Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
PEARL
P earl started her job the next morning with the most professional five words she could think of.
“So, you saw my tits.”
“Um, f—” Reed cleared his throat. “F-felt is more accurate.” He straightened his glasses and finally met her eyes. He gulped. “But, yes. I did.”
And I liked it .
She pushed her sunglasses up, and her thick bangs flopped down. She’d worn her best bookshop assistant outfit—a black loose crop top, tight black shorts, and fishnets because when you had thighs like hers, they tended to rub together and the fishnets helped.
She liked her body. She liked the size of it, the safety of feeling sturdy, the roundness, and the feminine curves. She thought women who looked like her were really fucking hot, but there were some downsides, like raw thighs in the summertime.
In contrast, Reed was wearing a tight button-up white shirt with a sweater vest and linen chino pants. The sleeves rolled up to his elbows made him look like the hottest accountant in Martha’s Vineyard.
She sighed. I am such a slut for forearms.
He stood back from the circular card catalog, and five iced teas sat waiting. “I got you iced tea to say sorry and happy first day, but I wasn’t sure which one you wanted. So I got them all.”
Her fingers itched for Fox & Forrest’s pink passion fruit that she normally saved as a special treat.
“We can also forget this job thing,” he said suddenly, scratching the back of his head. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
A “no” rushed out as she darted to grab the pink tea. She sipped and almost moaned when the sweet, tropical flavors hit her tongue.
She couldn’t lose this opportunity. She’d already made a list of all the baking supplies she’d buy once she’d made enough to buy AB’s EpiPen.
“I think we just need house rules,” she said sensibly. “Towels go in the bathroom now, for example. And headphones off so you can hear me calling you.”
He nodded. “Those are good ideas.”
A little rush hit her spine.
God, why am I such a little praise bitch? There was nothing fucking better in this world than someone smart thinking that your ideas were good.
She cocked her head. “And why do you always leave the room when I eat? Do I gross you out or something?”
She was hypersensitive to people being weird when she was eating. She was plus-size, and yeah, she liked to eat. Who fucking didn’t? She’d told off multiple assholes after they’d hassled her when she’d dared to enjoy a hot dog.
“Oh god, no.” He looked concerned. “Definitely not. I, um, I have this thing.” He cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders. “It’s called misophonia. Certain sounds feel overwhelming, even painful to me. Eating is the main one.”
There was a vulnerable challenge in his eyes, waiting for her to say something. His jaw clenched.
“But sounds like this doesn’t drive you nuts?” She pointed to the cacophony of hammering nail guns and guys yelling at each other across the building.
His shoulders relaxed for some reason. “This? Oh, no. But a fork scraping on a plate? Awful . The sound of somebody crunching makes me irrationally angry and I don’t like who I become. I feel it all over my body so much that it’s…it’s painful. So, I just leave the room.”
A whole life eating by yourself?
Sounds kind of lonely .
“Is it…curable?” She hoped it was okay to ask that.
His smile was sad. “I wish. I’ve tried exposure therapy, regular therapy, those earplugs to dull the sound. Most people with misophonia can handle some sounds without a meltdown, but mine’s always been particularly bad. I learned I’m autistic last year, actually, thanks to a great therapist. Turns out, I’m a lot more sensitive to sounds and touch than other people. And it explains all the weirdness I’ve had with my coworkers and kids in school when I was younger.”
Autistic . She rolled the idea around in her head.
He’d been a nice kid, but hadn’t had many friends. He’d been smart, but had struggled in the things that’d felt obvious to her, like how to be cool.
Like their first kiss, when she’d dared him to do it. They’d been twelve and thirteen in his treehouse, waiting for Luca to come back with snacks. It had been raining outside, and she’d dared him to kiss her.
Sometimes she still thought about it during a summer rainstorm.
Maybe he’d taken it at face value. That it was just a silly dare. He’d kissed her and then gone back to reading comics as if it was nothing.
She’d been devastated.
When she’d asked, “Don’t you want to kiss me again?” maybe he’d answered honestly (“You didn’t dare me to kiss you twice.”).
Maybe he hadn’t gotten the game she’d obviously been playing.
“Is that why you always look like a substitute teacher?” She tugged on the bottom of his sweater vest.
His smile warmed, and it did something to her.
“Yeah, I like the pressure it gives on my chest. It helps me feel more calm. I hate fabric lightly brushing my body.” He shuddered.
Ah, that explains the tight biker shorts yesterday.
“So, I eat in my room, towels go in the bathroom, no crazy loud headphones in the house, and maybe,” he said with a nervous smile, “no death threats during business hours?”
She rolled her eyes. “Fine.”
“Great, so your first day on the job.” His sunny smile that she was so familiar with was pasted back on. It looked a little strained, though. “I need your help filling in the space. Luca said you decorated the house with secondhand items. It looks great, so I trust you.”
