Sam looks at Amanda. Amanda looks at Lexi. Lexi looks at Sam.
‘Enjoy the latte,’ she tells him. ‘I’m glad you’re doing better.’
She can’t help but feel strangely victorious as she leaves.
Chapter Forty-Seven
The last thing Lexi has time for is more piano lessons, but she misses them. Her whole life right now is about the bookshop and Sam and how Sam affects the bookshop. She needs something else in her life. Something unrelated to Sam.
Not that the piano is entirely that. Her head swivels every time she hears a piano note, when she thinks he might be nearby. But she needs an outlet. Somethingfun. Something she can’t monetise. And if it means she gets to think wistful thoughts about Sam while she’s doing it, well... she’d call that a partial win.
She pushes open to the door to Music on the Hill and calls out cheerfully, ‘Hello?’
At the counter, the same man as before greets her back. Greg, says his name badge. She didn’t notice it last time. ‘Hi. How are the piano lessons going?’
Honestly, she’s surprised he remembers. She’s only been there once before, and that was a couple of months ago. But Lexi always somehow forgets that she’s something of a local celebrity: people remember she’s the bookshop lady, and so they’re always waving at her across the street like in some kind of Disney film even when she has no idea who they are. That, and there’s her British accent, of course.
‘They were going well, I think. But I need to find somewhere to practise. And I need a new teacher. That’s actually what I’ve come here to ask for your advice about.’
He raises an eyebrow. Lexi wonders, not for the first time in her life, if she is the only one who can’t do that. If there’s a school she can go to so that she can learn. But maybe she’ll stick with the piano. Jane Austen’s heroines got by fine without the eyebrow thing.
‘Did things not work out with Sam?’
Lexi takes a beat. ‘We’ll call it creative differences.’
‘I see.’ He peers into her face, trying to read something there, though she can’t figure out what that would be. ‘I thought I’d seen you both around town together. You’re not... friends?’
His little pause triggers a weird physical reaction in Lexi. Her stomach roils. If a random music shop man knows they are... friends, then who else does? This is Capitol Hill, where news travels fast. If he told his wife and she told her book club and they happened to mention it to one friend each and one of those knows someone who writes for one of the DC gossip sites... Honestly, she’s lucky it hasn’t been on the front page of theHill Ragyet.
Also, how to answer this question? Are they friends, even without the ominous pause?
‘It’s complicated,’ she tells him. Her mind is racing. She’s trying to remember if they’ve kissed on the street. They’ve definitely held hands, and at the time, she didn’t care. If anything, she wanted to flaunt it. She should have been more careful. What if her customers start to think their loyalty doesn’t matter, because they’ll be pooling resources soon anyway?
Worse: do her booksellers know?
She hopes not: imagine the betrayal. Sam and his shop are an existential threat to them, and she’s cavorting with him? In theory, and often in practice, indie bookstore owners are all friends with each other. But, also, indie bookshops are usually respectful about not treading on each other’s ground. There’s a reason whyYou’ve Got Mailisn’t about two lovely indies. They stand together against the behemoths, and one of the ways in which they stand together is by standing a suitable distance apart.
Second-hand bookshops are different; shops like Lexi’s can partner with them, send over customers who ask for older or out-of-print books that are difficult for them to get. But a shop increasingly doing the same as Pemberley Books? Lexi isn’t sure that her sofas and cosy vibes are enough to differentiate them. They’ll lean in to the Jane Austen thing; they’ll lean in to the romance and continue doing it better and more thoroughly than Sam, because their enthusiasm and their knowledge aren’t cynical business decisions: they’re heartfelt and genuine. Pemberley Books will always be the bookshop of choice for the Instagrammers, the people who prefer a certain kind of aesthetic.
But long term? Lexi isn’t sure she’s got the stomach for constant, cut-throat competition. The only adrenaline rush she got into this job for was the joy of finding someone just the right book, and the jolt of pleasure when someone tells her they love what she’s done with the shop. She’s not in it to win it; she’s in it for a happy shop, happy customers, happy staff. And she has to admit that lately she’s been anythingbuthappy. She doesn’t want to live like that, and she resents Sam for making it this way. She’s not afraid of hard work, but there’s a difference between hard and thankless.
The music man is studying her face. ‘Complicated, huh?’
Lexi visualises the word snaking its way through the networks of the Hill. Who knows what conclusion the fifth person down the chain will draw? And does it matter anyway?
She nods, and he slides over a piece of paper.
‘Here’s a list of teachers I recommend.’ He circles a couple with his green-inked pen.
‘Thank you,’ Lexi says, and turns for the door.
‘I’d recommend sticking with Sam, though.’
Because Lexi is the bookshop lady, she has to be unfailingly polite. So she turns and says, ‘Thank you. I’ll bear that in mind.’
But, really, she wants to slam the door and scream.
Chapter Forty-Eight
