Chapter 5
“ N ot to burst your bubble, but I don’t think this is going to work.”
Sunny finishes setting up the last couple of books. After searching the apartment complex’s lost and found box, my fate opened up because there it was. A six feet folding table that’s allowing me to hold a personal book sale right outside of Rivera’s Roses.
How are selling books going to solve my problem, you ask? The total number of books I have goes beyond five hundred which means, used books at the price of ten Canadian dollars is basically seven US dollars.
Used books for ten.
Somewhat used books for fifteen.
And new books for twenty.
I’m not good with money, but if I can sell two hundred books at the price of twenty, I’m next in line to be a New York Time’s Bestselling Author and I make four thousand. That pays off one fourth of what I need to make anyways, right? Buy books, sell them.
Like drugs, but healthier. Maybe. Don’t ask me, I’m addicted myself.
“Sunny,” I put all my strength into unfolding a chair. “What makes you think this isn’t going to work?”
She folds her arms, shaking her head. “For one, it’s going to rain. And two,” she snatches the chair from me, quickly setting it in the position it was made for. “You’d sell your organs before books.”
“That’s not?—”
Thunder rumbles.
Sunny is fifty percent right. The sky is full of dark clouds, but I came prepared. There’s an umbrella shading the first chunk of my books, and the other half is inside the store. This is an investment. Sell a book, give a free flower. Boom, new customer in the making.
I’m a genius.
Scratch that, I’m Albert Einstein’s prodigy.
“Okay, maybe it will rain and only five people come but there’s a bright side to everything.”
“Being broke is not a positive anything .”
Letting out a deep breath, I turn to tape the bold five at the front of the table. “Let’s give this a chance, please?”
Sunny slumps into the chair, pulling her curly hair into a bun as she looks at the street for herds of people to approach. “Fine, but if no one comes in the next hour, I’m leaving.”
I give her an air kiss. “I owe you an iced capp.”
“I’m not sure if someone your age should be reading it,” I hold onto the book with all the strength I can muster. The girl looks about ten or eleven—the age I first started reading books with graphic levels of smut in it.
“I’ve been on Wattpad,” she says through a gritted smile, pulling the book towards her.
I’m yanked forward. But I’m not quitter.
I got this book when I barely had money—less than now, that is.
One Saturday afternoon, before my first bill was due, I went out and the cover shone like a prophecy waiting for me to grab it.
“This is worse,” I pull the book back on my side. Her tight, blonde ponytail comes loose. She instantly huffs.
“Why have a book sale if you aren’t going to let me,” she pulls harder. “Buy the damn book.”
Then with mighty strength, she steals the book from my hand. Instantly, shoving it under her armpit and away from my sticky hands.
I narrow my eyes, making a hinder forward gesture with my finger. “Look, kid. Just give me the book back and we can be on our way.”
“ Or ,” she breathes out. Her cheeks red and exhausted. “You can sell me it and start reading self-help books because you’re crazy.”
“Thank you,” I glare. Not like I didn’t know that. “But give it back. I’ve decided not to sell it anymore.”
“It came out in 2013, why does it matter to you now?”
“Because.”
She cocks her hip out, a brow raised.
I scoff while tucking hair behind my ears. “You’re a child, I don’t have to explain myself to you.”
“I’m fifteen and probably speak to more guys than you ever have in your lifetime, grandma.”
Audible gasp . What an insane kid. I snarl. Bare my teeth. Whatever dangerous animal has sharp fangs, I become double it. Scratch that, I become a hybrid of it. “Listen here you little brat ?—”
“I am so sorry,” Sunny runs out of the shop and stands in between me and the twat. “Are you still looking to buy the book?”
“Sunny,” I say but she turns around and glares .
The girl smiles, inhumanely. Gosh, someone send her to a hospital. Or a science lab. “I am, yes.”
“It’ll be fifteen dollars,” Sunny speaks professionally.
The girl hands her three five dollar bills, sticks her tongue out at me, then walks away.
“I wasn’t going to sell the book,” I slump on a chair. “I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”
Sunny watches me with an indecipherable look, then sighs. “Nova, you’ve never read the book. It still has new stickers on it.”
“At least it didn’t have book lice,” I grumble.
“This is the twentieth customer you did this to today, do you want to sell your books or not?”
I’m grateful for Sunny always keeping it real with me.
She took a day off from work to help me out today and I shouldn’t be rude, but I can’t help myself when she’s like this.
No one understands books the way I do. You don’t need to read words to feel connected to them.
Their presence, the familiarity of soft covers and hard covers are all I need to survive.
They’re built, crafted, each page meticulously morphed together.
Yes, reading gives me an annoying migraine but the senses of reading are all there as I flip pages.
Pretending I can read is reading too.
The world loves hurting imagination.
“I can’t sell them, Sunny.” The ones I’ve parted with are gone, but no more. “They mean too much to me.”
“This is why I said you couldn’t do this,” she takes the seat next to me.
Her hand squeezing my thigh. “You have an attachment to them, which is fine. It’s just that I know you won’t be able to make up the money you need from this book sale.