A shower of dopamine shot straight down her spine again. Fuck, my nipples are actually hard.
She crossed her arms over her chest, lest Reed notice them about to cut through her shirt.
He pulled up his phone, scrolling through inspiration. “I’m thinking of this sort of vibe.”
A collection of images looked like a big Victorian home that had expanded into a full-blown library. Floral patterns in the upholstery, burnished gold and brass. “I want the store to feel inviting and wondrous, like you stumbled into a magical old bookshop. Your first mission”—he handed her ten one-hundred-dollar bills—“is to thrift two chairs to sit opposite the reading nook.”
“Pfft,” she scoffed. She gave him back five hundred dollars. “If I get two nice chairs, can I keep the rest of what’s left here?”
“Sure.” He shrugged, eager to please.
She rolled her eyes. “You should have said no,” she said, poking his chest and finding the muscle underneath.
He stared at the nail digging into his sweater vest. “Why? I was going to spend a thousand dollars.”
She face-palmed. “That’s not how this works. You’re running a business. You gotta toughen up.”
“Haven’t you always said fuck the man?” He gave her a little attitude back.
She kind of liked it.
“Well, now I’m the man, and you can fuck…me…oh.” His face drained of color as he realized his mistake. “Oh no. I’m so sorry, that’s not what I meant.”
She rolled her lips together to keep from laughing and gathered all the iced tea cups in her arms. “I should fuck you. Noted, boss.”
She smirked and sauntered out of the bookshop without another word. She looked over her shoulder to find he still had his head in his hands, and it looked like he was muttering to himself.
In her car, she pulled up her phone for directions to her favorite thrift store, but a message popped up.
Hemingway_CanSuckIt
Please tell me your day has been as shitty as mine.
Warmth squeezed her cold, dead heart.
ImpossiblyBookish
sorry to tell you…my day’s been fucking amazing
but tell me about it
Hemingway_CanSuckIt
Did you finally get that promotion you wanted?
In some ways, Hemingway knew the truest version of herself. But she’d never let it slip that she’d never had a real job, didn’t know what a 401k was, and probably wouldn’t last one day in a real office with her mouth and bad attitude.
So she’d called her new job a promotion.
ImpossiblyBookish
yeah, i started today
Hemingway_CanSuckIt
*pumps fists* Hell yeah, you did.
Proud of you
ImpossiblyBookish
hemingway...
Hemingway_CanSuckIt
Bookish...
ImpossiblyBookish
stop stalling
Hemingway_CanSuckIt
Nah, I don’t want to bother.
Go celebrate taking over the…printer sales?…world!
ImpossiblyBookish
i swear to god i’ll dm janice and tell her you want to be her new mod bff
Hemingway_CanSuckIt
Diabolical woman
ImpossiblyBookish
you love it
Hemingway_CanSuckIt
God I really fucking do.
Okay fine.
Why is it that when I’m on the precipice of being not an awkward fuck-up…I fuck it all up.
ImpossiblyBookish
aha. a topic i’m an expert in.
i’m an elder in the fuck up club.
a fuckupspert, if you will
look, i fuck up constantly. my car is 1000 years old because i’d rather save for a new tattoo than a carburetor
i’m a regular at a dive bar instead of like, eating spinach and shit
i’ve learned there’s always tomorrow and it probably wasn’t that bad
most people only think about themselves and not the 17 dumb things i fucked up that day
they can keep whatever judgements they have of me. it’s none of my business.
Hemingway_CanSuckIt
Sage advice.
Also spinach is overrated.
Have you ever felt like no one knows the REAL you?
The *you* that you want to be?
ImpossiblyBookish
constantly.
i’m worried that this is it.
it’s too late to make any sort of change in my life.
i’m at the starting line when everybody else has already lapped me.
and even if I tried to run with them, it would be a waste because i wouldn’t belong anyway.
She typed it all out and hit send quickly, her heart clutching in her chest.
Hemingway_CanSuckIt
There’s no such thing as too late.
You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. I just know it.
Emotion caught her by surprise and stung her eyes.
ImpossiblyBookish
sometimes it feels like you’re the only one who knows me
Hemingway_CanSuckIt
I’m honored to be the one who knows you, Bookish.
So what is your professional advice, Madame Fuckupspert, for handling the pain of fucking it all up?
ImpossiblyBookish
::strokes long beard in thought::
i prescribe 200 grams of sweet carbs
chocolate chip if it was especially bad
and a sexting session with a trusted companion this evening
Hemingway_CanSuckIt
Omg I should fuck up all the TIME
What have I been DOING
Let me see if Janice is available tonight
ImpossiblyBookish
you’re hilarious
Hemingway_CanSuckIt
You love it.
ImpossiblyBookish
i really fucking do