Chapter 10 Daisy
DAISY
The apartment above The Margin smells like old books and cat food, which is somehow perfect for this moment in my life.
The spare room in Nell's old apartment is tiny (barely big enough for a bed, a dresser, and the two suitcases I dragged up three flights of stairs at midnight) but the window overlooks the street and the radiator works and there's a gray cat named Chaucer who watched me carry every box up the stairs with an expression of profound boredom.
Nell and the kids live across town now; she kept this place for late inventory nights and visiting family. She has lent me the whole apartment, tiny kitchen and all, until I decide what comes next. Chaucer splits his time between the shop and whichever room has a person willing to feed him.
"You're not impressed by my emotional crisis," I tell him as I unpack the books I grabbed from the penthouse.
Annie's books, the ones with blue-ink notes in the margins and dog-eared pages marking her favorite passages.
I couldn't leave them behind. "That's fair.
I'm not particularly impressed by it either. "
Chaucer yawns and stretches across the foot of the bed like he owns it. Which, to be fair, he probably does.
It's been three days since the dinner. I've posted on the blog: Taking a break. Not from books.
The comments are still pouring in, but I've stopped reading them. Ruth taught me that trick. "Don't drink poison just because someone left it on your doorstep," she said, which is possibly the most Ruth thing anyone has ever said.
A knock on the apartment door. Nell's voice: "Daisy? You decent? There's a situation downstairs."
"Define situation."
"The kind with casseroles and opinions. Also Ruth brought a baseball bat."
I open the door to find Nell looking equal parts amused and alarmed. "A baseball bat?"
"She said it's for protection. I told her the store doesn't need protection from romance readers with feelings, and she said, and I'm quoting here, 'The store doesn't, but Daisy might.'"
"She's not wrong."
We go downstairs together, Chaucer trailing behind us with the air of a king surveying his domain.
The Margin is technically closed, it's barely eight in the morning, but the romance section has been invaded by the book club.
Ruth is sitting in my usual chair with a Louisville Slugger across her knees.
Bev has commandeered the counter and is unpacking what appears to be an industrial-sized lasagna.
Priya is setting up a ring light in the corner while filming something on her phone.
"There she is," Ruth announces. "The woman who told a room full of billionaires to go to hell. I've never been prouder."
"I didn't tell them to go to hell."
"You should have. The internet would have loved it." She pats the chair next to her. "Sit. Eat. Tell us everything we don't already know, which is nothing, because Nell has been texting updates like a war correspondent."
I sit. Bev hands me a plate of lasagna that could feed a family of six. Priya angles her ring light and then puts her phone away when she catches my expression.
"Sorry," she says. "Force of habit. I won't post anything without asking."
"It's fine. I just… I don't know what there is to post. Woman leaves husband, moves into friend's spare room, eats too much lasagna. Not exactly riveting content."
"Are you kidding?" Ruth leans forward, eyes bright with the kind of intensity she usually reserves for problematic book heroes.
"You stood up in front of Klaus Brandt (Klaus Brandt, the romantic shipping magnate who cries at opera) and told him the truth about your marriage.
That's the most interesting thing that's happened in this book club since Bev accidentally joined a cult. "
"It wasn't a cult," Bev says mildly. "It was a multilevel marketing scheme. There's a difference."
"The difference is cults have better snacks." Ruth waves her hand. "Point is, you're a legend now. Dog-Eared Daisy, slayer of corporate liars and fake love stories. The internet is obsessed with you."
"The internet was calling me a gold digger last week."
"The internet has the attention span of a goldfish with ADHD. Last week you were a villain; this week you're a hero. Next week you'll be old news and someone's cat will go viral. That's how it works."
I take a bite of lasagna because I don't know what else to do.
"How are you really doing?" Nell asks, settling into the chair across from me. "Not the brave face version. The real one."
"I don't know." The admission comes out heavier than I expected. "I keep waiting to feel relieved. I made the decision, I left, I'm supposed to feel free now. Instead I just feel—"
"Sad," Ruth supplies. "You feel sad because you loved him and it didn't work, and that's a reasonable thing to feel. Anyone who tells you otherwise is lying."
"I was so sure he was going to show up." I set down my fork.
