The yellow balloons bob in a cheery arch over the open glass doors of ValUBooks as a steady stream of customers passes through on their blissful way to kill my soul, my family’s legacy, and every dream I ever dared to dream.
“It’s not that bad,” says Viv brightly.
My sweet employee, she of the freckles and strawberry-blonde hair, stands beside me at the window of my shop as we watch the throng of people outside make their way to fatten the already fat bank account of my arch nemesis.
I’d say competitor, but there’s no competition. ValUBooks is a Fortune 500 company with over a billion in assets, operating more than 1,000 successful retail outlets across the country, and employing over 30,000 people.
My company, Lit Happens, has one location, five employees, and “assets” that include an assortment of feral cats that wander in and out and an ancient espresso machine possessed by a fire demon that once burst into flames just as the city health inspector arrived to conduct the annual inspection on the tiny café inside the store.
I mutter, “Sure. In the same way a brain tumor isn’t that bad.”
Viv shoots me a glance, examines my expression, then turns back to the view of the sunny July morning and continues trying to reassure me.
“Don’t sound so depressed. It’s opening day. They’re bound to be busy today. I bet tomorrow, it will be slower. Then next week, it will be totally dead.”
Dead like my business. Dead like my future. Dead like my love life, which came to a screeching halt six months ago when my boyfriend Ben suddenly declared it was over between us. Then he blocked my number as if I were a bill collector he was trying to avoid.
I still have no idea what happened. When I went to his apartment to try to talk to him, his neighbor across the hall said he’d moved.
He didn’t leave a forwarding address. He didn’t even give the landlord notice. He just cleared out like a criminal on the run from the law.
He probably had a premonition that my life was about to end, and he didn’t want to get dragged down into the depths of bankruptcy and self-loathing with me.
“Oh God. It’s Channel 4 News!” Horrified, I point to the blue-and-white van with the satellite dish affixed to its roof that’s pulling into the parking lot.
Viv says hopefully, “Maybe there’s a gas leak.”
I scoff. “Thanks for that, but the news doesn’t show up to cover a gas leak. They’re reporting on the grand opening.”
“Maybe it’s a big gas leak. Maybe the building is about to be evacuated. Maybe ValUBooks is going to explode!”
That’s Viv in a nutshell. Little Miss Sunshine, always looking on the bright side, even in the face of imminent disaster.
I could point to a gigantic asteroid entering the atmosphere directly over our heads that was about to obliterate all life on the planet, and she’d say something chipper about how at least there are no income taxes or internet trolls in the afterlife.
“Nothing is exploding around here except my sanity. I need a drink.”
Despondent, I turn away from the window and cross the store, stopping behind the counter where the register sits. From beneath it, I pull a bottle of whiskey. I unscrew the cap and take a slug right from the bottle as Viv watches me, her pretty face pinched.
She says tentatively, “Isn’t it a little early for a drink, Em?”
“Don’t judge me. My life’s falling apart. Liquor is the answer.”
“Liquor is never the answer. Especially at ten o’clock on a Friday morning.”
“Ha! Says the infant with no problems.”
She looks insulted. “Twenty isn’t an infant.”
“Pfft. Get back to me in a decade and we’ll talk.”
I take another swig from the bottle, cap it, then put it back under the counter. Because although I’d never admit aloud that my young and unjaded employee is right, she’s right. Ten o’clock is much too early to drink.
I’ll wait until noon to really get started.
The front door of the shop swings open. A tanned brunette wearing a gold USC hoodie, cutoff jean shorts, and flip-flops bursts in, looking panicked.
“Emery! OhmyfuckingGod the news is out there! Did you see the van? Did you see the crowd? Did you see how many cars are in the lot? I had to park down the street, it’s so packed!”
“Maybe tone down the hysteria,” suggests Viv, sending an uncharacteristic frown toward Harper as she charges at me, tossing her Louis Vuitton handbag onto the counter.
Harper ignores her. She grabs me by the shoulders and gives me a shake.
“I can’t lose this job, Em. You know my financial situation. You know Chad wiped me out. You know I could never find another job because I have no work ethic!”
“What I know is that you’re giving me bruises and making me want to give you a friendly little slap in return.” I reach under the counter and grab the whiskey. “Here. This will help.”
As Harper unscrews the cap on the whiskey and takes a drink, Viv throws her hands in the air in exasperation.
