The Rabbit
They look so perfect, lying there asleep. William not on his back the way he used to be, snoring his invisible feather up
off his lips, but engulfing Sam Vetiver as if protecting her. She curled in his arms like a stupid little naked cocktail shrimp.
Scott and Zelda. Ana?s and Henry. Hemingway and everybody. The literary Valentines.
F*ck I hate this holiday, which in my store begins the day after Christmas. All through the start of the New Year we lug Romance
to all the front tables, setting it out on the end caps. I gain fifteen pounds from the impulse candy, even the gross chalky
hearts saying B MINE and UR LIT. I’m never so happy as I am on February 15, tearing down love and taping up shamrocks.
Suddenly I have a terrible thought.
What if this is for real?
William’s never let any woman stay for a weekend, let alone for months. Sam Vetiver has clearly moved in. They have routines.
What if I’m looking at William in love—with somebody other than himself?
What if this time is different?
But I cannot afford to think this way. I can’t even allow myself to consider it.
I need to take control of this situation before it gets worse.
I run my thumb over the release button of my trusty box cutter. It’s a good one, I got it my very first day as a bookseller
and have carried it from store to store, as well as on other errands. I feel bad for it because of how I might have to use
it here. It’s meant to slice only cardboard, to liberate books that will bring people joy. But it can do other jobs too.
The blade is very sharp. Skin under the chin is like butter. Slice the jugular first, a quick bleed-out if I’m lucky. Then an artery or two to be sure. This is the fastest, most painless death.
I don’t want this. I’m really a very peaceful person. I’m so bad at killing. When I have to stomp mice in my sh*thole, for
instance, when they’re struggling in the glue traps, I throw up.
But Sam Vetiver is leaving me no choice.
I was so hoping she’d take the hints I’ve been leaving her. Tossing her earbuds in the snow. Emptying her expensive salon
shampoo. Throwing her phone under the couch. Peeing in her boots. Raising her discomfort level to the point at which she might
go back to the city. Not that I had much optimism. As I suspected from the start, she’s a tough one.
And I can’t leave this to chance. They’re getting closer by the day. Which just makes everything that much harder. The sooner
the better. I’d do it tonight if I could. But there are two of them to one of me, and William is so big. He would overpower
me if I didn’t play it just right. And I don’t need to take care of them both. Just one.
I’m rehearsing the moves and using my superpower, which is seeing how people will look dead, like big dumb surprised dolls,
when Sam Vetiver’s eyes pop open.
F*ck! She’s looking right at me.
It’s a good thing I know this place so well, even in the dark. By the time I hear her scream, I’m already downstairs.
And I’m in the basement when I hear William’s voice, along with his heavy footsteps and Sam Vetiver’s lighter ones. I’m scrambling
through the storage room with the water heater, past the army of Flat Williams and shelves of William’s swag, all the merch
his publisher sends to influencers and reviewers with advance reading copies. T-shirts with his covers. Hair product baskets
for Medusa. Glow-in-the-dark putty for The Space Between Worlds. “Love-scented” You Never Said Goodbye candles. Magnets and keychains, tote bags and notebooks: Does anyone ever actually use the sh*t that comes with books, or
do they just toss it all in the trash?
At the back of the room there’s an actual-@$$ billboard, William holding all his novels beneath the command Read The Virtuoso! I have no idea how he even got it in here, but as I move it aside and push behind the bookshelf and squeeze through the
tiny Rabbit Hole door, I’m grateful. I’m thinking something no woman has said ever: Thank God this man’s ego is so big! Because I can hide behind it. And plan my next step.