Chapter 5 Then
This morning, I woke up in my sweltering shoebox of an apartment, got ready for work, and, as I brushed my teeth, made a bargain with myself—if I could make it through the day without crying, I would buy myself gelato. Expensive, delicious, terrible-for-my-stomach gelato.
It’s not even noon, and the odds that I’ll get that gelato aren’t looking good.
Today would have been Ethan’s and my fourteenth anniversary.
I woke up on the verge of tears, a tangle of grief and relief and loss knotted into a lump in my throat.
I don’t want to cry today, even if feeling all of that makes sense.
I want to focus on my job and feel a sliver of happiness.
Because The Bookshop is my place. My happy place.
I love working at this bookstore. I love books.
I love helping people find books they’ll love.
I love the crisp scent of paper mingled with rich espresso brewed at the coffee bar, the shush of pages being turned, the hum of patrons speaking softly as they browse.
I love the bubbly laughter of students who trickle in on their walk home for oversize cookies and a chance at the coveted front-window alcove seats; the hiss of city buses coming to a stop right outside, spilling out people, some of whom walk toward our door and, as they drag it open, usher in the familiar whoosh of North Side traffic, even the wail of a siren barreling toward the hospital where we’ve donated books, reminding me The Bookshop isn’t just located in the heart of this neighborhood—it’s part of the heart of this neighborhood.
I still feel like an outsider in this city, most of the time. But when I’m at The Bookshop, I feel a sense of belonging, connection—happiness. I want that to hold true even on a hard day.
I suck in a breath, trying my best to tune out the world’s most emo playlist ever filling the speakers; apparently one of my coworkers felt that’s the vibe we needed today.
As I scoop up a box of new releases to restock, I mutter on my exhale, “Gelato. Gelato, gelato, gelato.”
I’ve just ripped open the box of new releases when The Bookshop’s door swings open, and in walks Lauren, looking like a pissed-off supermodel. She spots me immediately, only a few feet away, and flashes me a smile.
Through the speakers above us, Tori Amos wails about being lost in the rearview. Lauren’s smile evaporates.
“Who the fuck,” she asks the store at large, “put on Tori Amos?”
Dan shrinks on his barstool perch at the front register. “Well, um. I did—”
“Daniel.” Lauren stares him down. “Do. Better.”
Patrons have tuned in, a tableau of wide eyes, lowered books, coffee cups suspended midsip. They are captivated by Lauren’s profane drill-sergeant entrance.
“Sorry,” Dan whispers.
“I don’t need a sorry.” She hikes her bloodred designer bag higher on her shoulder. “I need a solution. Play something happy. Please,” she adds offhandedly as she walks my way, an attempt at politeness for my sake. She knows I’m allergic to offending people.
Dan salutes her as she marches past him. “On it.”
For the first time today, I don’t feel like I’m about to cry. I wrap my arms around Lauren and hug her hard. She squeezes me back.
“Thanks,” I whisper.
“Such a dumbass,” she mutters. “What did he pull up on Spotify, the heartbreak special?”
I laugh. “Let’s just say Damien Rice opened for Tori today.”
“Jesus.” She rolls her eyes. Suddenly, Pharrell Williams’s “Happy” floods the store’s speakers. “Men,” she sighs. “So literal.”
“I like this song,” I tell her, trying to throw Dan a bone. I turn and give him an encouraging thumbs-up.
Dan smiles nervously, his gaze darting from me to Lauren. She does not acknowledge him. Dan wilts. He has a brutal crush on her.
Everyone who meets Lauren has a brutal crush on her.
Because Lauren Vaughn is the whole package—gorgeous, smart, and, beneath that tough exterior, deeply kind.
Lauren is the one friend I’m proud to say I’ve made on my own in my three years since moving to Pittsburgh.
Every other friend I had was through Ethan, and, along with the house and the newer car, he walked away with them.
If I had to have only one friend, I couldn’t have picked a better one than Lauren.
Pharrell croons that contagiously upbeat chorus, the perfect soundtrack for this moment—finally, once again I am in my happy place and actually happy.
Thea stood at the store’s threshold, smiling at her friend, brimming with gratitude for her happy place, which gave her not just a job she loved but her best friend.
Lauren was a successful architectural designer, health nut, and marathon runner, a fancy-food and fine-wine and designer-everything gal, and Thea was none of that.
She truly believed their lives would have never crossed paths if it weren’t for The Bookstore.
“Thea?” Lauren says. “Where’d you go?”
I blink, snapped out my bad habit. “Nowhere,” I tell her.
Lauren tips her head. “You were clearly somewhere.”
Lauren swears under her breath as her phone starts to ring. She rummages around, finds it, then groans. “Dammit, I have to answer this.”
