Page 3 of Every Step She Takes
“I think everything about you is interesting,” he insists with a flirtatious grin. At least, I think his grin is of the flirtatious variety.
The problem is, I don’t know how to tell him more about the store without ripping my heart open for this stranger. I can’t tell him that when I was a kid, back when Nan and Grandadwere alive, that old house felt warm and welcoming, their laughter always loud enough to drown out my parents’ screaming matches. But now that they’re both gone, it feels like living alongside ghosts, and no matter how many home renovation projects I do to my creaky house, nothing changes that.
But I can’t talk about this with an amalgamation of Chrises. Hell, I can’t even talk about it with my mom and sister.
“Tell me about your start-up?” I non sequitur, and Grant gets swept up in another passionate monologue about his work. I study his rugged stubble, his kind eyes, and I try, try,tryto feel some level of attraction.
When that doesn’t work, I reach for my wineglass again.
“But I never want my job to be the only thing that defines me,” Grant is saying. “What are some of your hobbies?”
“Uh…” It’s another stumper. “I-I don’t really have time for hobbies.”
I used to have time for hobbies. I used to have interests andpassions. Well, one passion.
I grew up breathing new life into old, well-loved items under Nan’s tutelage. At seven, she had me polishing brass lamps she found at flea markets for resale, and by nine, I could reupholster a chair. By eleven, I was converting old dressers into bathroom vanities and using a table saw unsupervised. I loved every minute of it.
It seemed like an act of magic, to take a discarded piece of furniture that no one wanted anymore and turn it into something beautiful. It was all I ever wanted to do with my life: give second chances to broken dressers or water-stained tables or ripped couches.
But when I was twelve, my dad took off, and my mom fell into a long, dark, depressive episode, so I had to take over her duties at the store too. I scoured theSeattle Timesobituaries to get leads on upcoming estate sales, haggling with next of kin. I learned to use QuickBooks when other kids were using theirNintendo Game Boys, and when I got accepted to the University of Washington, there was no question about what I was going to study. I would major in business. To help Nan.
Only, before I even finished my undergrad degree, I lost my Nan too.
One day she was single-handedly hauling armoires up the stairs, and the next day she’d fainted behind the register after skipping breakfast. It turned out to be aggressive, stage-four breast cancer. She was gone within a month. And the house, the store, her entire legacy… She left it all to me.
I was only twenty-one when I inherited a business that was failing and a house that was falling apart.
There was a lot less time for furniture restoration projects after that. Less time for friends and dating and self-reflection. Less time for having any kind of life outside that dusty store.
Until this bet with Vi gave me sixteen hours of self-reflection while sitting across from men I didn’t want to kiss, and I started questioning absolutely everything.
“What about travel?” Grant prods. “I usually try to take two or three big trips every year. I think it’s important to travel abroad and to experience different viewpoints,” he pontificates. “I can’t believe how many Americans have never even left the country.”
Unfortunately,Iam one of those Americans. “I would like to be able to travel,” I mumble. “Um, I’ve never really had time for that either. I’ve always been too busy running the store.”
I honestly can’t remember the last time I had a day off, let alone multiple days off in a row to take a vacation. I’ve had to settle for living vicariously through my sister’s adventures.
“Well, maybe I could convince you to take a trip someday,” Grant says.Forty minutes into our first date. A knot of anxiety forms in my stomach, and it gets worse when he reaches over to put his hand on top of mine. I flinch, and hedefinitelynotices the hives.
“Uh, sorry, it’s a… a stress response,” I tell him before promptly reclaiming my hand and hiding it under the table.
Grant misconstrues this detail. “Are you nervous about this date? That’s socute.”
He says it sweetly, but I feel infantilized all the same, and I want to correct him. I’m not nervous about this date; I’m petrified at the thought of going home and telling my mom and sister that yet another setup didn’t work out, when I don’t have the right words to explainwhy.
I still have nineteen minutes to go, but the words come out before I can stop them. “Actually, I’m so sorry, but I have an early-morning meeting and—”
“At your antiques store?” Grant frowns.
“Yes. It’s with my assistant manager, Jane. She’s a real person.” I probably shouldn’t have added that last part, but I plow on as I start gathering my purse and my coat. “I’m so sorry.”
“No, it’s okay,” he says. He pulls a few twenties out of his wallet and leaves them on the table, signaling to our waiter that we’re leaving.
“You can stay,” I tell him.
“No, I can walk you to your car.”
“I-I didn’t drive here.”
