Chapter 6
Libby
“Who changes their name on a dating app?” I ask my co-workers while popping a chocolate chip in my mouth.
“A lot of people, I think,” Summer says, grabbing a peanut. We are standing behind the counter eating trail mix (well, I’m eating all the chocolate chips, they’re eating trail mix) and watching Dax as he peacocks around the store like he owns the joint. He doesn’t. Not fully. Not yet.
“People who just want to hook up and don’t want anyone to know who they actually are,” Tom adds, pulling his glasses from his face to clean them on his faded band shirt.
“Creeps, that’s who,” I answer my own question, grabbing more chocolate. Then a scoff. “Jax. What kind of fucking name is that? If you’re going to change your name, change it to something that doesn’t sound like your real name. He wasn’t even creative about it.”
Summer and Tom know the truth. I fucked the man who is now my boss. Neither of them have ever been Kai fans (understandably) so the whole ‘take this to your grave’ clause was implied as soon as we all figured out the Jax is Dax and Daxton Hemingway of Hemingway Books.
“What is he even doing right now?” Tom asks after putting his glasses back on. His thick, chaotic eyebrows are stitched together. They’re as unruly as his curly brown hair. Between that, his lanky arms and his cardigan, he is the epitome of a thirty-three-year-old English major turned book seller.
Dax is staring at the beams in the ceiling of my shop.
“He’s probably looking to see if those beams are weight bearing,” Summer says.
I’m tempted to give him a sledgehammer and let him find out.
A woman approaches him. “Excuse me sir, do you have any books about juicing?”
Dax looks down at her as if he doesn’t speak English. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Juicing. My husband and I bought a juicer this weekend. Blue dot special at Zansky’s and–”
“Just a second,” he cuts her off and looks over at us, waving his arms.
“That’s a customer,” I call out. “You should help her.”
Dax’s eyes narrow as the woman keeps talking about celery and dragon fruit and seeds that get stuck in your teeth. Meanwhile, I grab more chocolate chips and grin.
“Are you sure he works in book sales?” Summer asks.
“When it comes to that man, I’m not sure about anything anymore.”
After the woman has told Dax her dietary life store and been guided to the health and wellness section, Dax makes his way to the front. Summer and Tom make themselves busy with organizing the bookmark spinner, but I just lean on the counter with a smile.
“What is the matter with you? Leaving me alone with a crazy customer like that?” he snaps as he approaches me.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you worked here.”
“Don’t be cute.”
“You think I’m cute? Thanks, but I’m not interested.”
Dax’s scowl deepens. “You’re really going to make this difficult, aren’t you?” he asks.
“I’m going to do whatever it takes to save my store.”
Dax chuckles at that, biting his lips and rolling his eyes and making a public show of his disgust. “No offense but I think I’m the one saving your store.”
“By sucking the soul out of it?”
“By upping your sales and– you know what? I don’t need to explain this to you. I’m working with your brother, not you.”
“Now that’s cute.”
Dax opens his mouth to say something when his phone buzzes. He pulls it out and my eyes dart down to the screen.
Poppy.
“I have to take this.”
“I’m sure you do,” I mumble as he walks out of the store, nearly running over a customer in his wake.
“What was that all about?” Summer asks, popping up from behind the bookmark display.
“He got a call. From a woman.”
“Is he married?” Tom asks, reappearing as well with a closed box and a box cutter.
“What?” I ask.
“Well, think about it. He only wanted to hook up. He got a hotel instead of taking you to his house.”
“He knew what he was doing in bed,” Summer adds and when I shoot her a look she holds her hands up. “Your words, not mine.”
Tom goes on. “He gave you a false name. And now he’s being a total dick. Plus, the phone call…”
Jesus. Even if he isn’t married, he could still be in a relationship. And even if he’s not, he’s still fucking around. Which shouldn’t bother me.
“I don’t really care. If he is cheating on someone, that’s on him, not me.”
“Yeah until the missus finds out and comes after you with a pickaxe,” Tom mutters, holding the box cutter.
“Go back to stocking the horror section, Tom,” Summer snaps.
“Just saying,” Tom shrugs, slicing the box open.
Summer shakes her head. “You’re not going to get murdered. But I would be a little offended too. A night like that and he’s already moved on.”
“There was nothing to move on from,” I insist. “Because I was only looking for a onetime thing too.”
