Seventeen
I zip past side roads that I know as well as the lines on my own palms and pull out onto Main Street. The cobblestones, towering live oaks, magnolias, and crepe myrtles are big sellers on the small-southern-town postcards we sell to tourists traipsing in from Atlanta. In October, once most of the greenery and life has withered away, they’re less of a draw.
Not to me, though. The naked limbs stretch up to an overcast sky, and it feels like the world is being honest for once. Here I am. No embellishments.
Blue shifts in the seat next to me; no matter how much I try to lint-roll it, or vacuum, or sanitize, my passenger seat has a permanent layer of glitter and vanilla body spray. She slouches down farther, and I picture the plastic flakes digging deeper and deeper into the fabric.
“You’re going the wrong way,” Blue says as we turn onto West Church.
“No, I’m not.” I roll my eyes so hard I almost sideswipe old Mr. Martin’s Cadillac, which is only held together with the power of optimism and Jesus.
“I’m too tired for any errands.”
“Then you can wait in the car.” I pull up in front of Three Little Words and its very new and very prominent window display. A life-sized cutout of Elphaba from Wicked glares out on River Haven, dusty-pink paper flowers unfurling around her like a throne. Elphaba stands on a matching cobblestone road of yellow books, and my fingers itch to text Ash. To prod him about his flower-folding skills. To ask him how long it took to lay the patchwork book floor. I want to gobble up his inevitable exasperated response, but that charged conversation we had after class has my stomach still in knots. The placid curve of his lips had yelled lie as I smiled and blustered, keeping us firmly on this course. We’re playing chicken and watching to see who swerves first.
I stomp down the feeling that things are shifting under my feet and reach for the door handle.
“A bookstore isn’t urgent. You can do that after you take me home.”
You’re older. Be better.I dutifully recite Stu’s mantra from my childhood and let the door fall closed behind me. “Sounds like you prefer to wait in the car.”
The passenger side opens before I even reach the front door, and I hold it for her with much more patience than I naturally possess.
She’s pricklier than she used to be as she continues her campaign to be noticed at school, and I’m finding it harder to be better. She wants the friends, the homecoming crowns, the adoration, and she wants it bad enough to smile at the boy who broke my heart and pretend that I’m a minor detail.
A rush of warmth and dopamine floods me as I step inside. Stacks and stacks of books full of new characters, meet-cutes, and kisses glitter from every surface. I feel desperate and greedy; I want to own them all. Hoard them all. I want to immerse myself in a Scrooge McDuck vault of paperbacks until I’m less Marlowe and more like the main character of somebody else’s life.
Sloane’s grin widens when they see me, and the collar of their Hawaiian shirt desperately fights against gravity as a dozen enamel pins glitter around their neck. “What did I do to get so lucky as to have Marlowe Meadows walk into my humble establishment on a Monday?”
I grin back, because how could I not? “I ran out of books.”
They gasp, and I relax a fraction. There’s no fifty questions about where Ash is or why he isn’t recommending my next book. And it’s not like I don’t want to ask him. I’ve typed out and deleted a dozen messages, but lines feel a little too fluid right now, so I’m playing it safe. I’m losing at chicken.
“And who do you have here with you?” they ask, turning to Blue. “I’m Sloane.”
“I’m hungry,” Blue mumbles.
I snap a look in her direction that was copy-and-pasted from every female ancestor in our bloodline. Momma and Meemaw would have stood up and clapped, and I feel briefly possessed by my great-aunt Eula.
Blue stands up straight and clears her throat. “I’m Blue.”
I turn back to Sloane, my smile fixed in place. “Bluebell, my little sister.” I find a half-smooshed energy bar in my bag and thrust it in her direction.
“Well, I’m glad you’re here. Both of you,” they say, correcting themselves, and smiling at Blue with a lot more grace than she deserves. “Is there a specific book you came in for?”
Blue shoves the entire bar in her mouth, and I wince through the smack and smell of peanut butter. Her chewing gets louder, undoubtedly for my benefit, and I power through the noise to focus on my question.
Misophonia.When someone is hypersensitive to ambient noise, especially chewing. We’ve come a long way from me tearfully yelling that I couldn’t let Blue sleep in my room because the sound of her breathing had crawled into my ears and wouldn’t let go.
She clears her throat again, the sensation of food wrapping around me.
We’ve come far, but not completely beyond.
I step up to the counter. “I was hoping you’d help me pick something out?” I feel shy, like my cannonball into the romance pool has become weirdly personal.
Sloane does a little shoulder shimmy. “I know Ash has been your tour guide so far, but I’m so selfishly excited to help.”
“Who’s Ash?” Blue asks, stepping closer.
I don’t want to get into it, but my mouth is unable to say nobody in the place that he works, in front of his boss, and in the company of all the magic he’s given me access to.
