Chapter Twenty-Seven #2
I liked that he listened to me that closely. “It just feels like so much,” I said, and he knew I was talking about money.
“You don’t have to tell me, but how much do you have?”
Although we talked openly about our finances and each had a general idea of what the other could afford on a day-to-day basis, we’d never flat-out stated the specific contents of our bank accounts. Revealing the exact number would feel like standing naked before him.
I hesitated—and then told him exactly how much I had.
I was grateful that the darkening sky hid the warmth rising in my cheeks. I was proud of the amount I’d been able to save, but the number still made me feel small in the world. And being so forthright meant admitting that I was putting everything I had on the line for this.
Macon looked quietly surprised in a way that felt rewarding.
Like maybe he hadn’t expected the number to be as substantial as it was, since he knew it hadn’t been that long since I’d paid off my student loans.
He set down his fork with a solemn nod, an acknowledgment of the trust I had placed in him, and sat with the number.
But when he finally spoke, it wasn’t about money.
“Take me with you the next time you view those properties. I’d like to see them. ”
The entire garden lit with electric-yellow fireflies.
“Okay,” I said, as if it wasn’t what I had wanted this whole time. I hadn’t asked because I’d already asked so much of him this year, and I was aware of how much he had already given me. I hadn’t wanted to impose on him with yet another request.
He joined me the following night after work, even though it was another late shift.
As always, I was running out of time and had none to waste.
He drove us to the neighborhood location first. Although the strip mall exterior was uninspired, the other stores and the parking lot were all decent, and the visuals could be improved with the sort of over-the-top, eye-catching window displays that Mika was so talented at creating.
I was describing a scenario she’d pitched that involved colorful paper lanterns when the property manager arrived.
He was wearing his best mask of enthusiasm, but the mask was cracking, and it was obvious he felt hassled to be meeting with me again.
He perked up in earnest when he noticed I’d brought Macon, as if a man might convince me to hurry up and make a decision already.
He unlocked the door and began delivering his usual boastful spiel directly to Macon.
Unfortunately for him, Macon could read people quickly and had zero patience for blowhards. He strode inside and didn’t acknowledge the man again.
I showed Macon the building, where everything might go. He didn’t say much, but he asked insightful questions. Nothing needed to be repaired or brought up to code. Overall, it was in great shape. At one point, though, he looked down and frowned.
“It’s brand new,” the property manager said right behind us.
But I understood that Macon wasn’t judging the state of the carpet, just the fact that there was carpeting at all.
Whenever I imagined a perfect bookstore, it had wooden floors that creaked with age.
It was historied and higgledy-piggledy, not modern and ready-made.
I didn’t need to say any of this out loud.
I knew him well enough to know that this was what he had been imagining, too.
We drove to the downtown property. There were a few employee parking spots behind the building, but there wasn’t a customer lot.
This was a negative but not a dealbreaker, because it wasn’t usually difficult to find street parking.
And unlike the other location, this one had curb appeal.
The facade had two huge windows on either side of the door, elaborate scrollwork, and decorative molding.
It looked beguiling… but also shabby and beaten up.
The interior needed a lot of work, too. The second property manager was already there when we arrived, a woman who politely waited out of the way while I walked Macon around.
Everything was coated in a thick layer of dirt and grime, a contractor would have to fix the lighting and the restroom, and the whole place smelled potently of its former life as a store that sold fragrances, soaps, and lotions.
The other property was spacious, and this one was cramped.
But it was also easy for me to imagine where everything would go, to imagine moving between the shelves and displays, to imagine arriving to work there every day.
I could almost hear the steady heartbeat of the grandfather clock inside the Tick-Tock Bookshop.
Macon leaned his weight forward, and the hardwood creaked beneath his shoe. He looked at me and smiled.
“It needs a ton of work,” I said. “And everything would be crowded.”
“But there’s something charming about a crowded bookstore, isn’t there?”
“There is,” I agreed.
“And it has good bones.”
“It does.”
“And it would be nicer to deal with her than the other property manager.”
“It would be.” I sighed. “But the rent.”
“But the rent,” he agreed.
We were standing near the front windows.
I turned to ask the woman a question when my eyes caught on the view outside.
The other shops and restaurants and businesses were shining with warmth and life.
Crowds of people were strolling around and laughing.
A busker down the street was playing a cello.
I stared at the scene for a minute or two, a lump of longing in my throat.
I had never seen the location at night before.
I tried to remember the view from the other property, but I could only picture its asphalt parking lot.
“You have enough,” Macon whispered. He was still beside me.
“Barely,” I whispered back.
I was close, but I was still hesitant. Afraid to make such a monumental decision.
“You light up in here,” he said. “You dim in that other space.”
I signed the woman’s paperwork and wrote her a check.