Page 3 of Yours to Break

2

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 toOpen, 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 realizedsomethingmeantcostume 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. Hisgirllooked 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.

“Isaidlook 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 haverights!”

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

---