Maybe instead I can put up posters for a floral workshop? I’ve seen people interested in it.”
“I posted it on my social media a while ago,” I respond. “Three people have signed up so far.”
“That’s great!” Sunny exclaims with fake optimism. She is not about positivity at all. “They can post it on their social media and maybe you’ll blow up.”
Giving her a deadpan look, “They’re all over sixty.”
“It’s better than having no customers, Nova.”
I shrug a careless shoulder, “I guess. Should we tidy up?”
The piles of books stare at me from their set up. After five hours into the sale and selling twenty books, I lost each battle.
Guess this is my sign to find a part-time job. Which will be hard since Ontario’s job market is actual crap. There was a time when Tim Hortons hired people despite their lack of experience, now even people with a Bachelor’s degree can’t get a job there.
Thanks a lot, Ms. Cartwright. You had to sue me just when the economy hates us.
I go inside to pack up the other large number of books we carried from the apartment, while Sunny goes to the bathroom.
I’m placing books in boxes when I see the leggy brunette standing in front of the book stall. She looks out of place. Not in a bad way, but in a too-good-of-a-way. Thick, expensive sunglasses cover her eyes. Her dark brown hair swishes in the humid day. Fresh nails skimming over the books.
“Hey,” the bell above the door jingles when I open it. “We’re no longer selling books. I’m sorry.”
She slowly lifts her head to look at me and I’m blinded.
“You’re Nova, right?” Her smile relishes in the sun, beaming at me wide and bright. She takes her sunglasses off and struts towards me with an extended hand. “I’m Irene Dolores.”
Where have I heard that name before?
Tentatively, I take her hand. She doesn’t look like a scammer, I don’t think. “Do I know you?”
She laughs and it sounds rich. Like caramel or a bag of a thousand dollars in cash . “Maybe. I’m the producer of Love? Check! the dating show. You may have heard of it.”
Oh. My. Gosh.
Of course, I’ve heard of it. That show has been my guilty pleasure for the past two summers.
Every year, a group of six to ten people go somewhere in the world and get to check off each other’s bucket list. It’s usually paired off as a date and the couple with the most global votes wins the show.
Last year, Liana and Malachi won $300,000 USD.
It’s been a year and they haven’t broken up, which makes me believe that some form of love exists for people that look for it.
“From the look on your face, you’ve heard of it.
” Irene Dolores is standing in front of me.
The woman who made all of this happen. Not only that, but her father—Tristan is a global billionaire.
He set up multiple television companies, has his own app, and goes around the world to open charities to help people. He’s an entrepreneurial God .
And this is his daughter. Without his help, she managed to start her own television company with Love? Check! and many other reality shows that have hit records all over the world. She has fifty million followers on Headshot and she’s on Forpes’ 40 under 40.
“I’m having a hard time believing you’re here right now.”
It didn’t rain much, but the sun peeks through the dark clouds. Illuminating light on the gloomy street.
“I wish I stumbled upon your book sale without hidden intentions.” Not letting go of my hand, she takes us to the table.
“Season 3 of Love? Check! is under production right now and we’re currently looking for two more contestants to join.
I stumbled upon your Headshot page a week ago and I feel like you’re the perfect candidate. Sophisticated and beautiful. ”
I blink a couple of times. There’s no way she’s asking me to be a part of a dating show, is she?
I fought with a fifteen-year-old less than twenty minutes ago.
“As exciting as this opportunity is…”
“Don’t say no,” she’s quick to add. “Season one won $100,000, season two won $300,000, and this year it’s half-a-million.”
My brain stems stop purposefully making my cells trip. I’m listening. Fully intent, aware, and in my sense. I hate being the type of person convinced by money, but goodness? Did you hear that amount? That can solve all my problems.
“What gave my problem away?” I ask her. Because there’s no way she thought of money to convince me like that.
Her eyes glance at the books. “Lucky guess? Are you a florist?” She looks at the shop, a smile on her lips. Dammit, everyone knows we don’t make much.
But in front of her, next to her, being close to her—I am nothing. Heck, a florist is like the premise of a career. We don’t exist on the list. We’re a hobby to society.
One look at her and despite not seeing a hint of judgement, I can’t help myself when I say, “No. Actually, I’m an editor. This is a…”
I see Sunny wiping her hands on her shirt as she makes her way out to us. “It belongs to my best friend over there. I help out from time to time.”
“And this?” Irene points at the books.
“That’s all me,” I shrug out a careful truth. “Need some extra money, you know how it is.”
She does not know how it is at all.
“This opportunity came at the right time for you then,” she opens a clutch I didn’t notice before and hands me a card.
“I’ll let you think it over, but if you don’t call me by tomorrow night, I’ll assume you passed on the offer.
” She offers another soft smile, then dips her head in a greeting at Sunny before walking away.
“Was that who I think it was?” Sunny steps in next to me. Both of us watching the model of a woman walk away.
I hand Sunny her card.
“I think she just asked me to be on Love? Check! ”
She looks at me with a mischievous light in her eyes. “What’d you reply?” She asks.
“Something crazy.” I smile, big, wide and tooth-filled.