“Um, thanks,” he says, glancing down at himself. He finally shaved, and he’s wearing pants and a pair of shoes that cover his toes. “Ready to sell as many books as possible?”
Across the room, the long, rectangular display tables have been moved to make space for rows of folding chairs.
“You know I am. Might be the first and last time we have more than a hundred people in here at once,” says Riley. “Speaking of people, Zara Aboah will be here tonight. She drove in from Detroit to hear JMB, of course, but she’d also like to say hi. Can I grab you for a minute before he speaks?”
“Mmmm,” Miguel says. From another person, this noise might imply a willingness to be persuaded. From him, it meansabsolutely not.
Riley, dog bless her, won’t be turned away so easily.
“Zara was a friend of Amelia’s. Remember, Amelia helped her find a literary agent? So, she’d like to say hello and talk about maybe doing a launch event for her debut novel here.”
“Maybe some other time—I need to give JMB my full attention. You can introduce her to Brenna.” Brenna does the store’s events and bookkeeping.
“Miguel.” Funny how a name can mean different thingsdepending on how you say it. Right now Riley’s commanding him to listen. “Amelia really liked Zara.”
His face twists up all strange, so I scooch closer to him and lean against his calf. “Sorry, Riley. Maybe next time.”
She eyes him, then sighs quietly. “Not a problem. I’ll take care of it.”
“Sorry,” he says again. “I’m going to test the mic and see if Jonathan’s here yet.”
She looks down at me. “Come on, Harold. Let’s go get a few more of JMB’s books to put out.”
I trot behind her to the stockroom. I peed in here once. Miguel said I wasn’t going to be allowed in the store anymore. No one believed him—he loved Amelia too much to deny her anything, even her excitable mutt—but I never did it again. Amelia used one of those natural cleaners on my mess. Even all these years later, I still catch the occasional whiff of my youthful indiscretion.
Riley uses a knife to carefully cut the seam of a box of books. “What are we going to do, boy? It’s been well over a year, and he still seems so depressed. I mean, believe me—Iget that grief takes time. But I really think he should see a therapist.”
Over a year was a very, very long time ago to me. Though sometimes not. Every now and then, I wake and immediately put my paws on Amelia’s side of the bed—let’s go, let’s go, let’sgo!
And then I realize she isn’t there; she never will be again.
That’s when I understand Miguel most of all—why he still reaches for her before his eyes open in the morning, the way his whole body seems to collapse into itself after he callsacross the house for her, only for reality to come crashing down on him all over again.
I respond by lying at Riley’s feet. If I’m honest, I have no idea what we’re going to do, since I seem to be unable to find so much as a single person for him to date, let alone share his life with. I’m counting on JMB to reinvigorate Miguel, or at least remind him that it’s important to connect with people you won’t find on a page. I’m a first-rate companion if I do say so myself. But humans need humans; even I know that.
We leave the stockroom to set even more of JMB’s books on the tables in front of the window. Brenna has placed a big poster with a picture of Jonathan beside the display tables, and another one outside the store. He’s wearing a jacket and wire-rimmed glasses and seems very serious. Miguel claims he’s a literary genius, but I’m not so sure about that. What kind of genius writes stories about people falling out of love instead of intoit?
The crowd outside the building is even larger now. Some people are clutching hardcovers under their arms; others are flipping through their copies. A few are peering in the window to see if they can catch a glimpse of the famous JMB.
Dane, who’s come in through the employee entrance, joins us at the front of the store. His hair’s sticking up even more than usual, and I’m pretty sure he was wearing the same T-shirt and shorts when I last saw him. He directs a big grin at Riley. He’s as wild about her as I am, except he wants to mate with her. He gestures toward the street and whistles. “That’s a mob! We’re going to bring in some serious moola tonight.”
Riley grins back at him. “From your lips to the cash register’s drawer.” She turns to Miguel. “Should we start lettingpeople in? It’s almost six-thirty, and we want to give them time to get settled.”
“Not yet.” He glances at his watch with a troubled expression. “Jonathan should be here by now.”
Dane shrugs. “Train’s probably delayed. The one from Chicago’s never on time.”
“Maybe, but I told him to take the earlier one just in case.”
“You talked to JMB? Sweet,” says Dane.
“Not technically—I told his assistant that. He’s famously reclusive, which I can understand.”
“Maybe a little too well, huh, chief?”
Miguel arches an eyebrow in warning.
“Eyes on the prize, big guy,” Dane tells him. He looks down at me. “Wanna go find that author, Harold? Don’t worry,” he assures Miguel. “I’ll be careful with him.”
