2. Izzy
Izzy
“Sure, I enjoy a big cock, but if my hand can’t fit around it, no thanks. That’d destroy me. Call me picky…”
Zoe grimaces, setting down the newest orc romance to come into the shop. She holds her hands up, as if gripping the imagined girth.
Just that word makes me shiver.
Girth.
Not worse than moist, but it’s a close second.
I chuckle behind the counter, answering emails on my laptop. “You’d need reconstructive surgery afterward.” I’ve spent an hour this morning sorting out the bubblegum-pink shelves and restocking them in preparation for today.
“Adds a whole new meaning to aftercare.” Zoe grips the scissors, sticking out her tongue to focus as she carefully follows the outline of a stack of ghosts for next month’s window display. She snickers, sets the scissors down, then takes a swig of her latest iced matcha flavor obsession—pistachio.
I drum my fingernails on the counter, turn on music, and try for some semblance of focus to the million thoughts swirling in my head. But honestly, my brain feels a lot like the morning light bouncing off the disco balls around the shop.
Today is going to be a big day, the first Fall Fest in Merritt Point for my romance bookshop, Salty Romantic.
I have my eyes on expanding and leasing the space next door, but I need another solid month of revenue before I can take that leap.
Given the popularity of Main Street, I just hope I can make the jump before it’s too late.
There’s probably a whole line of small businesses vying for the spot after the Merritt Point Herald ran a piece on Mr. Piersanti’s plans to diversify his real estate holdings two weeks ago.
“You think we’ll be busy today?” Zoe asks. “Or just a lot of people with sticks up their asses once they realize we only sell romance and stock Plan B in the bathroom?”
We haven’t been open quite a year yet, and the only thing I have to go off of is that this business used to be me selling romance books from a van, and now I have a brick-and-mortar storefront.
Not the creepy van you’re warned about as a kid that claims to have candy, or the van down by the river, but a cute pink van I retrofitted into a mobile bookstore.
“It’ll be fine. Everything always works out for me.”
Manifestation, right? It’s important to keep positive.
Zoe throws her head back and groans. “I thought we agreed to a moratorium on girl boss podcasts.”
“It’s a good thing I love you.”
“You say that like—”
We’re interrupted by three women banging against the large bay window from outside on the sidewalk. My friend Maisie lifts her sweater and flashes us her hot-pink bra.
“Man, she has great tits.” Zoe sighs, brushing back her frizzy copper curls.
Last week, we got drunk after doing inventory and played hairdresser.
Not sure her wolf cut is exactly Brad Mondo-approved, but an attempt was made.
We tried to bleach her black hair, and it turned burnt orange, and instead of trying to tone it, she decided to rock it for now.
She’s braver than me and ten times cooler, so naturally, she pulls it off well.
“Yours are great.” I grab the keys from beneath the counter. “I’m sure Wren doesn’t even care that the left is bigger than the right.”
“Hey!”
I duck the book she chucks in my direction while winding my way around the new blind-date-with-a-book display to let my friends in.
They each hug me and Zoe as they argue over whether the new barista at the coffee shop was hitting on Kate.
A silly argument when more than likely the new barista was definitely hitting on her. She has more charisma in her pinky finger than I do after too many margaritas.
“It’s early, girls. Didn’t think I’d see you yet after last night’s karaoke adventure.”
“We’re staging an intervention. You’re coming with us.”
“A what?” I glance between my friends Kate, Maisie, and Sophie. “I can’t leave right now. I have to open the store.”
“I heard something interesting the other day,” Kate says, rushing into my office and grabbing my sweater off the hook beside the door.
She drapes it over my shoulders, even as I try to shrug it off, annoyed. “Heard what?”
Kate pretends to gasp, then fusses with my bangs. I try wrestling away, but she shakes her head, her blunt blonde bob meticulous as ever.
“Jack Murphy is one of the bachelors in the charity auction today.”
I swat her hands away, tossing off my sweater. “Who?”
“Don’t play dumb, Izzy.”
I know who Jack Murphy is, but the more relevant question is, why do I care?
Merritt Point has two claims to fame: both successful hockey players—Jimmy Arden and Jack.
Well, if the rumors are true, the old Hollywood actress who’s hiding away in her mansion on the east side of town as well.
But no one’s seen Jacqueline Truesdale for years.
The point is, I’m happily single. My vibrator doesn’t have commitment issues, and I know exactly what to expect from our relationship.
Details about the bachelor auction aren’t a secret. I knew it was today. I’m just not interested.
