18. Francesca
18
FRANCESCA
I’m vibrating with anticipation, like some kind of windup toy that’s been turned too many times. It’s ridiculous, really. The way I’ve been glancing at the clock every ten minutes, just like every other Tuesday recently. The way my heart kicks up whenever the bell chimes above the door, hoping it will be him. The way I’m already planning how this Tuesday is going to go.
Because tonight, I’m getting Graham Carter’s number. It feels silly really, but I’m tired of only seeing him once a week. I want more. More time, more conversation, more of his quiet intensity focused solely on me. I’ve been daydreaming about it.
It’s been six weeks. Six weeks of coffee walks, of smirks and near-smiles, of subtle touches that linger just a little too long. Six weeks of getting to know him and still feeling like he’s just out of reach.
Not after tonight. I refuse to let another seven days pass without talking to him in between.
I smile to myself as I slide a book across the counter to a woman who kind of reminds me of Aunt Miriam. We spent twenty minutes narrowing down her book selection until she settled on a new thriller.
These kinds of moments are my favorites. I wouldn’t say it’s the whole reason I wanted to open a bookstore, but it’s definitely a big part of it. I think I could talk about books every day for the rest of my life and never get tired of it.
I tuck the receipt into the dust jacket. “Thanks for stopping in today. You’ll have to let me know if you enjoyed it. And if you solved it before the end like the last one.”
The customer laughs as she grabs her book. “I will, dear. See you next week.”
As the customer leaves, I glance at the clock again. Only a half an hour left before he’s here.
I busy myself straightening a stack of free bookmarks on the counter, trying to calm the nervous energy buzzing through me. There’s also a healthy dose of anxiety writhing around behind my ribs.
What if he doesn’t show up today? Or worse, what if he does, but he pretends like he didn’t just give me the best kiss of my life? Or what if he doesn’t want to talk to me outside of Tuesdays?
What are Graham and I even doing?
It doesn’t feel like dating exactly, but it’s definitely more than acquaintances. Something between friendship and dating, I guess.
The bell chimes. I glance up, my stomach flipping automatically, but I already know it’s too early for him. It’s only four o’clock.
“Welcome to Fiction and Folklore!” I call out, turning toward the door with a smile.
“God, Frankie. I can’t believe you’re actually working here.” The familiar tone makes my stomach drop.
I close my eyes for half a second, bracing myself, before turning around.
My twin sister Florence stands in the middle of my bookstore, one manicured hand perched on her hip, sunglasses pushed up into her sleek blonde blowout. She’s wearing a black designer jumpsuit, red-soled stilettos, and an expression of arrogant disbelief. It’s our mother’s smile, which she inherited from her mother. I pray that it skips the next generation.
“Florence? What a surprise.” I do my best to inject some pep into my voice despite the dread pooling in my stomach.
She scoffs, looking around the store with a critical eye. “Honestly, I’m surprised too. I thought for sure you’d have given up on this little adventure of yours by now.”
I swallow back my irritation and force a neutral expression onto my face. The thing is, I know my sister’s a good person. That good part of her just happens to be buried under too many layers of our mother’s and grandmother’s expectations.
“You know, I kind of thought you might come for the grand opening, considering last time we talked, you were so supportive. Did your European vacation last this whole time?”
Okay, so I’m not proud of the way I slid into that snark. Or how quickly it happened. I exhale slowly, doing my best to calm the panic swelling inside of me like it’s high tide. I feel terrible for thinking it, but if Graham walks in and Florence is still here, my two worlds are going to collide in a way that’s life-altering. Like a comet collides with a planet.
It’ll be the end of . . . whatever Graham and I are doing.
She waves a dismissive hand. “Oh, Frankie, you know how it is. One yacht party leads to another, and before you know it, months have passed.” She steps further into the store, her heels clicking against the hardwood floors. “But I’m here now, aren’t I? Better late than never.”
“Right. And what brings you here now?” The back of my neck prickles.
She ignores my question, her gaze sweeping over the bookshop with a critical eye. “Quaint,” she remarks, her tone dripping with condescension. “The way you talked about it, I expected something bigger.”
I bristle at her words, my fingers tightening around the edge of the counter. “I think it’s perfect. And so did Aunt Miriam.”
She hums, unconvinced. “Didn’t Aunt Miriam lose like all her money in this building?”
I shake my head. “What? No. Where did you hear that?”
She lifts her shoulder in a faux shrug. “I’m just saying, how long do you really think you can do this?”
I inhale through my nose. “I’ve got a year.” It’s a reminder for her as much as it is for me.
Déjà vu creeps over me like a vine, stretching wide to cover my entire body. We’ve been here before, her and I. It never ends particularly well for either one of us, and yet, here we are. In the same dance.
“I love you, Frankie. But I think you need to be realistic about your future.” She shakes her head, glancing around the store. “And I just don’t see it here, in this little bookstore in the middle of nowhere.”
