Chapter 4
I t smells like dog piss.
I push open the manual doors of the elevator and walk on the dingy orange carpet.
In the middle of the hallway, there’s an orange overhead light that flickers on and off.
Sunny and Azar keep telling me to move but that’s easier to say when you don’t make over the average annual income in Canada.
I am below it. So below that you can’t see me under the surface.
I am in the pits of the ocean, making friends with unidentifiable creatures and calling them my forever and ever’s .
Note, the unidentifiable creatures are about to make a quick cameo (permanent actors in my life).
Seven boxes tower next to my Only Fictional Men Allowed mat.
My usual excitement’s thrown out the window since Ms. Cartwright decided she was going to sue me for thievery.
The back of my head pounds.
I dig my back pocket for my keys, all while hiking up the large basket under my left arm .
The door next to mine opens the second I insert the key.
The hippie walks out—Dylan, I’ve learned his name—with that weird dog of his that always has his tongue sticking out. His pants run low on his legs, showing grey boxers and… okaayyy . Looking back up, looking away, and pretending I never saw—what? What did I see? You didn’t see anything.
He stops next to me, his body abhorrently too close to me, but that’s okay because at least he’s not actually touching me. I turn my head subtly and give him my famous Nova smiles. “Hi?”
He nods like he approves then points at the boxes, “Sick.”
Did he mean sick as in cool or sick as in I need help?
I’m left staring as he walks away, and I honestly wish I didn’t because his butt crack is on full display.
Unlocking my door with flash speed— big mistake —the door stumbles open and down goes the thunderous towers of books on the other side. The domino starting behind my door and all the way around my living room couch, all come to a crashing thump.
I do the most logical thing I can think of.
I shove all the new packages inside and slump against my door.
Living in Toronto opened doors for thousands of books. Preorders . Wholesales. Bookstores. Whatever option you’re thinking of, I’ve bought it.
Behind my thrifted yellow velvet couch is a large, overgrown, oversized window outlooking the city of Toronto.
Or at least it was that before I’ve stacked more books to cover it.
Now all you can see is a slither of light wisping its way into my space, but barely.
A line of dust shadows it, shimmering it over the fallen worlds.
I’ve never regretted my book buying addiction. I love that books are a part of this world and a part of never-ending comfort. But there’s a difference between being a bookworm and being a money-spender .
I am, of course, the latter.
Honestly, I’m not sure when it started—why exactly my brain ran for books, but it happened.
They were there, they were solid, and they weren’t going anywhere.
So, I decided to pick them up, store them in my space, and show them that I wasn’t going anywhere either.
Like decoration pieces, I wipe them every single day.
I make sure they don’t get dusted—yes, all of them…
sometimes. Okay rarely, but I do love them.
Every corner of my studio apartment is full of books. Some still have the receipts hanging inside. Each one untouched.
A dull, pressing sensation travels from the back of my head and situates itself on my forehead.
Here we go again.
Tears start flooding out of me.
If only I chose to be smart when I moved out of home. Maybe I shouldn’t have left. None of this would have happened. It’s too late to go back and too early to stay.
More tears burst out of me, leaving scarred promises of never-ending heartbreak in their wake.
I’m not sure when it is, whether I’ve cried for an hour or for five minutes.
I wipe a finger below my nose, getting rid of the snot bundled up there, and lean my head against the door.
Each book stares at me, claps, boos, encourages me to stand up.
That’s when I have a lightbulb moment.
Taking my phone out, I dial Sunny’s number.
She answers on the second ring.
“I have an idea.”