I watch her walk to the alcove on the other side of the door, and like the little narrating traitor my mind is, it picks up right where it left off.
Thea was in only her second week of work when she found Lauren perched on a kid-size chair in The Bookshop’s children’s section, wearing an office-chic outfit and sighing as she opened books, shut them, and tossed them aside.
After Thea asked her how she could help, Lauren told her she was browsing for her nephew but had no idea what an eight-year-old would enjoy.
Thea nudged her toward the graphic novels and away from the picture books, suggested a few well-loved middle-grade titles, and somehow they ended up talking for so long, they learned they’d both grown up in St. Louis (Thea, quaint Webster Groves; Lauren, affluent Ladue).
Then Lauren asked Thea if she’d want to grab a drink and bond over being St. Louis gals stranded in Pittsburgh.
Two glasses into their first meetup, Lauren clasped Thea’s hand and said, “We’re going to be best friends, Thea Meyer.
I just know it.” And, like always, Lauren was right.
“Okay,” Lauren says. “I’m back.” She slips her phone into her purse and smiles, the portrait of style, as always—a white sheath dress that makes her sun-kissed skin pop, red kitten heels that match her bag.
“So,” I say to her, “what can I help you find today?”
She shrugs. “I’m looking for a best friend who’d want to take a lunch break with me.” She glances around. “Think you can help me out?”
I peer at the wall-mounted clock. It’s noon, and since I’m scheduled to work more than seven hours today, my lunch break is a full glorious sixty minutes.
Smiling, I tell her, “I’ll get my bag from the back. Meet you outside?”
“God, yes.” She throws open the door. “This obnoxiously happy song is pissing me off.”
The sun is shining, my belly is full of wood-fire pizza, and I haven’t felt the urge to cry once during lunch. Maybe I’ll earn my gelato, after all.
Basking in the sun, I slouch in my café chair across from Lauren and slurp the last of my root beer. Lauren sucks down the dregs of her Aperol spritz.
Our waiter, who’s been very attentive since we were seated—unsurprisingly, he has the hots for Lauren—sweeps in, clearing our glasses and asking if we want another round.
I tell our waiter I’ll pass on a refill. Lauren orders another Aperol spritz.
My eyebrows lift.
Having two drinks at lunch, when she’s headed back to the office, is very un-Lauren.
“You okay, Lo?”
She peers my way, a notch in her brow. Also very un-Lauren. Lauren doesn’t believe in frowning: it “leads to premature wrinkles.”
“Yep!” she says brightly. She tugs down her sunglasses, hiding her eyes.
Suspicion, then guilt hit me, a swift emotional one-two punch. I’ve been such a mess the past few months—have I missed the signs that Lauren’s struggling, too?
Asking directly will get me nowhere. Lauren’s so protective of me, she’ll tell me what she thinks I need to hear rather than the truth.
Leaning down to my messenger bag at my feet, I lift the flap and rummage around for the embroidered birthday card I fell in love with and bought at The Bookshop this past winter.
“What are you digging around for?” Lauren asks.
“Mind your beeswax,” I tell her. My messenger bag is a black hole. Where the hell is that card?
“Theodora Meyer.” She swats my arm. “Do not get out your wallet.”
“I’m not!” I straighten, triumphant, card in hand.
“What,” she says, eyes narrowed, “is that.”
I hold off on answering and instead thank our waiter as he sets down Lauren’s Aperol spritz. Our waiter misses this. He’s otherwise occupied, smiling dreamily at Lauren.
Lauren peers up at our waiter. She does not smile back. I clear my throat, hoping that snaps him out of it.
The waiter blinks, then asks, “Do you ladies need anything else?”
“No,” Lauren says.
I knock her knee with mine from beneath table.
“Thank. You,” she adds flatly.
Our waiter finally takes the hint and makes himself scarce. Lauren sucks down half of her second spritz.
“Must be tough,” I say. “Being that hot and possessed of a snort that works like a mating call.”
She flips me the bird.
I laugh. Lauren laughs, too—a loud, throaty cackle.
It’s been a while since I can remember her laughing. And I’ve been too distracted with my own pity party to pick up on that. Guilt hits me again, though a bit gentler this time. A shove nudging me forward.
I slide the card across the table. “Happy almost birthday, Lo.”
Lauren glances from the card to me. “My birthday is over a month away,” she says.
I shrug. “You know me, I hate waiting to give gifts. Honestly, I’m proud I lasted this long. Pretty sure last year I gave you your gifts in—”
“May.” She rolls her eyes, but it’s softened by a smile. “Which is ridiculous.”
“Come on, open it.”