But as I watch Dax pace outside, phone pressed to his ear. He’s animated, something I haven’t seen since, well that night. He’s also smiling. Laughing even. My frown deepens. Amazing the act people can put on when they want to.
“She must be really funny, whoever she is,” Summer says.
A few minutes later, I am organizing the kids' corner. Little people are starting to trickle in, hands full of books and puppets, all waiting anxiously. As I grab a couple books and the Gruffalo stuffy, I feel someone behind me.
“What’s all this?” Dax asks.
“Story time,” I say dryly before smiling at a little girl with pigtails.
“Story time?” he echoes. All of his previous joy and amusement is gone. Like it never existed at all.
“Yes. It’s where someone reads a picture book to a group of children.”
“I know what it is,” he snaps. His eyes graze over the area, which is already a mess. Not that it matters. Kids corners weren’t meant to be pristine. They’re meant to be colorful, fun, and relaxing. “Also, don’t get used to it.”
My eyes dart over to him, the smile I have in place for the children fading slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that when Hemingway takes over–”
“Shh!” I snap. Because my regulars don’t know about that yet. I’ll tell them when I’m ready.
Dax goes on, same volume level. “There won’t be a story time.”
I stand up straight and turn to him, my face close enough to his that I can scold him without anyone else detecting it.
“YA section. Now.”
Dax takes his time before following me. Then he crosses his arms over his broad chest and raises his eyebrows.
“What do you mean there won’t be a story time?” I demand.
“I mean Hemingway doesn’t do story time.”
“What kind of bookstore doesn’t have a kids corner!?”
“I never said we don’t have a kids section. It’s just smaller. Less colorful. Less…scattered.”
I nod, camouflaging my irritation with a tight smile. “Right. So let me guess, you have two aisles with kids books shoved at the back of the store–”
“Three. But yes, in the back. And no toys.”
“So, what are the kids supposed to do when they’re at the store?” I ask. Meanwhile a paper plane flies past us. Dax reaches out and catches it.
“Stay with their parents and not turn the place into a pigsty.” He hands me the plane. I am ready to say something else, to really go off on him, when Summer chimes the bell.
“Who’s ready for Miss Libby’s Story Time?”
We square off for two more seconds before I walk around him, plaster a smile on my face and do what I love most.
Story time is my getaway. It’s the foundation of why I love what I do. Back when my parents ran the store, this was my favorite part. And it still is. Watching kids quiet down, read along, laugh as I change my voice for different characters. Wiggle on the floor waiting for the page turn.
No screens. No fighting. Just stories.
Later that evening, I let Summer and Tom go early. I don’t mind closing by myself. It’s quiet and peaceful and gives me time in my own head. I can still feel my parents here, my dad especially. I can only imagine what he would say about Dax right now.
Don’t let him get you down, Libby. He’s a joker in a suit. All he cares about is money.
“I know, Dad,” I say out loud as I organize the kid’s corner.
I don’t mind the mess. I never mind the mess.
Mess means kids were here– reading, laughing, playing.
Giving their moms a minute to browse the rom-com or gardening section.
Breathing joy into the corners of my shop. “He’s making it awfully hard though.”
Scare tactic. That’s all it is. Keep your chin up, kid.
My eyes swell with hot, annoying tears. I’m not a crier. Never have been. But this is hard. “I’m trying. But Kai gave it all away.”
Kai’s never had your heart. Hard kid, that one. Pain in my ass if I’m being honest.
“Yeah, well, he’s still a pain in my ass,” I dab my eyes and sniff, pulling the handkerchief from my pocket. Yes, I still use handkerchiefs. I use handkerchiefs and I paint my walls and shelves bright colors, and I eat all the chocolate out of trail mix, and I never want to stop doing story time.
He can’t take it from you.
Those words stop me. Because right now, with his thick wallet and his big name it sure feels like he can. I bend down to pick up a stray puppet and when I do, my eyes land on a flower painted in the corner. Painted by me when I was six. I run my hand over it, still remembering the brush strokes.
I painted it for my mom. I didn’t know much about her and barely remembered her, but I did it for her.
With that I sit down on the floor, looking around the shop from the point of view of the artist child I once was.
You’re still an artist, Libby Love. You’re just a fighter now too.
The tears spill but I swallow back the rest of the emotion that comes with it.
“I know. And I will fight for it, Dad. I promise you that.”