4. Izzy
Izzy
I’d throw them away, except that feels wasteful.
The giant bouquet of red roses sits on the counter at Salty Romantic, mocking me. And his dumb note: Still owe you a coffee. Call me. Jack.
I held off a whole day before I even saved his number in my phone. And I haven’t texted. Yet.
I should toss everything and forget the whole dumb afternoon.
That’d be a lot easier, of course, if it weren’t for the fact that nearly all of Merritt Point has become involved in my dating life.
And as much as I’d like to be pissed, since news broke that Jack won a date with the small-town bookshop owner, the viral social media gods have blessed me.
Foot traffic is up, and the Boston Globe even called about running a story on the shop.
Funny, considering I’ve pitched the story a few times myself and was either ghosted or met with a big no.
I finish posting a TikTok for the store when another stitched video of the auction pops up in my FYP.
At first, there were so many, but after a few days, it’s more of a trickle of videos now.
A few called me some pretty hideous names for being the winner; others fell all over themselves over Jack.
But most of them all had one thing in common—they all made it obvious I’m in his orbit now, whether I like it or not.
Jack Murphy is chaos incarnate. Charming, sure. Trouble though. So much trouble. And I have enough of that in my life already.
Speaking of…
“I swear, he makes me crazy,” my mother rushes out as soon as I pick up the phone. “I’m going to jump off a bridge because of that man.”
“Hi, Mom. That’s not something to joke about.” I slowly exhale so she can’t hear, then brace myself for the tirade that always follows.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Mr. Piersanti on the sidewalk with two women, pointing to the facade of the building. One pulls down her sunglasses, catches me gawking, and gives me a wolfish grin with the whitest smile I’ve ever seen.
“Are you even listening?” my mom asks.
I peek over my shoulder at the clock on the wall. I close early on Thursdays before the weekend rush, but this past week has been so busy, I swear time is moving backward.
“Yes, of course.”
I haven’t.
“Well, then, what do you think? Should I believe Phil? He’s right, we were separated. It makes sense that his Tinder profile is still up.”
“Does it?” I straighten a stack of books, finding a monster romance shelved with historical that needs to return to its rightful home.
“I’m asking you.”
I place the book where it belongs and glance out the window again as the late-afternoon sun filters through the maple trees lining the sidewalk.
“He’s probably seeing other women if he still has a profile up.”
“Really?” I hear her munch on something on the other end of the phone. “I just thought, well, never mind…”
“Thought what?”
“That you’d be happy for me.”
Oh. Right. My mom is, and always has been, allergic to the truth.
“I think you deserve someone who loves you.”
“No man will ever love me. Not really. I’m too much.” Then, after a quiet sniffle, “I thought Phil would be it for me.”
As long as I can remember, there’s always been relationship drama with my mother. But I’m twenty-eight, and I’m tired of my only dating experiences being through my mom’s secondhand heartbreaks.
I’ve witnessed her crushed time and again, which is how I know that love stories like the ones I sell are just that—stories. Not that I’ll ever admit that. I don’t need angry romance readers mobbing the Salty Romantic. But I know better. Love always leaves.
I think I’ve honestly been happier since I gave up the idea of dating. Fewer complications. Can’t be let down. It’s safer when it’s only me.
“Mom, you’ll figure it out. But you deserve to be with someone who loves you for you. Not someone who lies to you.”
“He’s been so great. He always drops off breakfast at the office, he even…” She lowers her voice: “He does this thing where he texts me and tells me the dirtiest—”
“Mom!” I clamp my eyes shut, wishing I could bleach my brain.
“I only want you to be careful. I know you’re…
” I stop myself. “Listen, Peyton and Riley need you. Riley called me to pick her up from her soccer game in Marblehead last week because you didn’t show up.
You can’t check out on your daughters because some guy won’t come through for you. ”
“Riley won’t schedule her driver’s test, and something came up. And Peyton is twenty now, older than when I had you. She can manage fine without me.”
I wince, thankful she can’t see me. My sisters do still need her. I do too. Not that that’s ever mattered.
The line goes quiet. I know there isn’t a connection issue, so I keep my ear to the phone and let the silence drag between us. I’m tired of always filling the spaces to make others comfortable.
Finally, after a long sigh, she says, “We already talked about this. I just forgot about Riley’s game.”
I don’t remember my dad. He left when I was two.
