Page 30 of Under Locke & Key
Still, I email Bryce some of my room ideas, layouts, and places where a tech element can enhance the experience.
Everything from a horror movie room, equipped with a remote controlled fog machine, spooky preset sound effects that the room controller can deploy at any time, and the ghostly projections of the dead that came before .
. . all the way through a Christmas themed room that should be perfect for the December opener.
I’ve got lists of equipment and the start of clues for different pieces.
We want a blend of practical and technological.
Magnetic trap doors but also phones to ring at specific times that require information to be spoken into the receiver to work.
It’s comprehensive and it’s kept me sane as this thing between us keeps growing larger and larger in my mind.
Even outside of D.C., I can still bury my feelings in work. I’m not quite sure what to make of that fact.
Thankfully, by Friday, Bryce has a way to distract us both from the fact that our hands are tied and setbacks keep happening.
Bryce
Want to go to that antique mall I mentioned?
My heart in my chest, excitement and the slightest pinch of pain—the reminder of past hurts—spreads between my ribs like the insulation foam Bryce picked out for the attic, as soon as we’re good to go again.
I should say no. It’s not work related and we haven’t really had time to talk about what happened.
Rather, I’ve been too nervous and he’s been caught up in damage control where the building is concerned. But perhaps antiquing could be a way for us to test the waters, see if we have compatibility besides attraction.
Sounds like a plan. When were you thinking?
Would 30 minutes be too soon?
I’m in town finishing up with the plumber
Seeing your face would go a long way to making the day better.
How am I supposed to keep my cool when he says shit like that? Rushing down the stairs, I flip the deadlock and my hand grips the railing as I careen up the steep stairs.
30 is fine. Door’s unlocked for you in case I’m not ready when you get here.
Shutting my laptop, I don’t even spare it a glance on the coffee table as I rush to the bathroom.
My messy bun, summer pajamas that consist of a too-big and almost threadbare Georgetown T-shirt and a pair of short bottoms that I lost the top to over a year ago stare back at me in the mirror. Time to get to work.
Rushing through a shower, scrubbing my teeth, I’m in the middle of braiding my wet hair when I hear Bryce call from the front door.
“I’ll be right out! Feel free to get yourself something to drink from the fridge if you’re thirsty!”
My eyes are a little wild, the steam from my shower still clinging to the edges of the mirror as I stare at my reflection. No need to pinch my cheeks like one of those old-fashioned movie characters. They are plenty flushed as it is.
When I walk out, Bryce is leaning in the arched opening between the kitchen and living area. “It’s really come together. You’ve done a fantastic job.” He points to the room with his bottle of water to emphasize his point and the praise lights me up from within.
“Thank you. It’s such a great space, I just tried to play to its strengths.
Hopefully I’ll be able to pick up a piece or two today that’ll enhance it more.
” The stuff I brought with me from D.C. doesn’t all fit and a lot of it has been relegated to the attic space Mr. Collins offered for me to use on that first day.
“Hmm,” he hums around a swig and I watch his throat work around the swallow, a droplet of water dripping down the corner of his mouth and down his neck.
Lick it off , my inner voice urges and it’s getting harder and harder to ignore her.
As if he can feel my gaze burning him, he shoots me a little smile. “Hello.”
My attention is pulled from his throat and I huff out a chuckle at being caught staring.
Bryce stalks forward, a few strides and he’s in front of me, placing a cool kiss against my lips.
The water he drank might not have a taste but somehow his kiss quenches and refreshes me all the same.
His large hand spanning my cheek, Bryce deepens the kiss and I swear to god my knees tremble.
It’s the hardest thing I’ve had to do until now, but I pull away.
“Hello to you too,” I say, the words little more than air since he’s robbed me of speech. “As lovely as this is, I have a feeling that if we keep going we’ll never make it to antiquing.”
Some of his ardor cools, a simmer but still there, and he gestures for me to lead the way out of the apartment.
It’s a routine I’m familiar with by now, his car parked in my spot that never gets used except by Bryce.