"Not that night. I didn't expect him to chase me down the stairs and make some grand declaration.
But after. The next morning, or the day after that.
I thought he'd call, or come to the store, or do something to prove that I mattered enough to fight for. "
"And he hasn't?"
"Nothing. Three days of silence. Not a text, not a voicemail, not even a message through Lorraine." I laugh, and it sounds hollow. "I guess that tells me everything I need to know about how much he cared."
The store bell chimes. We all turn toward the door, and for one ridiculous moment my heart leaps because maybe, But it's not Adam. It's Lorraine.
She's wearing her usual uniform of perfectly tailored neutrals, carrying a leather folder that probably costs more than my monthly salary used to be.
Her expression is the same professional mask she always wears, but there's a tightness around her eyes that suggests this visit isn't entirely scripted.
"Mrs. Smith," she says, and then catches herself. "Daisy. I was hoping we could speak privately."
"Anything you want to say to me, you can say in front of my friends."
Lorraine glances at the assembled book club (Ruth with her baseball bat, Bev with her lasagna, Priya with her ring light, Nell with her arms crossed and her jaw set) and visibly recalculates.
"Very well." She opens the leather folder and extracts a stack of papers. "This is a nondisclosure agreement and settlement offer. Mr. Smith's legal team has authorized me to present it to you directly."
"Mr. Smith's legal team."
"Yes. The terms are quite generous, given the circumstances. In exchange for signing the NDA and agreeing not to discuss the details of your marriage publicly, you'll receive—"
"I don't want to know the number."
Lorraine pauses. "It's a significant sum."
"I'm sure it is." I stand up from my chair and walk toward her, and I can feel my friends watching, can feel the weight of this moment in the way the room has gone silent.
"But here's the thing, Lorraine. You've been writing my lines for five years.
You've told me what to say, what to wear, how to smile for the cameras.
You wrote a divorce announcement with a quote I never gave and scheduled it without asking me. "
"That was a contingency document—"
"It was my life." I take the papers from her hands. "And for the first time since I signed that marriage contract, I get to decide what happens next."
I tear the NDA in half.
The sound is satisfying, crisp paper splitting down the middle, all those carefully worded clauses and confidentiality provisions becoming confetti on the bookstore floor. I tear it again, and again, until the pieces are too small to read.
"That was carefully prepared documentation," Lorraine says, her voice strained.
"Was it? Seemed more like an insult." I hand her the pieces. "You can tell Mr. Smith's legal team that I'm not interested in their generous terms. If he wants to talk to me, he can do it himself. Without scripts."
Ruth starts a slow clap. Bev joins in. Priya is definitely filming now, ring light and all.
Lorraine stares at the paper confetti in her hands, and for just a moment, her mask slips. Underneath is what might be respect, or fear, or might just be the dawning realization that she's lost control of a narrative she thought she owned.
"I'll convey your response," she says finally, and walks out of the store.
The bell chimes behind her.
"That," Ruth announces, "was the most satisfying thing I've seen since my third divorce. And I got the house in that one."
The laughter breaks the tension, and suddenly everyone is talking at once: Priya asking if she can post the video, Bev offering more lasagna, Nell pulling me into a hug that smells like coffee and old paper.
Priya checks her phone and winces. "I have to run. Stats lecture in forty minutes and Professor Lindqvist already hates me."
"Go," I say. "Thank you for—"
"Don't." She hugs me hard. "Text me later. I mean it."
Bev's phone buzzes and she sighs. "Choir director. Apparently there's some crisis with the altos again." She squeezes my hand. "Lasagna's in the fridge. Eat it."
"Yes ma'am."
Ruth stays, perched in a chair beside the romance shelves like a disapproving bird. "You need groceries before I head out?"
"I have enough lasagna to frighten a freezer."
"Then you're provisioned." She checks her watch. "I should let you breathe. You'll call if you need me?"
"I'll call."
At noon, Ruth finally collects her coat, and I carry the empty plates to the back.
"Returns bin needs shelving," Nell says without looking up from her register. "If you're looking for something to do."
I am. Desperately. I grab the cart and start working, letting the rhythm of alphabetizing and sorting quiet my brain. At two o'clock, my father walks through the door.