Cassie’s not-so-gentle jab abruptly ends my mental ramblings—thank fudge—and I realize for the first time that I’m holding a manila folder labeledWithdrawals.
“They’re all yours.” I shove them at her, crossing my fingers that none of them is for a class on Adam’s wish list. “I have to get over to Vino and Veritas. My shift starts in half an hour.”
“What do you have, like ten jobs? How do you ever sleep?” She takes the folder and tosses it onto a desk behind her. I’d give the odds of her actually entering the withdrawals into the computer at somewhere between nada and nil.
“I have three jobs.” I grab my messenger bag from under the counter and sling it over one shoulder. If I leave now and move fast, I’ll have time to dump it at the dorm before heading over to the bookstore. “And this one ends in a few weeks when the add/drop period is over.”
Then I’ll only have to juggle homework, Vino and Veritas, and my RA duties. As if that wasn’t more than enough.
I console myself with the thought that at least my tuition is paid up thanks to my scholarship. And room and board courtesy of the RA thing. Work-study and the bookstore will keep me in ramen, grilled cheese, and Chef Boyardee for late-night cramming sessions, plus the occasional, increasingly rare, night out. And all the struggle and sacrifice will be worth it when I’m living my dream as a working actor in New York.
I ditch my bag at the dorm as planned, just manage to catch the shuttle, and make it to V and V with five minutes to spare. As always, the minute I walk through the door a feeling of zen descends over me like one of those merino wool blankets I love but can’t afford at Eastbound Trading: warm, soft, and comforting.
Maybe it’s the smooth jazz piped through the wall-mounted speakers. Or the buttery leather couches and dark, knotted wood. Or the smell, a tantalizing combination of old paper, good coffee, and the aforementioned leather. The scent is so popular we even sell candles that do their best to replicate it with names like Aged Paper, Book Nerd, and Reading On A Rainy Day. Whatever it is, it all adds up to one thing: this place is the closest thing I’ve got to home. Family.
I scan the store for my boss, Harrison. If we’re a family at V and V, he’s our patriarch, soft-spoken, kind, but firm, not afraid to call us on the carpet when we mess up.
I find him restocking his favorite section—the historical romances. The guy’s seriously into them. He even got me to read one. Something about a duke, a lady, and a baby. I won’t admit it to anyone—not even him—but it wasn’t half bad. Not that I’m rushing to pick up another one. I prefer my romances to have two dudes in them.
Before I got the gig at V and V, I had no clue queer romance books even existed. They sure as heck weren’t on the shelves at the public library in Randolph, Utah, population 498.
Here, Harrison and his mom are committed to providing a place where everyone, no matter their race, identity, or sexual orientation, is valued, respected, and empowered. We’ve even got a whole book club just for romance readers, and they read plenty of LGBTQ-friendly stuff.
I picked one up my first week at work, and it was like the clouds parted and the sun came shining through. Characters like me, living, laughing, loving. For the first time in my life, I felt seen. Accepted. Understood. I’m jonesing to read more, if I ever have time. As much as I love to read—hence my job in a bookstore—I don’t have a lot of downtime these days. And when I do, I usually pick up a play or libretto, trying to get a jump on next semester’s curriculum.
Harrison waves at me and motions for me to relieve Briar—another romance lover, he’s the one who started the book club—at the register. Briar mumbles his thanks and takes off, leaving me to deal with the two customers waiting to check out. I’m ringing up the second one when Harrison comes over, a sheepish look on his face.
“I, uh, have plans this evening, so I’m heading out. Tara should be here in about five minutes to cover the coffee bar. Think you can handle everything until then?”
I glance around the store. It’s a Tuesday evening. There’s only a handful of people browsing the shelves, and no one is lined up for coffee. Odds are we won’t be slammed this early in the week. For sure not in the next five minutes.
“Yeah. No problem.”
“Don’t forget to turn all the lights off when you close. And lock the office.”
“You got it.”
The door chimes, and Harrison’s head swivels toward it like its being pulled by an invisible thread. My gaze follows his, and it’s immediately obvious why my boss is on high alert. And why he’s leaving early for a change.
“Hey, Finn.” I call, straightening a display of scenic Vermont notecards next to the register. A local artist draws them for us. “How’s your mom doing? She need any more of those mysteries she loves so much?”
His mom has glaucoma, but she burns through audiobooks like firewood. Especially mysteries.
“She’s great, thanks for asking. And she’s got enough listening material to get her through at least the next couple of weeks. I’m just here for him.” He crosses to Harrison and loops an arm around his shoulders. “Are you ready to go?”
Harrison drops a kiss on his cheek, and my heart squeezes in my chest. It’s the kind of small, simple, yet intensely intimate gesture I never saw between my emotionally distant parents. “Just have to grab my jacket.”
He does, and the two of them disappear so fast they practically leave tread marks. Probably off to a romantic meal at one of Burlington’s farm-to-table restaurants. Or maybe dinner is a picnic while watching the sunset from the hill behind Finn’s cabin.
I watch them go, wistful. Finn and Harrison are total #relationshipgoals. On the surface, they seem like an odd pair. The burly, laid-back country farmer and the wiry, buttoned-up bookseller from the big city. But in practice, they really work together.
It gives me hope that I’ll find my guy someday. When I’m not in school and juggling three jobs and have time to actually look for him, that is. Maybe after I’ve graduated and moved to New York I’ll meet someone as lonely and broken as I am, waiting for someone to fill their empty spaces. Someone whose holes I can fill right back. And I’m talking emotionally, not sexually. Although like Marvin Gaye, I wouldn’t mind a little of that kind of healing too.
Naughty thoughts predictably lead my dirty mind back to Adam. The way his Moo U Bulls T-shirt clung to his torso. And those biceps, straining at his sleeves. Damn.
And that’s just the top half of his banging body. I could wax poetic on his tight ass and muscular thighs for days. I may not have time to go hunting for Mr. Right, and when I do he’s not going to be some arrogant jock, but I’d be totally okay with Puck Boy being my Mr. Right Now.
“Excuse me, where is your cookbook section? I’m looking for something with some traditional Vermont recipes. Preferably by a local author.”