He comes around to open my door, as always, only this time he tucks a stray hair that’s escaped my braid behind my ear, clearing it from my face before he shuts the door and puts a brief distance between us.
The drive north toward Gettysburg is loaded with tension and the space between us feels like a chasm. We’ve been in his car plenty, but now that I know what his mouth feels like on mine—how his hands can grip and span, and move over my skin—the air separating our bodies is an unwelcome intrusion.
Farmland, wineries and cows dot the landscape blurring past us.
As we cross over a portion of the Maryland Appalachian mountains, the trees surround us, verdant, and sunlight dapples the dashboard as it tries to reach out through the space between leaves.
Some local station plays low and Bryce hums along quietly.
He looks more relaxed than I’ve seen him in a while, and considering the fact that our progress has taken a heavy dent, it’s surprising.
As if he feels me examining him, his attention breaks away from the road to give me a quick questioning glance.
“What’s on your mind?” he asks.
“You.” We both chuckle at the speed at which I say it and I speak again to clarify. “What I mean to say is, you look kind of relaxed. It’s nice. If a little baffling.”
“Turns out I’m way less high strung when I stop fighting the urge to touch you. Keeping my distance was exhausting, frankly.” It’s said without humor and the earnestness in his words have butterflies rioting in my stomach.
“I get it—guess we’re both being honest here. Pretending to be unaffected didn’t go very well for me, either. Still, I’m not sure where we’re at or where we’re going with this.”
He takes an exit toward a little town, just below the Pennsylvania border, a mixture of typical and cute.
A gas station and dollar store, and then a historic downtown.
The juxtaposition is strange when you think about it but not unusual for towns like this.
Past remembrance and present convenience meet in jarring contrast.
“We are here, and we’re going on a date. That’s all we need to focus on right now. I don’t know about you but I’m tired of overthinking this. One day at a time, yeah?” Bryce says and smiles.
The last time I agreed to something like that I ended up straddling him out in the open. It feels dangerous to say yes but Bryce is quickly becoming a weakness—an anomaly where my pragmatism is concerned.
But he’s taking me antiquing.
“Fine. I just want to make it known that spontaneity and flying by the seat of my pants isn’t really my style.”
“Isn’t it?” he teases before we get out of the car. Entwining our hands, we walk toward the double doors of an unassuming, squat but long building. Closer in appearance to a warehouse than the cute old houses, estate sales, and flea markets I used to haunt.
“What do you mean? I’m always called the solid one. The dependable one.”
“Rachel, you’re the ship, not the anchor.
You know, you can be both. There’s more to you than you give yourself credit for.
You moved out here with barely any notice and you’ve taken it all in stride.
Every set back, every challenge. Don’t hold yourself back because you’re trying to embody something you’ve been told to be.
What they think of you isn’t who you are. ”
And with that fucking bomb, we walk into the building and I’m immediately assaulted with the scent of old books, aging metal, and the slight musk and dust that comes with old things being cooped up for too long.
Rows stretch on either side of me and I can’t decide where to start. Mind full of the thought of lives lived and what they might have been like, I tentatively touch. An old Kellog wall-mounted telephone that families might have used to call in big news to each other lays on its side.
A mannequin is decked out in a twenties evening gown, beads and chains draped around its neck. What party did that dress see? The hot press of people in their version of a night club? A strong body against it as they danced the night away, gin on their tongues and smoke in the air?
Bryce lets me roam, trailing behind, and I’m only vaguely aware of him. I snake down every aisle, entranced.
“Paintings, photographs, and letters are over here,” he says, and it’s like coming up for air. The focus that had zeroed in on the shiny things in front of me is diverted toward what young me would’ve raced to.
Carding through black and white photographs, some in sleeves for protection, others worn down by age and touch, I lose track of time. Until Bryce pulls me back to reality again.
“You’ve met my parents. Tell me about you, how you grew up and your parents.”
He already knows the bit I don’t tell anyone. How much worse could the rest be?