“I’m telling you, Maria,” Lily says, turning back to my stepmother, “this thing is sentient. I tried to ring a practice sale and it bit me. Literally. The drawer has teeth.”
Maria laughs. She’s standing behind the main counter, her hands deep in a box of stationery.
“Thanks for coming, Harley,” Maria says, coming around the counter to give me a quick, fierce hug. “Especially after working all day.”
“Mrs. Delgado is staying in her apartment,” I say.
Dad lets out a low whistle of approval. “That’s my girl. Using that stubborn streak for something useful.”
I move toward the center of the store, where three large, mahogany-stained tables are waiting to be dressed. Then, I start pulling books from a crate marked “Staff Favorites”.
“What do we need?” I ask, already envisioning a display.
“Artistic flair,” Lily says, finally abandoning the killer cash register and joining me. She leans her hip against the table, watching me work. “Maria wants ‘Intellectual Chic.’ I’m pushing for ‘Books You Can Read While Crying in a Bathtub.’ I feel like there’s a middle ground somewhere.”
I pick up a copy of “The Great Gatsby” and place it in the center of other books about lost souls, bright lights, and the cost of the American dream.
“Let’s go with ‘The Price of Perfect,’” I murmur.
Lily watches me arrange the titles. She doesn’t say anything for a long minute, which for Lily is a lifetime. “You okay, Harl? No shivers? No urge to break down and call the prince of Lake Forest?”
I pause, a stack of paperbacks in my hands. I wait for the feeling—the pang of longing, the hollow ache, the reflexive need to defend him—but there’s…
Nothing.
“I didn’t even bring my phone in from the car,” I say. It’s a lie, but only a small one. It’s in my bag, silent. “And if I did, the only person I’d be waiting to hear from is the plumber for my new place.”
Lily grins and bumps her shoulder against mine. “That’s my sister. Cold as ice and twice as pretty.”
“I’m not cold, Lil,” I say, leaning over to adjust a display of poetry books. “I’m awake.”
We work for half an hour. Dad finishes the shelving, the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of his hammer providing a heartbeat. I swear, he’s doing it on purpose. Meanwhile, Maria organizes the children’s corner, arranging beanbags that are definitely not color-coordinated with the family crest. Lily and I tackle the window display, hanging old, yellowed book pages from twine so they look like they’re flying.
The bell jingles again.
It’s not a contractor or a neighbor, but a couple. They look like they’re in their late twenties.
I’m kneeling by a lower shelf, tucking a copy of “The Secret Garden” into its slot, when I pause. I’m not eavesdropping exactly, but I’m observing—it’s a professional habit, the social worker in me. Knowledge is power.
The woman is wearing a pair of jeans that have seen better years and an oversized cardigan that could be from a boyfriend’s closet. Her hair is bunched into a messy knot at the top of her head, held together by a pencil.
“Oh, look at this one,” she says, her voice low and filled with genuine, quiet excitement. She pulls a thick volume from the ‘History’ section.
The man with her doesn’t sigh. Doesn’t check his Patek Philippe. Nor does he glance around to see if anyone is judging her for her scuffed shoes or her lack of a blow-dry. Instead, he steps closer, his hand naturally finding the small of her back.
“You already have three books in your hand,” he says, but there’s a grin in his voice.
“I have four hands,” she counters, laughing.
“Make it four then,” he says. “I’ve got you.”
I watch them move through the aisles. She picks up a book, smells the spine, and makes a face. He laughs and tells her she’s a nerd. She agrees.
It’s so simple. It’s so devastatingly, beautifully simple.
I feel a strange, cool sensation in my chest, but it isn’t grief. It’s the sound of the final door clicking shut.
Going to stand, my knees creak. Across the room, Lily leans against the vintage register, her eyes flicking between watching me and the couple. She has that protective, sharp look in her eye—the one she gets right before she asks if I’m about to have a breakdown.
