Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
STELLA
That was another close call. I loosen the tie around my face, but don’t remove the hood.
I go back to my meal. I always think highly of a place that offers vegetarian options, and this salad with candied cashews, craisins, and a tangy-sweet dressing is amazing. The fried pickle chips are even better.
I finish my last bite of lettuce when the chair next to me pulls out and Drew plops down. I squeak at the surprise.
“You scared me!” I say as I laugh to disguise my embarrassment.
“Are you stalking me?” It’s the worst thing he could think, but he’s grinning so he’s teasing. “You must be, because why else would you be in Blissful?”
I take a sip of my water and try not to stare. That gray shirt looks too good on him. His green eyes are stunning. His dark hair tucked behind his ears is, dare I say, sexy.
“Because it’s a beautiful town, and I’ve wanted to visit for years?” I hate how I make it sound like a question.
“Next Saturday wasn’t soon enough?”
I play with the ends of my hair so I don’t have to look at him. “I was really hoping you wouldn’t know I was here.”
“Why?” He grabs a fried pickle from my plate and tosses it into his mouth. “If you want to see the place, I’d be your best tour guide.”
I push the pickle chip plate in his direction, and he takes another one.
“Because I didn’t want you to think I was stalking you,” I say.
“I don’t really think that. If I lived in Tucson, I’d want to visit Blissful every Saturday afternoon.”
I lean back in the chair and take in the street. A car passes, one of a dozen in the last twenty minutes since I sat down here.
“It’s tranquil,” I say.
“The calm before the storm. It will be crazy next weekend. Are you avoiding telling me why you're really here?”
If I told him I didn’t want to talk about it, he would back off. But he didn’t judge me last night for being an emotional disaster, so I can only hope he won’t judge me harshly for running away afterward.
“Mallory has been my best friend for a long time. Yesterday was hard. I live with my sister until I find my own place, and I didn't want to go home last night and have to talk about what happened. I needed to breathe.”
To wallow. To reframe. To recuperate.
“So you arrived in Blissful last night?” Drew asks.
“Yep, to put off facing life for a day.”
Talking to Drew is nice because he already knows everything. I don’t have to explain yesterday.
“And you stayed at the Triple B.”
“Triple B?” I ask.
“Blissful Bed and Breakfast. Where you broke the bath towel rod. I was the one who had to fix it.”
I snort. “Did I break the towel rod that you’ve ‘fixed’ three times already? Or was it already broken?”
He outright laughs. “How do you know about my conversation with Claudia?”
Oops. Every time I interact with Drew, I somehow embarrass myself.
I cover my face with my hands. “I was hiding in the sitting room when you came in. I was sure Claudia was going to give me away.”
“I couldn’t figure out how she knew what you look like.” It takes a minute for his laughter to die. He smiles and shakes his head, then pops the last fried pickle in his mouth. “You’re fully decked out in Blissful memorabilia. It looks good on you. I especially like the socks with flip flops.”
I stick out one of my feet to the side. “I look ridiculous, I know, but it was this or heels and a party dress.”
He laughs again. “I told you I like the look. Nothing to be embarrassed about. How long are you staying?”
I drop my hands to the table. “I want to browse the shops, so an hour or two?”
“You should stay, and let me make you dinner. An employee at the hardware store called in sick, so I’m covering the register until five, but I have the evening free.”
I look out at the shops across the street.
I want to stay and have dinner with Drew, which is surprising because twenty minutes ago I wanted to avoid any and all people.
Especially Drew. My social battery is empty.
But Drew somehow fits into the same space as my family and Mallory.
Or at least Mallory pre-summer. They don’t deplete me, they fill me.
“Okay.”
“Great.” He slaps his hands against the table and stands. “Come over any time after five-thirty. If you walk behind the hardware store, there’s a back door. I’ll leave it unlocked. Go up the stairs on the left.”
“You live above the store?”
“Yeah. Most of these buildings have lofts, though a lot of them are used for storage.” He slips his hands into the pockets of his work jeans and takes a few steps backward. “See you then.”
He pivots on one foot and walks away. I watch him. Drew Yarrow might just be my favorite person. It’s hard to believe that up until a month ago, I never thought of him at all.
Before he turns the corner, he catches me looking and waves. I wave back, feeling stupid for getting caught staring.
