Page 64 of Selfish Desires

“I’ll see you later, babe. Love you.”

I left the cafe thinking how I dubbed Stephen the dumbest guy, but he wasn’t, far from it. If anything, I owned that label, maybe even forever. Because, after all, I was the moron who left the love of my life years ago, possibly never to see her again.

About a ten-minute walk later, I stood outside Stephen’s antique general store. I stared at the unique facade, appreciating the historical architecture—from the exposed brick, oil-rubbed bronze sign, and the meandering ivy up the building. I pushed open the store's heavy, aged door and was immediately greeted by the faint, musty scent of old books and aged antiques. A bell chimed overhead, and my eyes took in the disorderly array of intriguing objects—intricately designed porcelain vases, tarnished silver cutlery sets, and oddly shaped lamps from seemingly every era. Every inch of it was filled with curiosities, both old and new.

“Can I help you?” some punk man-boy asked, probably no older than sixteen, from behind a rich mahogany counter.

“I'm looking for Stephen,” I replied. “Is he around?”

The employee nodded and pointed toward the back room. “He's just checking on some new arrivals.”

I nodded my thanks and went to the back, where I found Stephen hunched over a box, sifting through what appeared to be ancient books. What piqued my interest wasn’t the books he studied but what they laid on—a gorgeous antique poker table. The forest green felt tabletop appeared brand new, completely restored. Its cherry wood frame must have been completely revamped while not losing its ageless beauty from decades ago. A set of six coasters with floral etchings lining their perimeters matched the wood and rested off-center. Was I really falling in love with a table?

“She’s gorgeous, isn’t she?” Stephen’s voice shattered my daze.

My head snapped up from the table as he caught me ogling the lifeless piece. A smirk lined the corners of Stephen’s mouth, and my instant affection for the table melted, replaced by a cold chill, reminding me why I was there.

I cleared my throat, shifting from foot to foot, and crossed my arms. “Yeah, it is.”

“Are you interested in her?” Stephen’s icy orbs held mine, and for a second, I wasn’t sure what we were discussing.

I shook my head quickly, regaining my focus. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you.”

“Oh? Am I in trouble?” Stephen grinned, straightening his posture, and dusted off his hands against his black jeans.

“I wanted to talk to you about Wendy.” I widened my stance.

The dumb grin on his face dropped, and his mouth morphed to stone. “What about her? Is she okay?”

“Yes. She’s fine,” I answered quickly. “I just wanted to ask you a few questions about your relationship with her.”

Stephen rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re suddenly coming in here like the jealous boyfriend.” He turned his back to me, losing all interest in any hopes of conversation, and started to rip open a new cardboard box of junk.

“No, not like the jealous boyfriend. More like the concerned fiancé.” I watched as his shoulders tensed.

“Oh. Yeah.” Stephen’s jaw ticked. “I forgot you guys got engaged. Pick a date yet?”

“No date. Nothing set in stone.”

Stephen turned to me, the tension lines on his forehead smoothing out slightly. “Good. I mean, it's too soon, you know? You've just come back into her life.”

Well, fuck him and his analytics as I fought a deep burning urge to crack his jaw. “Yeah, well. You can say we picked up where we left off easily.”

“Not what I heard,” Stephen mumbled.

“Did you say something?” My voice boomed across the store because I knew exactly what the fucker said and meant.

“Nah. Nothing.” Stephen chuckled, egging me on and resuming his project of rummaging through the garbage box.

I flexed my sweaty hands, fighting the pins and needles coursing through my fingers. I wanted to punch this guy. Something about him was off. Or maybe I was jealous, but of what? He rejected Wendy. My eyes darted around the shop, trying to figure out what to say next.

“Can I just ask you a few questions?”

“No.” Stephen shot death daggers at me.

A hiss of oxygen exited my nostrils when I spotted a carousel of multi-colored poker chips, probably at least forty years old. Even without touching one, I knew they carried a weight the newer chips lacked.

I reached out and flicked one with my finger, watching it spin once on its axis before settling back into its slot.

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