“Thanks, but no thanks. I need to stay here. I have a meeting with the landlord tomorrow about leasing the space next door, and I want to go over my numbers one more time.”
“We all know those numbers are solid.” Maisie throws her hands on her hips. I’m short, but she’s barely over five feet. “So, too bad. You’re going. Zoe agreed to cover you for a bit.”
I whirl around. “Traitor!”
Sophie swoops behind the counter and picks up the sweater draped across my chair. “Come on, we’ll be late.”
I shrug it on, annoyed. “You can tell me about it after—”
“Work,” they all chorus together.
“Yes, well, I do own the place.”
Kate sticks out her tongue. “All you do is work.” When I cross my arms, her green eyes soften. “You can get a coffee first. Enjoy a walk and let the sun hit your face for a bit. Do you remember this place called outside? You’ll feel better.”
I feel fine. I do.
Kate examines her ballet-slipper pink manicure, pretending as though she suddenly doesn’t care if I go or stay. “Aren’t you a little bit curious about what he’s like?”
“No.” The phone rings, and I dive for it, but Zoe picks it up and gives me a subtle “fuck you” wave goodbye.
Sophie bumps my shoulder, her Burberry perfume overwhelming. “Izzy, live a little.”
I huff, tugging the bottom of my sweater over my floral sundress. “I live plenty.”
I’ve been dragging air through my lungs for twenty-eight years now.
That counts, right? I’m finally getting ahead.
If it means life finally feels steady for once, I’ll spend my days at the bookstore and my nights with a good vibrator.
Sounds like a fair trade-off after years of that not being the case.
“I heard he’s cute.”
“I heard he’s slept with every woman in Boston,” I counter.
“Practice makes perfect,” Sophie chimes in, playfully pushing me toward the door.
“I thought you didn’t know who he was?” Maisie teases.
“I need new friends.” This, of course, is a lie. I adore my friends. I don’t know where I’d be without them, and they all know this.
“Your baby will be fine for an hour. She’s in good hands with Zoe.
” Maisie steers me out into the September sun.
I tilt my face up, pushing aside the panic spiraling inside of me at everything I’ve left unfinished this morning.
There’s a never-ending to-do list always eating up my brain space.
But for one blissful second, it’s just warm sun kissing my skin.
“Maybe you’ll even win,” Kate whispers with a cheeky wink. She spins into the crowded Main Street, which is closed off to traffic today for the festival.
“We can’t all have your legal record,” I joke.
Kate only shrugs. Last year, the Boston Business Journal named her in their “40 Under 40” list, making her the official overachiever of the group.
The air smells like sausage and cotton candy and cinnamon, a weird mix of fall in New England. It’s too early for the leaves to be changing, but if you look carefully, a few have spots of color.
The fire that took Merritt’s Catch Lobster Co.
last month left a gap you can’t ignore. From here, the harbor is suddenly visible beyond the fire-charred pit in the ground where the seafood shack used to stand.
On either side of it, a patchwork of scaffolding shrouds the neighboring businesses, repairs pressed for time before the dreaded winter swoops in.
That’s why there’s a charity auction at Fall Fest today. Annie Murphy, the owners’ daughter, decided her famous brother could be used as collateral to help fund the rebuilding.
The girls are arguing over when to buy a candy apple as they drag me through the crowd until we’re standing on the grassy common with the white wooden gazebo in the middle.
Surrounding the green is Merritt Point’s town hall and church, then the small brick library where Maisie is a children’s librarian.
It’s quaint in a Norman Rockwell way. Probably why the tourists flock here in the summer.
They all want to experience the New England aesthetic flooding social media.
The irony isn’t lost on me that because it’s become an experience, the small-town feel is eroding under the influx of tourists.
Condo projects and boutiques and trendy restaurants are geared more and more toward a demographic that expects the luxuries they’d find closer to Boston and less like the small town they fell in love with.
Merritt Point isn’t far from the city anyhow, only forty minutes north, tucked along the rugged Massachusetts coastline.
The crowd waiting is seriously impressive. I’m on my phone, texting Zoe, who’s assuring me the store is fine. I know it’s fine. I do. But I like to be in control. Call it eldest daughter issues.
“How much are you going to bid, Izzy?” Maisie turns to me, quirking her brow, before breaking out into giggles.
I only glare at her.
“Geez, I’m just kidding.”
“You need to get laid.” Kate wags her finger at me. “Who better to do the job than Jack Murphy?”