From the outside, the shop looks unassuming, another quiet storefront tucked between cafés and boutiques. I shift Savannah higher in my arms, her head heavy against my shoulder, and tug the soft wrap from around my waist. It’s no longer awkward; it’s become second nature. I slide her in close against my chest, the fabric snug around her legs and back until she’s resting in that perfect spot, high enough to support her neck and the perfect position for me to kiss the top of her head.
She sighs, one small hand curling against my collarbone as I tighten the last fold. By the time I push the door open, the bell above gives a soft chime that feels more like a greeting than a sound.
Warmth greets us first, then a scent that makes me stop mid-step. Old paper, a blend of roasted coffee, and something faintly floral. I never spent much time in bookstores. Why go if I couldn’t afford to buy them, the space to store them, or the dread you’d feel when the new family looked at your boxes like you were going to take up too much space? But libraries? I practically lived in them. This? Noelle’s bookstore gives me that same sense of peace that a library always has.
“You’re going to love this place,” I whisper against her head. “One day you’ll have your own room with your own little bookshelves and reading area with books you don’t have to return and miss when they’re gone.”
Savannah stirs but doesn’t fuss, her head turning toward the light spilling through the tall front windows. It’s soft and golden, diffused by vintage sconces that cast an amber glow along the shelves. They stretch all the way to the ceiling, dark wood polished and full of spines, ranging from weathered cloth to glossy new jackets.
The floor creaks beneath my feet, not sharply but gently, like the building is breathing with us. I sway without thinking, the rhythm of holding her, steady and soothing.
And as I walk farther in, I realize why the air feels familiar. Every place I’ve lived has had one constant: a library with books. Books were the only things that never asked me to earn their company.
When I got my first period at eleven, it wasn’t my mother who helped me through it; it wasAnne of Green Gables,who taught me that even when life turns red and raw, there’s still something magical in the mess.
When I kissed a boy for the first time, too fast and too unsure, it wasn’t a sister who whispered advice; it wasElizabeth Bennet,reminding me that I was allowed to want things, but never to settle for being wanted less than I deserved.
When the foster family I adored told me they were moving out of state and I couldn’t go with them, it wasJane Eyrewho stayed. Her courage taught me that loneliness could be a kind of armor, and God,how I armored up.
And later, when I aged out of the system with more boxes than plans, I clung toJo March.She made me believe that even the girls who don’t fit the mold still find a way to build something worth belonging to.
Little Woman also drove me to want to join a sorority, to have sisters —no matter how messy— ones I knew I’d have for four years, a family of sorts.
I glance down at Savannah, sleeping against me now, her face soft and unguarded. That’s when it hits me—I need to start a list. A list of every book she’ll need, just in case. If Kyle ever gets visitation, she’ll have her own small escape tucked into her bag. A doorway out when the world feels too confusing to be comfortable, truly. Because a man like him, all ego and noise, will never make her the most important person in the room. Hell, he wouldn’t even make her the second. But books? Books will help her see she is not alone in those moments she feels.
What’s the alternative? Me dulling all this love I have for her so she doesn’t feel it? The thought makes me feel sick. I will not be less of the mother I am, and will always be, for him. I will fight with everything I am to make sure he doesn’t get the chance.
“You good?” Nalani asks.
“Yeah,” I smile and look around, knowing if my eyes meet hers, she’ll see it, and I don’t want that.Armor up.“This place is incredible.
“She did good,” Nalani says, looking around, and I follow suit.
The shop stretches deeper than it looks from the outside, narrow but long and cozy. Two velvet armchairs sit further back, beyond a wrought-iron staircase leading to a partially open second floor.
Sofie beelines for a sliding door marked “Powder Room” while I pause in front of the children’s section, drawn instinctively to the soft colors and tiny titles.
A woman in her sixties, reading a historical romance, glances up. “Can I help you?”
I straighten. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
Another woman calls from across the room, “We should talk NoNo into charging for the restroom. Might actually make a profit for once!”
“We’re here to see Noelle,” Nalani explains.
“Kind of guessed that when the mouthy blonde walked in,” the first woman mutters.
“I heard that,” Sofie calls from the powder room.
“I wasn’t hiding it,” the woman shoots back. “And my name’s not Karen?—”
The door slides open again, and Sofie steps out, drying her hands with a paper towel. “Then stopactinglike a Karen.”
“Ha!” the woman scoffs. “Oh, hush.”
“She upstairs?” Sofie asks.
“She’s feeling inspired today—don’t go ebbing her flow,” the woman warns.