I settle for a half-truth. “He’s a bookseller.” Sloane looks as if they’re waiting for me to add more, so I compromise. “Here.”
Six months ago, I might have told her more. I might have shown her a picture from NMTM’s website and told her about how his singing makes my hands sweat. How he’s considerate, and quietly hilarious.
Blue’s teeth scrape a smear of energy bar off her lip, a little divot appearing between her eyebrows. “Isn’t he that mean kid from school?”
“I don’t think ‘mean’ is really—”
“He told Jeremy Johnson that nobody cared about his fantasy football team.”
I wait for more, but that was apparently the extent of his crimes. “Do you have any evidence that anybody does care about Jeremy Johnson’s fantasy football team?” I ignore the choke from Sloane. “Any signed affidavits we can reference? If not, we’ll just have to consider the matter between them.”
Blue rolls her eyes and picks up a stack positioned next to the cash register. The display promises paranormal romances to heat up your Halloween, and I slide out a book with a purple cover that promises “A wicked good time!” Two women in pointy hats embrace on the front, and the back says that “Adelaide Conners can turn a person into a toad, but can she let Sabine Rothschild transform her heart?” I’m willing to bet yes, and I pull it over to the side into a pile I am designating “keep.”
Blue flips over a book with a shirtless vampire on it. “So, what? These books are all about sex?”
“No,” Sloane and I say in unison.
“But sometimes, yes,” they clarify, without a hint of reproach.
Blue narrows her eyes. “What’s up with the sudden interest in romance? You’d rather replace Josh with fake book boyfriends instead of the real thing?”
The accusation crawls under my skin like a splinter and lodges there. I want to yell that not everything is about boyfriends, but she’s not wrong that my motivations were not as pure as I wanted them to be. It wasn’t about Josh, but it had started with Josh. And here I am, still trying to patch myself together into something lovable with the words and stories of characters that don’t exist.
“It’s not about book boyfriends,” I say, unclenching my jaw. “These are stories I enjoy.” I wave my hand around. “I enjoy this store, and Sloane, and yes, Ash.”
Her chin juts out. “I’ve heard some things about him.” She steps closer, as if it’s an illicit secret. “And about you and him. You shouldn’t be spending time with people like that.”
Sloane clears their throat and moves out from behind the counter to tidy up a nearby display.
My face flushes, and I pitch my voice low. “People like what?” The words whip out, tight as a bowstring, but she doesn’t heed the warning.
“Like some freak.”
I hear Josh’s ugly words come out of her mouth, and I want to throttle them both. I want to lock her in her bedroom and not let her leave until her frontal lobe develops more. She has all these gifts, and I’m choked by the fear she’s going to waste them trying to make herself small and mean. Something more palatable for the masses.
“You say that like you know anything about him.”
She rolls her eyes. “I don’t have to—”
“Careful, Bluebell.”
She tries to bluster her way out of it. “Just stop being dumb and give Josh a call.”
I’m tired, and it goes beyond our usual snapping and martyred patience. Blue gets to skip through life with a brain that doesn’t actively sabotage her. She gets to navigate everything from friendships to family to ordering coffee at an unknown café where she wouldn’t once worry if she was going to misunderstand the ordering protocol.
“And what am I supposed to do, Blue?” My tone is sharp, but we aren’t being gentle with each other today. “Handcuff Josh to the front porch until he wants me again? Apologize to the boy I loved, who told me I was bad at it, and wait patiently for him to hopefully want me again?”
She steps back as if she’s been slapped, but she’s been careless with her words, and I’m not going to hold back now.
“Or should I try to be proactive, like always?” I wave my hand at the tables of books next to me. “Find a way to meet the world halfway, and maybe fix what’s broken?”
She’s rooted in place. Blue, who has never once thought that she wasn’t enough, looks so flummoxed at the idea that other people might have a different outlook.
I smile over at Sloane, frozen at a werewolf-romance display. Their expression is a little too raw for me to hold, but I breathe deeply until my voice is steady. I hold up the sapphic witch book. “Have you heard good things about this one?”
“I think that’s a great choice, Marlowe,” they say, so kindly that it’s like a different sort of knife twisting in my gut. They turn to Blue. “What books do you like?”
Blue shrugs, her voice smaller than before. “I don’t really read.”
“That’s okay. Are there any types of stories or hobbies you’re interested in?”
She shrugs again. “I don’t know. I guess I like cheerleading.”
Sloane beams and says, “I have just the thing,” with enough mystery that Blue follows them to the far side of the store.
I take the moment to myself. It’s not quite a meltdown, but I feel as lost as I did when Josh first ripped me off like a Band-Aid. The letters haven’t miraculously fixed this, or me, and I’ve been leaning on Ash a little too much. This is a problem that has a solution, every problem does, but I don’t have the right equation, or all the data points, or a single brain cell that isn’t already overheated by working on this for almost three months.
