Maybe it’s not a kiss, but it’s just as sweet. “Yes, building my bookstore sounds good.”
It’s a relief to be back in the open air of the video store. I givehim Maggie’s debit card for the wood, and we both breathe a sigh of relief when it goes through and the lumber is officially mine. As he moves around the room, I watch him, wondering if he feels the same constant pull toward me that I do toward him. He has to; I catch him glancing at me, then looking down and smiling. There’s something sweet and shy about him, something so different from the swagger of my only other boyfriend, back in Alabama.
“I feel so useless,” I say. “How can I help?”
“Maybe you could pack up all the movies and take down the posters? And if you want the walls a different color, we’ll need to clean and paint them before I start the build. Three gallons of interior latex eggshell should do it. I know that’s short notice for big design decisions, but I feel like you want this done fast.”
“Tidy up and buy paint,” I repeat. “Sounds like a fun afternoon.”
“Then I’m off to patch a hole in Marla’s wall. When I asked her how a cast-iron skillet ended up in the drywall, she told me she didn’t pay me to ask questions.”
“Well, just don’t give her a reason to throw a skillet at your head, and you should be fine.”
Hunter leaves, and then I’m alone in the store.
Mystore.
All I have to do is select a paint color.
And maybe that should intimidate me, but instead, I feel empowered. Hopeful. Excited. I have never had such freedom in my entire life, and I don’t have to ask for anyone’s opinion before I go buy paint. I know exactly what I want, and it feels amazing.
I fetch a couple of empty boxes from the hardware store andstart carefully packing up the movies by genre. Perhaps it didn’t seem like there were a lot of movies earlier, but now that I’m responsible for putting away every single box, there are way, way too many movies. As I pull them from their shelves, I get accustomed to their weight and pay attention to see if anything is perhaps a little too heavy—as heavy as a grimoire. None are.
It takes me two hours before I’ve got all the boxes and cardboard stand-ups stashed by the alley door and I’m dragging a chair around to carefully unhook thirty-year-old tape from the peeling walls. I roll up each poster and rubber band it, then put them all in a box. When I’ve got more time, I’ll learn how to use eBay and see if Hunter is right about the street value of elderly Terminators and middle-aged Ninja Turtles. Once that’s accomplished and I’m quite certain Hunter won’t be disappointed with me in the morning, I double-check that all the doors are locked and look at the stuffy little office with new eyes.
Maggie doesn’t want me in here. She doesn’t want anybody in here.
But why?
I go through the desk and the filing cabinets but don’t find anything resembling a grimoire. I feel around the walls, wondering if there’s a secret door, but there’s nothing. The ground is solid carpet, old and flat, a less-faded version of the eighties neon designs outside.
I take the dictionary out of my pocket.
“What is Maggie hiding in here?”
I flip through the pages, and my finger lands on one word:
Secret.
That is extremely unhelpful.
And yet…
There’s something here. I can feel it, like a TV left on in the background or the electric thrill of lightning in the air. It’s here, but I can’t find it.
And I don’t know what it is.
27.
It’s easy forme to select the right paint color for my bookstore. I want this place to be welcoming and full of sunlight, so I choose the brightest white they have, a perfect backdrop for whatever motif I eventually decide on. Once all the paint is mixed up—because white apparently includes tons of other colors, somehow—I do a full shop at Walmart for the first time since arriving in Arcadia Falls. I have a long list: cleaning products, home décor, food, and a ball of yarn and a crochet hook so I have something to do at Craft Night. Seeing the total for that full shopping cart makes me wince, but I’m basically starting from nothing, and Mr. Buckley will reimburse me for the parrot supplies. The curtains and curtain rods are a onetime thing, and life isn’t worth living without a coffee maker.
Back at the apartment, I carry up all my groceries and dump them on the kitchen counter. My heart sinks again when I remember the bird cage is empty. I want Maggie to be here, fussing at me, and failing that, regular Doris. For three years, I’ve come home to a perky pink-and-gray cockatoo who’s always happy tosee me no matter what. I’ve had someone to share a salad with at dinner, someone to snuggle with on the couch while I read. She especially liked medical dramas on TV for some reason and would whistle whenever a handsome doctor appeared on the screen. Yes, even for Hannibal. Doris was a weird bird, and maybe Maggie is weirder, but I want that parrot safe and back in my life. I put up the groceries, including the fruit and veg I got in case she returns. If I think about her too much, I’m going to start crying.
Now that I’m anxious and full of energy and eager to avoid staring at an empty cage, I decide it’s time to unload the Explorer. The big plastic tubs full of my life were easy to carry the ten feet from my old front door to my car, but lugging them up the stairs is a lot harder. I begin to wonder why people have things and if perhaps I should just upend everything into the dumpster and give the raccoons the coziest night of their lives. But no. It’s just time on task, so I put in earbuds and a thriller audiobook and keep hauling until the car is empty. I finish around dusk and fix myself a girl dinner of cheeses, pepperoni, crackers, and fruit. I’ve added my own Diet Coke to Maggie’s supply, and now the cans are intermingled. I don’t know if the one I drank with dinner was hers or mine.
“Idiot bird,” I mutter. I open the door and shout, “Hey, Grandma Cockatoo! If you’re out there, holler!” I’m met by silence. “If you’re in trouble, scream!” Still more silence. “Please come back! Let’s talk it out! I have bananas!”
“Youarebananas! Quit making all that noise!” someone shouts from somewhere nearby, and I sheepishly close the door.