Though he’s probably used to it. He has a very nice backside.
Over the next few hours, as I walk in and out of shops, I’m greeted by friendly employees. Too friendly, bordering on nosey. I appreciate a hello, but they ask questions about where I’m from and why I’m here. I keep it vague, more comfortable with city people's indifference.
When I pass a hair salon I catch my reflection in the front window.
Maybe they put up some sort of special glass because my reflection proves my hair could use some help.
The ends are frizzy from heat damage, and after spending a few hours tucked into my hoodie, it has this funky partial-wave that drives me crazy.
Maybe I should mix things up and lop off the bottom. A shoulder-length style would take less time to dry and straighten in the morning.
I may as well get it cut now.
My hand reaches for the knob when my senses come back to me. Just like we’re told never to cut our bangs after a break-up, it’s wise to not chop off your hair after your best friend un-friends you In Real Life.
I remove my hand slowly and step back from the salon. Across the street is the bookstore, the shop I was saving for last, and the perfect place to hide away until the desire to change my appearance fades.
The entrance is set back from the sidewalk, with two bay windows on either side.
When I enter, the bell above the door rings, and I’m enveloped by the scent of old, musty paper.
Maybe not the average person’s favorite smell, but it is mine.
Sadly, there aren’t many places these days that still retain the scent.
I stay next to the door for a few seconds, soaking in the ambiance. There are rows upon rows of tall book shelves, at least seven feet high, stuffed full of books.
The front third of the store is as tall as two stories.
Stairs on the left lead up to a mezzanine floor where there are more jam-packed bookshelves.
The mezzanine only takes up half of the second floor.
The other half is a wall. That’s probably where the living space with a back entrance is, like where Drew lives above the hardware store.
The checkout desk is to the right of the door. The older man behind the register looks up from his dog-eared fantasy book to smile at me.
“Can I help you find something?”
He’s around the age of my dad, in his mid-sixties, with graying hair and a beard that needs a good trim, but has kind blue eyes and a ready smile.
I imagine he delights in working here. One of the things I adore about being a librarian is hawking fantastic books to readers. I bet he loves that, too.
“I’m here to browse,” I say.
“You look like a book lover. I could see the second you walked through the door.” He taps his temple at the corner of his eye.
I grin. “I had the same thought about you.”
With a laugh, he waves at the store. “Kindred Spirits, then. Welcome. Take a look around. There’s a system to the madness, so if you need help, let me know.”
I walk down the aisle nearest to me, and wonder at the system because this place is mad.
Just these few rows of books have multiple genres, both used and new books, jumbled on the shelves together.
I’m here to enjoy the atmosphere, not critique someone’s store, but my brain itches to make order out of this insanity.
At the back, in the space below the mezzanine, is a cozy spot with a couch, a loveseat, and a large bean bag chair.
They’ve all seen better days, but surrounded by books, it’s welcoming.
If I owned a place like this, I’d put in a gas fireplace along one wall, update the seating, and host a bookclub.
With a coffee table in the middle, I could put out cookies and wine glasses full of fruit punch.
I’ve built a whole scenario in my head before I realize I’m doing it. I don’t want to own a bookstore, definitely not this one. It’s a lovely mess, but still a mess.
The area under the loft living space is a staff only area. I want to peek inside because I’m a snoop, but I’m a follower of rules even more. I’m not a staff member, so I stay out.
After an hour of browsing, I show great restraint and pick only one book.
A worn edition of The Count of Monte Cristo.
I’ve checked it out from the library multiple times, but I don’t own a copy.
This one has dog-eared pages and passages underlined.
It tells its own story in addition to the printed one.
This time when I approach the front, the proprietor closes his book and lays it aside.
“Find something interesting?” he asks.
I place the book on the wood countertop. “I think so.”
“Ah. One of the classics. Sure to not disappoint.”
“Do you mind if I stay here for a few hours and read?”
“No. There’s some seating in the back. Stay as long as you like. As long as you don’t want to stay past six.” He winks.
As he rings up my purchase, the bell over the door jingles and a teenage girl walks inside. Her long, brown hair is in a messy braid and her hands are tucked into the front of a baggy hoodie.
“Hi, Mr. Long,” she says.