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Oliver

It was too freaking cold sometimes in the winter. I preferred to keep the shop’s large double doors propped open during business hours, but in January, that really wasn’t conducive to a comfortable working environment, plus, I’m sure my customers wouldn’t appreciate it. The majority of my customers were older folks with bodies that just didn’t pair well with cold weather.

Most mornings started the same: I would unlock the front door, flip the sign to Open , and the shop would come to life. Almost as if it had been holding its breath all night. Dust floated through the sunlight that filtered through the big windows at the front, settling on everything like a fresh coating of snow. The store had a hauntingly beautiful vibe to it, especially when it was empty of all people besides me. I was surrounded by hundreds of clocks that no longer ticked, painted porcelain faces forever frozen, silver frames with other people’s memories still tucked inside, and books with time-weathered pages. There was a quiet comfort in it, like the past was telling its stories through each item.

I spent most of my days dusting, rearranging shelves, and imagining ghosts.

Over the years, I had gotten good at reading people: the ones chasing nostalgia by buying old baseball cards from their childhoods, the ones there to soak up the eerie vibes, the ones hunting treasure, and the ones just killing time.

It definitely wasn’t a brag-worthy job, at least not to most of the population. I loved it. I got to touch things that once mattered to someone. I got to dream about whether a compact mirror belonged to an old Hollywood starlet or a diligent housewife wrangling a nuclear family. Did that necklace hold special meaning to someone once? Was that doll or that toy a child’s first Christmas gift?

Maybe that sounded like hell to some people; boring and unfulfilling.

It was the kind of job where you never knew if you were going to spend the afternoon explaining the difference between Art Deco and Art Nouveau, or have someone ask you if anyone had been murdered on that vintage couch with the weird, slightly suspicious stain. And I honestly loved it. I loved the stories, or the questions, or the way a music box could make a grown man burst into tears.

As I fiddled with the thermostat to make it just a hair warmer inside, I heard the chiming of the bell that hung from the entrance door. I leisurely turned, welcoming the newcomer in. I was expecting one of my more regular shoppers, like Ms. Johnson from the corner store, or Daryl, a die-hard antique fanatic who’d been coming to the store long before I took over ownership. Daryl’s drug of choice was vintage toy cars, trains, planes, or any other kind of tiny old vehicle. I always tried to bring him back some finds when I went out of town for conventions. Speaking of, I currently had a vintage Matchbox car under the counter waiting to surprise him.

To my surprise, not Daryl’s—it wasn’t any of my regulars—which would usually have been fine, as I got excited when new faces came in. I may have been awkward and shy, but I loved to talk about my job and the items that traveled through my store.

Something felt wrong about the young couple traipsing in. I took a deep breath, reminding myself that I shouldn’t judge based on appearances. It was just that my intuition was typically pretty spot on. However, I always worried that any deep-seated, pre-existing notions may sway that feeling. I’d be a hypocrite if, after constantly being judged on my own appearance, I turned around and did it to someone else.

Still, as a small business owner, I couldn’t afford to lose a potential sale based on my gut feeling.

The couple appeared to be university-aged or slightly older. They looked a bit… rough. The man was lanky, covered in poorly done tattoos, and wearing a wife-beater tank. I tried not to look too hard, but I was pretty sure there were some track marks decorating his otherwise sickly white arms. The woman whom I assumed to be his partner looked like she was still awake from the bender she went on last night.

I hated to judge—I truly did, but they didn’t look like they frequented antique stores.

And they were walking right towards me.

I put on a friendly smile, watching as they ambled towards the counter. “Good morning! What can I help you with?” I hardly suppressed a shudder as the man’s beady eyes dragged up and down my small frame.

“We found something and wanna know what kinda money we could get for it.” His presumed girlfriend pulled out a sandwich-sized plastic baggie from her fluffy leopard-print jacket and plopped it down onto the counter. I internally sighed. This wasn’t a pawn shop. I occasionally did deals with my regulars, but that wasn’t the point of the store. Somehow, I doubted these two would understand. Just wanting them out as soon as possible, I pulled the baggie closer and took a look.

I almost laughed as I realized something meant costume jewelry . Looking down at the plastic bracelet painted in shiny gold, I considered my options.

“I’m sorry, guys. This isn’t worth anything,” I carefully explained, keeping my voice as gentle and friendly as humanly possible. “It’s costume jewelry for like a play or musical—that sort of thing. It’s made to look like it’s real, but it’s just plastic.”