“Jesus, Flora, don’t hold back.”
She lifts a single brow, spearing me with a droll look. “Just because you don’t like what I have to say doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”
I bite the inside of my cheek at the same time Romeo presses against the back of my legs. “ None of that is true. What’s going on?” She’s always been vocal about things, but usually she gives me a little more grace.
She sighs, like everything is such a put out. “ What’s going on is your future is with Giovanni, back home in Winthrop Harbor. Not whatever this is.” Her nose scrunches like she’s smelling something mildly offensive, but then she schools her features into a placid smile as she looks at me.
I stare at her, blinking a couple times. It’s all I can do. “I don’t even know what to say to that.”
She saunters over to the counter. “It’s time to stop playing make-believe, Frankie. This little bookshop is great and all, but it’s not real life. It’s a distraction. An escape.” She leans in, her voice dropping to a murmur. “Mom showed me your books from the first month. You’re not going to earn out in time. I’m sorry.”
My chest feels hot, like that one time I fell asleep with a heating pad on. My sinuses tingle, signaling imminent tears, and I have to blink several times to clear the moisture gathering in my eyes.
“She told you that, or you actually saw the numbers?” My gaze flies between her eyes, searching for the little girl who used to hold my hand during thunderstorms at night. Desperately looking for a scrap of humanity from the one person who’s supposed to stand by me forever.
She clears her throat and looks away, breaking our connection. “She sent them to me, and I thought I’d come for a visit. Try to get you to see reason. Before it’s too late.”
The breath leaves my lungs in one sharp exhale. She’s seen my numbers. Which means Mom has seen them too. Which means they’re already looking for ways to make sure I fail.
I clear my throat and roll my shoulders back. “Well, I appreciate your concern, but it’s misplaced. The bookstore— my bookstore—is doing just fine. My projections are right in line with where I need to be.”
My heart races as Florence’s words sink in, anxiety spiking through my veins. I know the numbers she’s talking about, the impossible profit margin my parents set when they agreed to let me open the bookstore. I still don’t even understand how they were able to weasel their way into my inheritance from Aunt Miriam.
It’s a nearly unreachable sales goal to hit in my first year, a number so high it might as well be in the stratosphere.
But I refuse to let their doubt and disapproval shake my resolve. I’ve poured my heart and soul into this bookstore. I’ve spent countless late nights poring over inventory spreadsheets, vendor contracts, and marketing plans. And I’m determined to reach every goal.
She adjusts the strap of her purse, looking anywhere but at me. “Just come back home, Frankie. Marry Giovanni. I’m sure he’ll build you a library as big as this entire store. Mom will get off your back, and then you can live your life however you want.”
I take a slow breath, gripping the edge of the counter to stop my hands from trembling. “And how’s that working out for you? You married the man Mom and Dad picked and you, and you’re miserable.”
Her perfect posture falters, lips parting with a soft exhale. But she recovers just as quickly, lifting her chin. “That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it? That’s what you’re asking of me. To marry some man I don’t love, someone I barely even know, just because our parents said so. Like are you even hearing yourself right now?”
She crosses her arms, her expression suddenly unreadable. Then, so quietly I almost don’t hear her, she says, “Grow up, Francesca, and stop being so dramatic. Arthur leaves me to do as I please most of the time. Sometimes I even get a few months in row without . . .”
A flicker of something close to sympathy stirs in my chest. I swallow hard. “Without?”
She swipes her tongue over her teeth, shifting her weight. And then she drops it. The thing I know has been eating at her for years. “Without performing our monthly duties.”
My stomach twists. I stare at her, at the barely there mask of indifference she’s trying to maintain. My sister, who walked in so effortlessly confident, so sure of herself, now looks like a completely different version of herself. Scared, resentful, trapped .
Something heavy lodges in my throat. “Florence.”
She exhales sharply, shaking her head. “Don’t,” she snaps. “I don’t want your pity, Francesca.”
And just like that. Her mask is back in place. If I would’ve been looking away, I would’ve missed it. The glimpse of the real Florence.
I hesitate. Intellectually, I know she’s hurting. She’s been hurting. But she also came here to push me into the same life she resents.
So I keep my voice level. “I’m not marrying Giovanni. And I’m not moving back home. So, please, drop it. If you need to stay here for a little while, to get away from Arthur, that’s fine. But I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
She looks away, her shoulders squaring, her mask etched back into her skin. “Well,” she says, voice clipped, “I told Mom I’d try. Enjoy your little bookstore while you can, Frankie. I’m headed off to Mexico with some friends, so thanks for the offer to stay, but I must pass this time.”
“Another time then,” I murmur.
She flashes me a close-lipped smile and turns on her heel. The bell chimes as she leaves.
I exhale shakily, bracing one palm on the counter and reaching to pet Romeo with the other. My chest is tight, my throat thick.
Florence might have come here to convince me to leave. But all she did was remind me why I can’t.