Page 51 of Under Locke & Key
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?
“I grew up an only child so the focus was on me, blinding like a spotlight but distant the same way. The better I did at school the prouder my parents were. I never felt as good as I did when I achieved something for them. It was such a high. Top of the class—my mom took me out on a solo movie date. Just me and her. It meant a lot because she worked most days as a receptionist for our local doctor, weekends included and free time was usually reserved for catching up on life.”
A few geriatric ladies bustle along, oohing and aahing at the items around us, including the photos I’ve neglected since this conversation started. Bryce twines his fingers through mine as he leads me to a less busy corner of the building and I take a deep breath before I dive deeper.
“My mom wanted to study medicine but growing up they never had the means. She made it her mission to make sure I had it better than she or my dad did. Etiquette, and manners, and how to act in front of the doctor she worked for and his people so they wouldn’t suspect we were less well-off than we seemed. My dad didn’t care as much as she did—my mother is aforcefulwoman who directed the two of us—but they both insisted I go to college.”
My hand shakes in his and Bryce tugs me close in a hug. “We don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want to.
“No, it’s okay.” The words get lost against his chest but he hears me anyway. “All this to say that they loved me. I know that. I know how much they sacrificed for me to succeed and so it’s hard for me not to feel guilty when I don’t live up to that ideal. The least I can do after they adopted, and cared for me—made sure I got a chance to get ahead in life—is make sure their time and money and love wasn’t wasted. But it’s so hard to hide myself from them. My sexuality. My doubts. All the years of aching to be seen by them and now I avoid speaking to them if I can. Texts a few times a month, if that. We don’t know how to speak to each other outside of the safe, expected topics.”
“I hate that you feel like that. I get it though. Not with my parents but with others—my ex especially. I felt like I had a role to play, a script to follow, to please her. Tick the right boxes, say the right things, and maybe she’d be happy with me. Yet the more I tried, the less happyIbecame. I’m sorry that you’ve been unable to be your full self because of fear of disappointing the ones you love most,” Bryce says.
I capture his mouth in a quick kiss, aching at knowing that he can relate. No one should.
We’re so close, chest to chest, and the air is filled with dust and the sweet scent of old parchment, and something that’s all Bryce.
I’m not sure how he does it but he’s disarmed me again. In public. It’s like the world fades away when it’s just me and him and it would be so easy to get lost in it—in him.
“I’m sorry that someone made you feel that way too. If it’s any consolation, I think you’re fantastic just the way you are,” I say. My cheeks flame and I can’t believe that I still have it in me to blush over giving someone a compliment.
The embarrassment is assuaged by Bryce’s slightly pink flush at the words. “I feel the same way about you.”
I’m so ready to kiss him again but then I hear conversation coming closer, another customer on the way to our secluded little corner surrounded by history.
“We should—uh—we should try to get some things. A historic Dulaney room should have some authentic items, don’t you think?” I ask, trying to distract myself and him from the roar of butterflies swarming in my chest.
“Lead the way.”
Bryce and I walk down each aisle, chatting about lighter things. We float ideas for the historic room and by the time we’re ready to ring up we’ve got a decent grouping of items on our rolling platform cart. I’ve even grabbed a few things for the apartment.
The ride back to town is quiet, the silence between us easy as the local station drums on low. Bryce is humming along again and I can’t help the glances I steal. If someone asks me later when I started to like Bryce, I’ll tell them it was during the numerous car rides over the last few months. Something about the proximity, the accidental brushes as we sit side-by-side, and the countless conversations from silly to serious have cemented it for me.
I like him. A lot. Enough to consider risking more than I have in a while. I’m just not sure I’m brave enough to voice it. Yet.
We get back to my apartment and opt for delivery instead of going out, and then curl up together on my couch. The window unit is going full blast and as much as I hate the heat radiating off of Bryce, it feels nice to have him so solid against me. We pretend to pay attention to the medical show I’ve been binge watching, and I butt in every now and then to try and get him up to speed on all the drama. He nods and laughs, trying his best to take it in, but the way he traces the lines on my palm as we watch lets me know his attention is as divided as my own.
“I do really like the lamp.” Bryce points at my new purchase as two of the doctors on-screen start making out in an on-call room.
Sitting on a steamer wardrobe trunk I picked up as well is a beautiful Tiffany-style lamp. Almost like stained glass, similar to the one in my bedroom. It’ll be stunning when lit up in the dark.
“Thank you for helping me find it. I think we got a pretty good haul.” I press a kiss to his cheek. “I’m especially excited for some of the stuff we got for the room. We can lean into the theater history and have it be something tied directly to it rather than just generic Dulaney. I’ll have to print out things like a cast list and vintage posters, but I think we can pull it off.”
“I have faith in you. In us and this whole endeavor. I’m glad you’re the one helping me bring this to life.”
His confidence in me and what we’re doing—what I’m contributing—is heady and the feeling of pride at pleasing him swirls low in my belly.