My mom was only seventeen when she had me.
For a while, I bounced between living with her and with my grandparents in New Hampshire.
Then she met Phil when I was seven. The man emptied her bank account and slept around, but he gave her Peyton and Riley, so she still swears he’s the love of her life.
My mom never forgets things until there’s a reason. It’s always the first sign that she’s drinking again. Missed appointments or pickups turn into days when she won’t get out of bed. She can’t hold down a job—or won’t—and needs me to step in to help.
“I need you to promise me that everything is okay.” I open the box of blank canvas tote bags I need to screen print before Saturday. “I know it’s easier to worry about Peyton because of Luca now, especially since she broke up with Mike. But Riley’s seventeen, and she really needs her mom.”
Peyton and her son, Luca, who’s fifteen months old, recently moved back in with my mother. I’d like to say having her grandson closer was welcomed, but my mom only seems to concern herself with Peyton.
“Riley is fine. She’s got a good head on her shoulders. Besides, I’m not going anywhere.” Her voice cracks, and her rough Boston accent gobbles up her sentences. She’s pissed, and the yelling isn’t far off.
“I’m sorry, but I really need to go. Call me if you need anything.”
“I can always count on you, Izzy boo.”
“Love you, Mom.” I hang up, collapsing against the bookshelves.
That sinking feeling I hate twists low in my stomach as my pulse pounds in my ears. Worry isn’t an annoying pinprick for me; it’s a deluge. It sweeps in and washes away everything I work so hard to keep neat and tidy.
It’s not that I don’t love my mother, I do, but it feels more like I’m her mother sometimes. I grew up and took care of her and myself, and then my half sisters, Riley and Peyton, after my mother married Phil in my grandmother’s backyard within just six months of meeting him.
When I opened the Salty Romantic, I thought it meant I’d carve out a little life for me to experience, but my family always blurs those boundaries. And if I’m right, and my mom is drinking again, there will be no more boundaries soon. Her mess will be my mess.
The last time this happened, I took a year off from college and was granted temporary custody of Peyton and Riley while my mom went to rehab.
I push out a big breath, then quickly reach down for the yellowing monstera leaf in the rainbow disco ball planter and pinch it back.
Mr. Piersanti steps into the shop with two women. “Hi there, Izzy. I thought I’d introduce you to a potential new tenant next door.”
I’m hit with a wall of Le Labo as the woman closest to me reaches out and shakes my hand. “We’d love to have you in for a class when we open.”
“When you open?” I parrot back.
Mr. Piersanti toys with the frayed tag on his quilted vest, peeking between me and the near-flawless human being standing in front of me. He’s shorter than I am, and I’m already pretty short at almost five feet four inches.
This feels like one of those awkward standoffs in a spaghetti western.
“I’m Claire. Nice to meet you.” She brushes her auburn hair off her shoulders, revealing a giant canary diamond engagement ring.
“My assistant loves your shop and mentioned she saw there might be an opportunity to rent next door. Had to come see for myself what Merritt Point is all about. It’s so cute here! ”
“I’m sorry, I’m not following.” I turn my attention fully to my landlord. Just this summer, he mentioned I might have a chance to rent if he decided to do anything with the building. “I thought… am I too late?”
Claire draws back, her big brown eyes meeting her assistant’s. “Sorry, I assumed…”
Mr. Piersanti clears his throat, glancing at me nervously. “Claire is a wellness influencer and wants to open a yoga studio next door.”
“Well, that space is certainly great, but now that I’ve seen the building, I’m interested in more. It’d allow for breakout rooms for healings and spa services.”
The assistant giggles, adjusting her black oval glasses. Her blonde hair is slicked back beneath a black-studded headband matching her ballet flats and leather miniskirt. “We love the bookshop, and there’s already such great female energy here. It’d be the perfect partner business.”
I’m still not following, and I’m sure it says as much on my face. I’ve never been very good at hiding what I’m thinking. “Thanks so much for coming in. I need to close soon, but feel free to look around for a few minutes.”
Claire and her assistant thankfully take the hint and circle around the shop quietly.
Mr. Piersanti stuffs his hands into his pockets, then creeps closer as I walk around and place the counter between us, partly for some distance.
Mostly because I need something solid to grip before my knees give out.
Feels like my thrifted Rya rug was literally yanked out from beneath my Mary-Janes.