“Doesn’t anyone around here have healthy stress management skills?”
“They didn’t teach that back in the dark ages when we went to school. Now make yourself useful, Vivienne. Go next door to the enemy camp, have a look around, and report back.”
“What am I supposed to be looking for?”
“Anything we can send as a code violation to the county to get those bastards closed down.”
“What if I don’t find anything?”
Harper pipes in, “Pretend to slip. Fall and break a bone. Make a scene. And make sure there’s blood! News reporters love it when there’s blood.”
Viv sighs and shakes her head.
“She’s joking,” I say.
“No, I’m not!” insists Harper. “This is life or death, girls! I’m a thirty-year-old single mother with no marketable skills, forty grand in credit card debt, and a child who visits the emergency room at least once a month because he’s allergic to everything. I can’t lose this job. And if we don’t do something drastic, ValUBooks will be the end of us.”
She turns toward the front window, waves an arm in the air, and wails, “Just look at that crowd!”
Harper always gets dramatic when she’s upset. She was a theater major in college before she dropped out to marry the star quarterback, have a baby, and discover that her husband’s idea of monogamy included a rotating roster of perky coeds.
I take the bottle from her and put it back under the counter. I’d let her have more, but I need it.
Over the sound of Harper hyperventilating, a gruff male voice calls, “Good morning, ladies.”
Mr. Murphy stands in the front door, nodding a curt hello to all of us.
He’s a retired English teacher originally from the Bronx whose wife passed away last year. He was a long-time customer of the shop before I owned it, and the first employee I hired after my father died.
In my opinion, every good bookstore has at least one cat, several comfy chairs tucked away in hidden corners to curl up in, and a curmudgeon who knows how to find exactly the story you’re looking for.
Mr. Murphy is our curmudgeon.
“Oh, Murph,” cries Harper. “Did you see? We’re doomed!”
He closes the door behind him and surveys Harper with a look of distaste in his steely blue gaze. Nothing makes him more uncomfortable than displays of emotion.
Ignoring Harper’s outburst, he strides over to the espresso machine on the other side of the shop. In his crisp white button-down dress shirt, plastic pocket protector, and horn-rimmed glasses, he could be a rocket scientist straight out of the fifties.
His gray buzz cut and disdain for normal human feelings only add to the impression.
I say, “Murph, you’re not on the schedule for today.”
“Neither is Harper,” he replies stoically as he fixes himself an espresso. “Or Taylor, whom I spied in the parking lot, skulking around like a felon.”
Taylor is another employee, a gaming fanatic with tattoos of her favorite book quotes all over her body, lots of facial piercings, and a wicked sense of humor.
She’s probably here for the same reason the rest of us are.
To commiserate with our fate.
As if on cue, the front door opens again, revealing Sabine.
Sabine is one of those quintessential California beach girls, all shiny gold hair and big blue eyes and teeth like the star of a Colgate commercial. In contrast to her sunny appearance, however, she radiates the kind of dark intensity usually associated with cult leaders.
It’s an irresistible combination. I can’t count how many men I’ve seen fall lovestruck at her feet.
She steps inside and fixes me with a piercing stare. “Hey, Em. How are you?”
I smile. “Who, me? Just in the middle of a minor breakdown. Nothing to worry about.”
From over his shoulder, Murph calls, “Good morning, Sabine.”
“Morning, Murph. Viv, Harper. What’s everyone doing here?”
Murph turns to peer at her over the rims of his glasses. “Isn’t it obvious? We’re on the deck of the Titanic, listening to the musicians play before we sink into the freezing water and drown.”
He’s always good for a depressing metaphor.
“Nobody’s drowning!” says Viv with a huff. “You guys are overreacting. Lit Happens has been a mainstay of this community for forty years. I mean, that’s like…” She struggles for a comparison, then points at me. “Practically as long as Emery’s been celibate!”
“Excuse me, but six months is hardly forty years.”
Sabine chuckles. “Maybe for you, it isn’t.”
The phone rings. I rush to answer it, hoping it’s a customer with a big special order or maybe a long-lost relative calling to inform me of the billions I’ve just inherited from an eccentric great-aunt I never knew I had. But when I pick up, I’m disappointed to hear a familiar voice.
“Oh, good, I caught you,” says my landlord in his distinct Boston accent.