“Well, look again. My girl says it looks expensive,” he sneered. His girl looked like she was still under the influence of whatever she had taken the night prior.

I smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry, but the most I could do would be fifty cents; I could put it in our children’s section.” The man spluttered, face reddening. He slammed his fist onto the countertop.

“I said look again,” he spat, his yellowing teeth bared. I rubbed my forehead, unsure of the best way to get them out of the shop.

“Listen, man, I’m sorry. There’s a pawn shop about twenty minutes away if you’d like a second opinion—”

“Fucking faggot.”

My eyebrows raised in surprise.

That was certainly a quick escalation.

“Hey, no. You need to leave. I’m sorry I couldn’t help you out, but you need to go now,” I stated, my voice luckily not relaying the growing anxiety inside me. I deeply despised any kind of confrontation. Calling me a slur in my own store was new, though. And not something I wanted a repeat of.

The woman jumped in, “You can’t make us leave! We have rights !”

I scoffed, “And I have a right to refuse service. Do you need me to call the police?”

“Don’t talk to my woman like that!” Mr. Bigot yelled, spitting in my direction.

I couldn’t have been more relieved when a familiar face walked in, a frown already in place.

“Is there a problem here, Oliver?” Josh asked, staring down the fuming couple. Josh was someone whom I considered an almost-friend. We didn’t see each other apart from when we visited each other’s workplaces—my antique store or his father’s coffee shop down the road. We got along well, and I genuinely enjoyed our chats. He never cut me off when I went on a tangent or scolded me when I got distracted. Over the years, we’d gotten into the habit of following an unofficial visiting schedule. I’d go to the coffee shop for lunch most weekdays, and in return, he’d come to the store on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Sundays while he was off work.

“No problem—right, guys?”

They angrily muttered and threw me some dirty looks, but hustled out the door, sizing up Josh as they left. He’d played on the university’s baseball team and had retained the muscles that years of hard work had built.

Blowing out a big breath, he joined me at the counter and rested his forearms on the surface. “Are you okay? That looked like it was about to turn serious,” he fretted, brows drawn together.

“I’m okay. They were just about to leave anyway. They were upset that I wouldn’t pay out the big bucks for a plastic bracelet,” I sighed, worrying my hands. Josh gave me what I liked to think of as his stern big brother look.

“You really should hire some staff. It’s not safe for you to constantly be alone here. And, if you had some help, you wouldn’t have to work six days a week.”

“Like I’ve said before, I’m perfectly safe. Besides, I don’t have the funds to pay anyone. I make enough to take care of myself, and that’s it. I don’t mind how much I work.” Josh huffed before shaking his head; he ran his hand through his short brown hair in exasperation.

“Alright, alright,” Josh relented. “Well, I just dropped by to see how your trip went. I have to admit I missed you while you were gone,” he said, a light blush staining his cheeks.

A bright smile lit up my face. “You missed me? Aww,” I swooned, secretly happy that it deepened his blush. He rolled his eyes at me, trying to shrug off his embarrassment.

“Of course I missed you, Oliver,” he confessed, his eyes soft.

I smiled, “Well, thank you.” He exhaled and walked behind the counter to sit on one of the wooden stools I always kept here. “The trip was good. It wasn’t too far, which was nice. The next one isn’t for another few months, so I’ll be here for a while.”

“Good,” he hummed. “And… maybe we could hang out together sometime? Y’know, outside of our shops?” Josh looked away for a moment.

Surprised, I said, “Oh! Yeah, sure, of course.”

Josh grinned, “Good. Let’s exchange numbers then? It’s crazy I don’t have your number after all these years.” He unlocked his phone, opened a new contact, and handed it to me. I did the same before entering my information and saving it. Once that was settled, Josh stood, fingers hooked in the front pockets of his jeans. “Well, I’ll see you soon then. Text me when you’re available.”

“Okay,” I beamed. This definitely made us friends, right? Had I been upgraded from almost-friend, but mainly work acquaintance, to a real friend? I wiggled, feeling squirmy from my excitement. Josh waved as he left through the front door of the shop.

I had two friends!

I couldn’t stop smiling. Ridiculous—considering I’d just had angry bigots in my store.

As I went about the rest of my day, I kept replaying my conversation with Josh in my head, afraid the memory would start to lose its shine, but it never did.