a good point. “Let’s find a good frame in the back for it, and then we can move it on to inventory.”
Her genuine excitement causes my heart to thump harder. “Yeah?!”
“Yeah.”
“You’re sure?! Like you’re absolutely sure?!” She pauses all her actions. “Like you want this in your store because you think someone will buy it and not because you’re just trying to make your girlfriend happy?”
“Babe, if I was just looking to make you happy, I’d offer you some fresh cut pineapple.”
Brooklyn poorly hides her smirk.
“I think that’s a unique piece, which is exactly what we’re all about here.”
She allows me to see her full grin prior to turning her gaze back to the creation.
“Wonder if it’s a local artist,” the thought freely flows. “Sometimes they donate their work in hopes of catching a tourist’s eye.” My eyes scan the picture once more in search of a name. “You see a signature?”
“Here.” Brooklyn lightly taps near the mermaid’s tail. “Tucker Frost.”
“Hm…Never heard of him.”
“Me either.”
“Maybe he’s new,” I casually shrug. “Maybe he’s new, and this’ll help get his work out there.”
“I love your optimism.”
“I love your eye for things to be optimistic about.”
The statement “but not as much as I love you” runs to the tip of my tongue, prepared to ride the confession wave yet is stopped by the chiming of the front door opening.
Our eyes dart to a pair of twins joyfully running our direction probably no more than three or four.
“Toys,” the little girl with bright blue eyes begins.
“Pirates ships?” her brother enthusiastically questions.
Her tiny hands fall to her hips. “Where?!”
“Pirate hat?”
“Got lots?” Her sassy, tiny interrogation proceeds.
“What about an eye patch!?”
“You two are full of spunk,” I happily chuckle.
“They’re definitely full of somethin’,” an oddly familiar voice chimes.
My eyes dart up to see a face I haven’t in years.
That I honestly wasn’t expecting – or maybe the more accurate word is hoping – to see ever again.
“Max and Monroe McCoy,” just hearing their last name sinks an unpleasant feeling to the pit of my stomach, starting what feels like the first of many wipeouts for me, “you both have better manners than that. Apologize.”
“Sorry,” Max, the little boy, goes first.
“Same,” Monroe casually states in such a way there’s no denying she’s my ex’s through and through.
“That’s about as good as that’s gonna get,” Knox the Fox, or Knoxie, which is her actual name, mutters under her breath. “I’m sorry on their behalf, Ax.”
My face struggles to smile.
My lips struggle to move.
My vocal cords coil and curl and clamp down cutting off the ability to breathe let alone speak.
I know there’s not enough oxygen getting to my brain.
I need to grab just a breath.
A split second to myself from being submerged too deep too quick.
“Do you still sell toys?” Knoxie politely inquires.
When there’s no response – immediate or delayed – out of me, Brooklyn steps into the increasingly awkward situation. “Yup!” She leans a little forward and points directly to the right. “Go all the way down there, and you’ll find them. Last time I looked there was a ton of pirate and shark stuff.”
“How’d you know I like sharks?” Monroe sassily investigates.
Brooklyn brightly grins and gives her a sweet shrug. “Lucky guess.”
Wonder if she’ll grow up to have an emotional bite that’s as strong as her mother’s.
One that’ll drag you deeper than you can swim without gear.
Fuck.
Why does it feel like I can’t breathe?
Am I breathing?
Do we have any spare oxygen tanks in the back?!
“You can go look like I promised,” Knoxie motherly sasses, “but fucking behave and-”
“No fighting,” they state in unison before taking off.
They rush the way they were directed, which is when she hits me with a huge smile. “I’ll pay for anything they fucking break, Ax. Promise.”
Not sure if it’s the way she says my name or the familiar word that leaves her lips, but one of them gets me to smirk and my cheeks to burn.
For a moment, our crystal stares simply connect and linger. What feels like millions of moments wash to the shores of my mind, covering my metaphorical toes in mixed emotions and ankles in familiar aches. Dreams and desires and disappointments present themselves as boards for me to ride down memory wave, yet for some reason, I can’t decide on the right one to grab.
Knoxie shifts her gaze and her beam to the woman standing beside me. Her hand extends as she announces, “Knox.”
“Brooklyn.” They politely shake.
“Do you work here?”
“No, I’m-”
“A client’s sister,” I bluntly blurt out,