“Hi, Bill.” I sneak a furtive glance behind me to make sure nobody’s too close, then turn back to face the wall and lower my voice. “The rent check cleared, didn’t it?”
“Yes, it did. After I put it through twice.”
I wince, then start to chew my thumbnail. “Shit. I’m so sorry. It’s just been a little tight lately, what with the economy and inflation and still trying to get over the pandemic downturn—”
He interrupts, “No, no, I understand completely. It’s been hard times for everybody in retail, that’s for sure.”
I’m relieved for half a second, until he says, “Which is actually why I’m calling.”
There’s something in the tone of his voice that makes my pulse jump. “What do you mean?”
He clears his throat. “Well, your current lease term will end soon…”
Oh no. Oh God no, don’t you dare do this to me right now.
“…and as you know, we haven’t raised the rent in several years…”
Don’t say it, Bill. Please don’t say what I think you’re about to say.
“…but with ValUBooks moving into the complex, those smaller spaces like yours are going to command a much higher price per square foot. So I’m afraid there’s going to be an increase.”
When my silence becomes too much for him to bear, he says sheepishly, “Your rent will double starting September first.”
“Double?” I shout, startling the chubby orange cat dozing on the countertop nearby. “You’re telling me you want me to pay twenty thousand dollars a month for rent?”
At least he has the decency to sound embarrassed. “You haven’t had an increase in five years. And before that, it was another five. It’s only fair that we bring things up to current market value.”
I want to say that if things were fair, my father would never have died in the first place.
If things were fair, my mother wouldn’t have succumbed to breast cancer when I was only ten years old.
If things were fair, for fuck’s sake, I wouldn’t have had to skip college to help run the family business. The business currently gasping its last breath.
But I simply close my eyes and draw a slow breath. “I have people who rely on this business for jobs, Bill.”
“And I have people who rely on my business for theirs. I’m really sorry, Em. This isn’t personal.”
My face flaming, I retort, “Actually, this is about as personal as it gets.”
“Look. You’re a businesswoman. You know how it goes. Only the strong survive.”
“That’s not business, it’s a Bruce Springsteen song.”
“Same thing.”
“You could’ve given me a little more notice!”
“Would it have made any difference if I did?”
I close my eyes and exhale in defeat. We both know he could give me a year’s advance notice, and I still wouldn’t be able to make the new rent.
At that moment, the marching band I didn’t know had assembled in the parking lot launches into an enthusiastic rendition of “Start Me Up” by the Rolling Stones.
“What’s all that racket?” says Bill.
“The sound of my life ending.” I slam the receiver down with a curse, making the orange cat on the counter glare at me in outrage for disturbing him.
Taylor bursts through the door, knocking Sabine aside in her rush.
“Hey!” Sabine says, aggravated. “I’m standing here!”
Without acknowledging her, Taylor crosses to me in a few long strides and slaps her hands down on the countertop.
Leaning in, she says hotly, “They have a Starbucks. A fucking Starbucks, those twats!”
In addition to her fondness for piercings and tattoos, Taylor also has a vulgar mouth. It’s one of the many things I love about her.
“We knew that, Tay. It was announced in the paper.”
Murph says, “Taylor, make yourself useful and go find something next door to light on fire. Preferably the romance section.”
Harper snaps, “Don’t diss romance novels, Murph! They’re the only thing that’s gotten me through the last year!”
Taylor smirks. “Yeah, that and your battery-operated toy collection.”
Harper props her hands on her hips and glares at her. Sabine laughs. Murph’s face turns red. And I reach for the bottle again, because this is going to be a very long day.
It’s just as I’m swallowing around the burn of the whiskey that I catch a glimpse of a man through the shop windows.
Partly hidden by the bobbing arch of balloons, he’s standing still outside the entrance of ValUBooks. A head taller than everyone else, he ignores the crowd and the blaring band as he stares in the direction of my shop.
His arms are folded across his broad chest. Despite the July heat, he’s dressed all in black, including a leather jacket and cowboy boots. His mirrored sunglasses reflect the morning light.
He’s too far away for me to see his face clearly, but there’s something familiar about him. His stance, maybe, or his height. I think I’ve seen him somewhere before but can’t place where.
Narrowing my eyes, I look closer.
The man in black turns and vanishes into the crowd.
