It was during Pride Month, and Mia—of course—had her hair dyed in a full, glorious rainbow. She walked into the store like a burst of sunlight, tattoos on display, glitter eyeliner catching the light, grinning ear to ear.
And within minutes, she was recounting how she’d been offered a threesome the night before.
My mom looked like she was about to faint on the spot.
"Ava," she hissed, eyes wide with shock, her pearls practically rattling, "how could you eventhinkof hiring someone like that?"
I couldn’t stop laughing. Still can’t, when I think about it.
I told her what I’d tell anyone: Mia is a phenomenal employee. Despite what people might assume from her bold appearance or her unfiltered mouth, she’s one of the kindest, most thoughtful people I know. She’s warm with customers, gentle with kids, andfiercely loyal. She’s honest, hardworking, and would take the shirt off her back if someone needed it more.
Which is more than I can say for some of the daughters of my mother's friends she insists to compare me to—the ones who obsess over the newest Hermès bag but wouldn’t notice the elderly woman across the street struggling to carry her groceries.
That woman? Mia’s helped her more times than I can count. So have the guys from the tattoo studio. No one asks them to. They just do it.
Because that’s who they are.
And I’m proud—so proud—to call them mine.
My phone buzzes against the counter.
Mother
I stare at the screen for a second, debating whether to answer. I already know this isn’t going to go the way I need it to. But something in me still hopes—foolishly—that maybe this time will be different. Maybe she’ll just askhow I’m feeling, or say she’ssorry this happened.
I swipe to answer.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Oh, Ava,” she says, voice tight. “I just heard what happened. The store—vandalized?”
The question is there, but it feels like punctuation. Not real concern. More like a formality before she gets to her point.
“I’m okay. Shaken, but okay.” I try to keep my voice steady, but I already feel it slipping. “Elijah’s been amazing. And Mia’s holding down the store, so—”
“Well, that’s just it,” she cuts in. “Don’t you think this is a sign?”
My heart drops.
“A sign of what?”
“That it’s time to let this little bookstore go,” she says, like she’s trying to sound gentle. Like she doesn’t know she’s drivinga knife between my ribs. “Find something stable. Safer. A normal job with benefits, maybe in an office. This whole thing—it’s dangerous, Ava. It’s not worth it.”
I blink, stunned into silence. Not even athat must’ve been terrifying, orI’m so sorry you’re going through this. Just straight toquit.
“Mom,” I say slowly, “the store is mylife. You know that.”
“It’s ashop, Ava. You sell books. And clearly, it’s attracting the wrong kind of attention. Maybe it’s time to grow up and move on.”
Grow up.
The words hit harder than they should.
I glance around Elijah’s apartment, trying to ground myself. Trying not to cry. Again.
She doesn’t understand. She never has. Not about the store, not about Mia, not about me.
I tighten my grip on the phone. “I have to go. Thanks for checking in.”
