Merry Little Bookshop

Chapter 1

Shira

Nothing says Thanksgiving dinner like three steak tacos and a side of guacamole. To-go.

I know I should be thankful that anything in this tiny Texas town is open on Thanksgiving, but that’s a lot to ask of a girl who is alone in the world—or at least the state—on a holiday that’s defined by homestyle cooking and, well, home.

Not that I have a “home” in the sentimental meaning of the word.

My studio apartment back in Chicago is about as homey as a shoebox, and my parents sold the house I grew up in years ago, trading it—and each other—for newer models.

When I told them I wouldn’t be around for Thanksgiving this year, neither seemed to mind much.

To them, my absence probably feels like every other year when I do the kids-of-divorced-parents shuffle, trading off between families.

Except this year, I’m not with either of them because I didn’t have the balls to tell my boss no when he presented me with this “great opportunity” to get “on the ground experience” running one of the temporary pop-up shops we place in properties across the country.

So here I am, sitting in a hard plastic chair at a taqueria that smells like sizzling meat and fresh corn tortillas, my stomach growling as I wait.

The older woman who took my order has disappeared back into the kitchen, where she’s bickering in Spanish with a man I assume is her husband.

Even though I barely understand one in every ten words, I can tell their argument is playful and spirited.

It makes me yearn for the kind of home I never had but always wanted.

Before I can get too wistful about a childhood that wasn’t all that idyllic, my phone buzzes with another text in our group chat.

Maya, my best friend and college roommate, has been sending meme after meme to try and lift my spirits.

This one features a giant turkey, strutting her stuff, with the caption: You only want me for my breasts!

I laugh and shake my head, grateful for the long-distance support.

I should have taken Maya up on the offer to come along and help get everything set up since she had the week off from teaching third grade.

Turns out I greatly underestimated the amount of work it would take to turn a blank space into a bookshop—even a small one. And how lonely it would feel.

“lol. I like big breasts, and I cannot lie,” Naomi texts back. She’s in Vermont for the week, visiting her girlfriend Rachel’s family.

“Miss you bitches,” Talia texts. She’s in Miami with her parents and grandparents, but unlike me, she’ll be back home in Chicago by Sunday night. “Remind me not to eat for the next week.”

This is followed by a photo of the spread at her Thanksgiving dinner: turkey and stuffing, mashed potatoes, green beans, and at least six different types of dessert. My mouth waters just looking at it.

“Want to see my Thanksgiving dinner options?” I text, then send a photo of the taqueria: bright pink walls, fluttering paper flags hanging from the ceiling, and a hand-written chalkboard menu.

“On any other day that would look amazing,” Maya replies. “But today: Fuck Conor.”

“Fuck Conor,” Talia agrees.

“Fuck him to hell and back,” Naomi adds.

I sigh as I text back: “As long as he gives me the promotion when this is all over, I’ll be happy.”

“If he doesn’t, we swap his protein powder for a laxative!!!” Talia replies.

“YES! Perfect for the world’s shittiest boss,” Maya adds, followed by a string of crying-while-laughing and poop emojis.

“Or maybe something that wouldn’t come with a string of torts and possible criminal charges?” Naomi offers, showing off her law degree.

Smiling, I shake my head. These girls have been my “ride or die” since we met at Hillel freshman year at Indiana University, and they hate my boss as much, if not more, than I do.

It would have been flattering when Conor said I was “perfect for this job” if it had anything to do with my performance or my potential. But the truth is, I’d be going in for second helpings of my mom’s famous stuffing if my name were Molly Quinn or Christina Wallace.

But alas, my name is Shira Schwartz.

When Conor suggested I wouldn’t mind being away for the entire month of December since I don’t celebrate Christmas, I could have reminded him that I do celebrate Hanukkah—but that’s not the “can-do” attitude he wants to see for me to finally get the promotion he’s been dangling over my head for the last year and a half.

Plus, it goes against the philosophy that’s gotten me this far at work and in life—trying to focus attention on the things I have in common with whatever group I’m in and not on all the ways I’m different.

But I am different than the “bros” at work.

Which is why I’m here, waiting for take-out to bring back to the old textile mill that’s being turned into a month-long Christmas market.

When the doors open tomorrow for Black Friday, it’ll be filled with holiday cheer and a variety of shops, including “The Book Nook,” the pop-up bookshop my company is currently managing temporary locations of in thirteen different states.

Normally, my job involves conducting a cost-benefit analysis of the city where we’re considering a pop-up shop, including the demographics, competition, and available real estate. If all systems are a go, then we have a team of managers across the country who hire and train the temporary staff.

But this location, in a small town about fifty miles west of Dallas, wasn’t planned. It’s a last-minute favor for one of Conor’s business school bros, and since all our managers in the Texas-Oklahoma region were already assigned to other pop-ups, I got the “opportunity.”

Lucky me.

“Hey, Shir - You know what would make your month in Texas go by faster?” Talia texts.

“A time machine?” I reply, though I’m pretty sure I already know what she’s going to say.

“A holiday hookup!” she replies.

The other girls chime in with their agreement, sending GIFs of sexy Santas, sexy cowboys, sexy…reindeer?

“Yeah, because that’s soooo me,” I reply, laughing.

I’m not a forever flirt like Talia, who chases pleasure with a rotating list of men, and I don’t swipe the apps searching for a husband like Maya.

As with most things, I fall somewhere in the middle.

The girls think I’m shy and reserved, but really, I just like to have an emotional connection with a guy before I fully bare myself.

“So don’t be you.” Maya texts back. “It could be fun to channel someone else for a month.”