Sloane comes back, but Blue is still crouched down, pawing at slim volumes on a bottom shelf.
“What’s got her so interested?” I smile, cheeks tight, trying to sweep away the embarrassment. “A book on why ducks aren’t good indoor pets?”
“I don’t think we need an entire book to realize that,” Sloane says, leaning across the counter. “But I was able to offer her some zombie cheerleader graphic novels.”
“A romance?” I pivot to see Blue sitting cross-legged, poring over open pages.
“Oh yeah, they’re eating brains, but two of the cheerleaders have a surprisingly sweet love arc.”
The snort wriggles out of me, and Sloane clears their throat. Here it comes.
“I didn’t realize what was at the core of your interest in romance.”
I shove my normal human face firmly in place. “I may have had some unusual motivation to start, but I’m enjoying them for very selfish reasons now.”
Sloane’s lips tighten a little. “I’m so glad to hear that. I just feel like I have to speak my piece here. I know it’s none of my business, but somebody has to say it.”
I brace for impact.
“Nobody is inherently bad at love. Sure, people have different communication styles and love languages, and we might not all be on the same page at all times. Those challenges can require work, sometimes professional work, but your instincts aren’t wrong just because they’re not his instincts. And anybody who would make you think or feel that way is not someone worth fighting for.”
I squeeze my eyes tight, the meltdown edging closer, and all the coefficients still dancing outside my reach. Maybe they’re right. God, am I Isabella Linton? Am I so defiantly determined to stick to this path and this boy that I will ignore anything and everything just to get back into his arms?
I open watery eyes, but I’m at my limit. “Thank you, truly, but I think this will be all for me today. Blue?” I call, trying to sound as unbothered as I can.
Blue shuffles up to the counter, two thin books in hand. “Can you get these for me? There’s brains, and kissing, but they also go to Nationals.”
I slide the books toward Sloane and swipe my card without any more eye contact. They bag up our purchases, and I’m leading Blue out the door before anything more can be said.
I put the Volvo in reverse and inch down the street to home.
We pull up to the curb, and she’s out of the car and up the porch stairs before I even have a moment to turn it all over in my brain.
I’m reaching for the phone, and when his voice fills the car, the tension starts to bleed out of me.
“Hey, Dad.”
“There’s my girl.” Ten years in Colorado has done nothing to dull the smooth current of his southern accent. “I was just thinking about you.”
“Was dating hard for you?” I don’t bother with a segue, but neither does he.
I hear the faint sound of chewing, probably graham crackers he swiped from the doctors’ lounge. “I think it’s hard for everyone, darlin’.”
“You know what I mean. For us.”
“Virgos?”
“Dad.” I drag the word into three syllables.
“Why don’t you tell me what this is about, kiddo?”
I lean back against the headrest. I want to ask him about Momma, and where it all went wrong. If things broke down because he didn’t try hard enough or didn’t act a certain way. All I know is that people have spent a lifetime telling me I’m just like Dad with one breath and whispering about how the divorce was all his fault with the next. The fear that I’m too broken, too awkward, too autistic to love rears its head, smothering me.
“I don’t think I’m very good at it.”
“Is this about that Jason kid?” he asks after a pause.
I don’t bother to correct him, because he knows Josh’s name. He’s met him over a few holidays, and I thought Josh’s charisma and med school plans would have them getting along like a house on fire. Instead, he looked at me after Josh left and said, “Maybe he grows on you.”
“I thought you two had broken up?” he continues, when I let the silence drag out a little too long.
“We have, but I’m a Meadows, and we’re not quitters.”
He coughs, and I don’t think it’s the graham cracker. “Baby girl, let me tell you something from experience. Things just don’t work out sometimes, and that’s okay. It’s not always a matter of effort or determination but recognizing that changes happen, and it can be for the best.”
“You hate change,” I say, my voice sullen.
His laughter rings down the phone. “Now, I’m not going to deny I hate it when my favorite restaurant changes their menu, or when my cases get shuffled around after I’ve already prepared myself for a certain kind of day, but there’s nothing wrong with trying something new.” His voice lowers. “Or letting something go.”
“Who are you? What has Denver done to you?”
He laughs again, and the block of ice in my chest thaws a little.
“Only good things, baby girl. Now, back to your previous question, I think your old man is pretty good at dating.”
“Really?” I don’t bother to hide my disbelief. I want to ask about Momma, but he’s laughing and enjoying his graham crackers, and it feels wrong to ruin his day just because mine has sucked.
Someone on an intercom drowns out his reply.
“My next case is ready for me, sweetheart. Talk soon?”
“Sure,” I say, but he’s already gone. I kill the engine and sit long enough for a chill to seep into the car.