get paid to do this, and I’m on vacation,” I whisper, as if we were in a church and not a store. The place demands a certain reverence.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, they pay you a shit-ton of money to travel all over the world. You get to see and touch treasures, art, and objects that very few people even know exist. This is all I have.” She gestures around.

I laugh. There’s no real animosity in her words. “Gosh, I wish Grandma were here.” I’ve lost count of the many times she and I visited antique stores just like this one. Driving around with Grandma, sleeping in tiny bed-and-breakfast places, with no direction other than whatever called to Grandma next.

Lynn wiggles her fingers. “Do your thing,” she whispers.

My thing . . . psychometry. My gift. The ability to know the history of an object simply by touching it. A secret only shared with Lynn and my grandma. It has served me well in my job. I’m glad I took Grandma’s suggestion to go to Ocean Cove. If Grandma tells you to do something, you do it. In all our travels, we’ve never come this way. I guess it holds too many bitter memories for her and her falling-out with my mother.

Grandma’s abilities are far more potent than mine. My gift, as grandma calls it, clamors for something else. It wants more. More than reading objects for their history or authenticity. There’s an empty spot in my soul, and it is hungry, but I have yet to discover what it hungers for.

“Come! This way.” Lynn waves at me and walks down an aisle.

I follow her voice. Find her near a huge shelf holding dozens and dozens of small blown glass figurines. Nothing about them draws me in.

“These are so cute.” She reaches for a large figurine of a dolphin. I take her hand and point at the sign on the shelf.

You Break It, You Buy It

“Let’s look with our eyes first. I’ll let you know if something grabs my attention.” But something in this store already has. There’s a buzz in my solar plexus, and it—whatever it is—calls to me.

We walk around under the vigilant eye of the shop owner at the back of the store and the security cameras discreetly set into the ceiling. We’re not doing anything wrong, but the extra attention we’re getting, in addition to the pull in the pit of my stomach, unsettles me. The stale air is suffocating. It weighs heavily on my lungs. I make a conscious effort to breathe.

The pull gets stronger with each step I take into the store. The unease grows, and I want to leave, but I don’t. I won’t. I can’t deny the pull. I follow Lynn, who’s completely unaware of my struggle.

Lynn points at a gun. The sign beside it says it’s a Colt 1860 Army .44. The revolver is secured to the display but not encased in glass. I touch it, close my eyes, and wait. Cold metal and smooth warm wood meet my hand. Nothing. A soldier never touched this gun. I open my eyes and shake my head at Lynn. “It’s a replica.”

Her eyes go round, and she gapes at the two-thousand-dollar price tag.

I lower my voice. “That’s worth around three hundred at most.”

“Holy crap.”

I grin. “I know.”