I’m searching for the perfect GIF to reply with—someone wearing those silly glasses with a fake nose and mustache—when the front door opens, jingling the bells above it.

“Jonny!” the woman behind the counter says. “What a sight for sore eyes.”

I look up to see for myself, and I couldn’t agree more.

The man is tall and sturdy, just like the kind of boys you’d imagine they breed in Texas.

He’s got his back to me, so I’m free to let my eyes linger, appreciating the way he fills out his dark blue jeans.

His brown leather work boots look worn, as if they’re used for actual work and not a fashion statement, unlike the guys in Chicago.

The red flannel shirt that covers his broad shoulders looks so soft that I want to rub my cheek against the fabric.

On impulse, I take a quick photo and send it to the group chat, with the message: Look what just walked in.

“Hey, Rosa.” His voice is low, with a hint of a Texas drawl. It sounds like graveled honey, and suddenly, I understand the appeal. “Mama sent me over with a plate for you and Miguel.”

My phone buzzes again, and both Rosa and the handsome cowboy turn to look at me.

My cheeks instantly go hot, and I put my phone face down, even though there’s no way he could know I just sent a photo of his ass to my friends across the country.

I watch as his blue eyes travel the length of me, taking me in the way I’d done moments before to him.

He looks to be about my age, maybe a little older.

Early thirties? His hair color is somewhere between dark blond and light brown, and it looks messy but styled, like he spent time on it but doesn’t want it to look like he did.

He’s got a five o’clock shadow hiding an almost boyish face—but the way he’s looking at me is anything but innocent.

This is the kind of man they write country songs about, the ones who are up to no good and fun to get into a little bit of trouble with.

Not that I would. Get in trouble. Despite what my friends want me to do, I’m here for work. To get in, get out, and make a good enough impression that I’ll get promoted and finally feel like my life is going somewhere.

Except now my phone is blowing up, and when I sneak a glance at it, I see why:

Talia: Gurrl, go for it. HAVE FUN.

Maya: Cosign. You don’t have to marry the guy.

Talia: But you can bang him!

Naomi: Ride that cowboy!

My cheeks grow even hotter as I look up. The cowboy flashes me an easy grin and says, “If I knew there’d be such a pretty customer here, I would’ve brought you a plate, too. Or at least a piece of pie. Are you an apple or a pumpkin lover?”

My mouth waters, and not just because I really could go for a slice of apple or pumpkin pie. Hell, I’d even settle for pecan.

“Flirt, flirt, flirt!” Talia chants in my head.

“Sorry,” I say, finding my voice. Rather, an impersonation of Talia’s voice. “But you’re going to have to work a little harder than that to find out what kind of lover I am.”

His eyes flicker with surprise and amusement, like he didn’t expect that response—but he likes it.

“Noted,” he says, his eyes dipping back down my body. My stomach flips. No wonder Talia’s always smiling; this is fun. Thrilling.

“You leave her alone,” Rosa says, coming back around the counter. “This sweet girl doesn’t need your kind of trouble.”

“Aw, come on, darlin',” he says to her. “You know I’ve only got eyes for you.”

“Shoo.” She has to reach up to slap his shoulder playfully. “You get out of here and tell your Mama we said thank you.”

“Happy Thanksgiving,” he says, bending to kiss her on the cheek. She shakes her head and goes back to the kitchen, but it’s clear from her smile that she loves both the attention and the troublemaker.

He turns to me, his eyes zeroing in on my face in a way that makes my spine straighten. “See you around,” he says, giving me a tip of his imaginary hat before adding, “I hope.”

The door opens, and he’s gone before I can muster the nerve to ask for his number or give him mine.

“Sarah?” a voice says.

I lean back in the chair and look back at my phone; there have to be at least thirty new messages.

“Sarah?”

I look up. Rosa is standing in front of me, holding out a paper bag with my food.

“Oh! Yes, sorry.” I forgot that I gave her my generic “Starbucks” name.

No one raises an eyebrow and asks a Sarah what kind of name that is or where she’s really from or what, if any, god she believes in.

And they don’t make lame jokes about “She-Ra, Princess of Power.

" Sarahs can fit in anywhere; they can belong no matter who or where they are.

“Thank you so much!” I say, smiling. “Really, I’m so glad you were open today, otherwise I may have starved!”

Taking the bag, I stand, surprised by how stiff my muscles are after a single day of manual labor. I walk outside just in time to see the cowboy pull away in his very big, very Texas truck.

For one split second, I consider an alternate universe where I walked out to find him waiting for me.

He’d tell me to “hop in, darlin,” then take me home to meet his family.

After a delicious homemade turkey dinner (tacos, be damned!), he would take me back to the market where he’d help me unpack all the boxes and organize books on the shelves I spent all day putting together—even though I didn’t have the “another adult human,” the instructions called for.

But this is real life, not one of the romance novels I’ll be selling to the ladies of Azalea, Texas. I sigh, then get into my rental car—an embarrassing bright green Nissan Cube—and head back to the store to finish getting ready.

Because tomorrow, the market opens, and I’ll be one step closer to Christmas morning when I’ll fly home to Chicago to spend the day with my girlfriends like we always do.

It’s my year to pick the movie we’ll be watching along with our traditional Jewish Christmas dinner of takeout Chinese food.

I’m planning a double header: The Wizard of Oz, because there really is no place like home, and Love, Actually, because it’s objectively the best Christmas movie ever.

Plus, it celebrates platonic love along with the romantic kind, which feels right.

My girlfriends are the loves of my life, my true family, the only people in the world I can be my real self around—and I can’t wait to get back to them.

It's going to be the longest December ever, but if I can make it through, I’ll be back where I belong.