“What are you up to?”
“Nothing much. The reason I’m calling … Listen, mom mentioned you’re meeting some guy from Reddit in Boston.”
Julia sighed. She should have known their mother would not keep a confidence. “His name is Dylan,” she said. “He owns an antique shop in Providence. We connected through a wine forum on Reddit.”
“A Reddit romance,” James said. But his tone was serious. “Julia, have you actually verified any of this? The shop? His identity?”
“We’ve exchanged photos, talked on the phone—”
“You know that’s not what I’m asking,” James interrupted. “After what happened with Aaron, I figured you’d be more cautious.”
The mention of her ex-fiancé sent a pang through Julia. She set the wine glass on the side table. Eighteen months had passed since she’d discovered Aaron wasn’t the successful architect he’d claimed to be, but a draftsman who’d stolen project photos from his employer and fabricated an entire career. By the time she uncovered the truth, Julia and Aaron had been living together and had grown a circle of mutual friends. His betrayal had left deep scars.
“This is different,” Julia said. But her voice lacked conviction. “Dylan and I talk about substantive things—architecture, history, preservation. It’s not like he’s trying to impress me with fake credentials.”
“I can’t be the judge of that. Still, people can be passionate about a lot of things without being who they claim to be. Have you Googled him? The shop?”
“We’d set some ground rules,” Julia admitted. But her discomfort was growing. “We just . . . didn’t want to ruin a good thing, James.”
“Julia,” her brother’s voice softened. “I’m not trying to rain on your parade. But please do some basic checking before meeting this guy. True or false information won’t change what you’ve shared. It will just help you make an informed decision. And maybe save you some heartache.”
After they hung up, Julia stared at her wine glass and started to think about what her brother had said. James had a point. Plus, there was no forgetting the hand grenade Aaron had lobbed at her heart. Julia had researched countless buildings, materials, and architectural firms, yet had shied away from doing the most basic search on someone she was planning to meet. She could have at least googled The Black Tulip.
After some soul searching, she didn’t like the answer she got as to why she had not: fear. Fear that Dylan might not be real, that their connection might be built on lies, that she’d been fooled again.
Julia got her laptop and opened a browser. Her fingers trembled a little as she typed: “The Black Tulip antique shop, Providence.”
She hit enter and waited, heart racing.
No results matched her search.
She tried again, adding variations: “Black Tulip Rhode Island antiques,” “Dylan Gilbert antiques Providence,” “The Black Tulip College Hill.”
Nothing. No website, no business listings, no social media pages. Not even a mention in Providence business directories or tourist recommendations.
“This doesn’t make sense,” Julia said aloud, switching to Google Maps and searching for The Black Tulip near the College Hill neighborhood Dylan had mentioned.
No results.
She tried searching for antique shops in Providence, scanning the list for anything that might be his shop under a different name. Several appeared, but none in the location he’d described, none with names remotely similar.
All of a sudden, she felt queasy. She searched property records for Providence, looking for Dylan Gilbert as a business owner or property holder.
Nothing.
She switched tactics, searching architectural archives and historic building databases for the address he’d mentioned—an 1803 Federal building that had originally housed a silversmith. She found several buildings from that period in Providence but couldn’t connect any to Dylan’s descriptions without a specific address.
As an architect, Julia knew dozens of ways to verify buildings and businesses. She’d tracked down obscure historical structures with minimal information countless times. Yet every avenue she tried led nowhere, except for:The Black Tulip, a novel by Alexandre Dumas.
After two hours of disheartening searching, Julia sat back, her earlier warmth from the wine replaced by a chill. The Black Tulip didn’t exist—at least not in any verifiable way. And if the shop was fictional, what about its owner?
Her phone chimed with a message:
Dylan: Just closed up the shop. Rare find today: a Federal-period desk with a hidden compartment—the craftsmanship is exquisite. Made me think of your warehouse project … How was your day?
Julia stared at the message, her finger hovering over the screen. The words sounded like Dylan—thoughtful, connecting their interests, asking about her day. But was there actually a shop to close? A desk to discover? Or was it all made up?
She set the phone down without responding, her mind racing. Had she fabricated their entire connection based on carefully crafted messages from a stranger? Was she about to be humiliated again?
