Page 12 of Drawn Together

Eleven

Word of the day: windownest

Definition: that feeling of being indoors — reading, writing, or watching rain — while the world bustles beyond a city window

I took the liberty of bypassing the middleman, Tom, and going straight to the source of my problems. Ethically, this might be a problem, but I have decided to just kick that can down the road.

After finishing Coraline last week and being mid-way through my read of Frankenstein , I feel like I am slowly getting to understand what Cedric ‘Moody’ Brooks was getting at.

If these are the kind of books he uses for inspiration, then I was way off the mark in my first and second round.

In my mind, the story about Evie being so young had me thinking we could give it a youthful feel, but I should’ve known better.

No seventy-something-year-old man wants a ‘youthful’ look to what is possibly his next big hit.

So, I keep my same style—soft lines and wide eyes—but spice it up with harsher elements like her wallpaper having faded images of stars, but one corner shows a few of them rearranged into the shape of scissors.

I, begrudgingly, take out some of the woodland creatures and teddy bears, and add in this little mystery of making the seamstress’s eyes spaced out enough to give you goosebumps.

By the time Halloween rolls around, I won’t even need a costume. I’ll be spooky enough as is.

With final approval from Sloane—‘it looks like a fever dream’—I type up a quick email to Cedric Brooks and happily press send.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Good morning Mr. Brooks!!

I know we have not spoken directly before, but I felt as though it would be best for me to reach out and let you know I totally understand the changes you want, and I have done a complete flip on my style for you.

I have really darkened the theme to an aesthetic I think you’ll be more than pleased with!

Feel free to let me know if you have any suggestions for color drafts next. Thanks!

— Honey Bell Studios

It’s not until I am at the bookstore that afternoon when I finally get my response.

Lennon has been my shadow for most of my shift, thankfully giving me time with her so I can try to get to know her better.

First, we worked on setting up the new releases table, which includes writing all the workers’ reviews on little orange and yellow sticky tabs and placing them on the display, along with laminated cutouts of fallen leaves, pumpkin-flavored coffees, and red apples to staple onto a muted orange background.

Despite Lennon’s consistent silence, she is a very enthusiastic worker. I’m not sure why I expected anything different—she loads the dishwasher in the most efficient way I have ever seen —but it does make me wonder what she did for work before she got fired.

When I ask her to open a box of new releases to help me shelve them, she’s already half done before I can finish cutting open the one I’m working on.

When Edith asks her to straighten the beanbags in the kids’ area before story time, she has the entire corner spotless, not a single stray cheerio or gummy wrapper to be found.

When she’s done, Edith turns to me with a wide smile and a thumbs up before mouthing ‘Great hire!’ and I take the win as my own, since I think she’s only smiled at me once since I started working here in June.

Lennon and I take on the next big project—readjusting the windows. Edith seems to think part of the reason our foot traffic has significantly slowed down is due to our outward appeal. So, she assigns the two of us to decorate the window displays for fall.

“They’re not doing well here?” Lennon whispers, but even if she yelled it, Edith can’t hear unless you’re shouting at her.

“Truthfully, it’s been slow from day one of me being here.”

We get the most customers are during story time, and even then, they rarely buy the book. They’re mostly just taking in the free snacks and coloring pages—courtesy of HoneyBell—and going about their merry way.

Lennon takes the plaid flannel blanket of rich, autumn hues—burnt orange, mustard yellow, and deep burgundy—to form the backdrop, while I work on writing ‘ Falling into a Good Book’ on the vintage chalkboard sign with a coffee mug drawn beside it.

“Huh.” She folds the corner and tucks it into the display at a perfect ninety-degree angle. “I’m surprised.”

Honestly, me too. There could be a handful of reasons.

For one, there is literally no online presence of the store whatsoever.

You can Google ‘bookstores near me’ standing on the sidewalk outside, and Nook and Cranny would never pop on the list. Also, Edith has a strict ‘no phones or devices’ policy, forcing every customer and employee to leave their phones in a basket at the door.

She says it makes it mysterious and unique, but I think she severely underestimates how some big book influencers could flip this place around.

Then, there’s the obvious fact that our prices are higher than some other bigger stores in the area.

And even with all that, the store is so lovely I still can’t understand why it’s not doing better.

“It’s a really great place.”

Lennon nods, tongue poking out as she gives her full focus to the blanket in front of her. “Fletcher said it was, too.”

“He did?”

“He didn’t say anything about it when he brought you your jacket?”

“Not really.” I think back to him sitting hunched over in the tiny pencil chair and I snort, the curve of my ‘l’ earning a tiny notch in the top.

We wrap up the display surprisingly fast. A small twig tree stands in the center, its bare branches holding books like fruit, surrounded by stacks of seasonal reads—cozy mysteries, classic novels, fall-inspired sci-fi’s, and autumn-themed cookbooks—each with handwritten staff recommendation cards sticking out the tops to look like leaves.

Tucked among the books are tiny pumpkins, a vintage thermos with a steaming mug, and a plush cat curled up next to an open novel.

Lennon adds a chunky knit scarf draped casually over the display, and my hand-lettered sign on a small chalkboard reads, “Falling into a Good Book: Cozy Reads for Crisp Days,” in my classic calligraphy.

It’s by far my favorite display yet.

“Alright, we can probably take the old decorations back to storage and—” I pause when I realize Lennon is frozen, staring at a dystopian science fiction book we got in last week.

The front cover has an alien that is somewhat reminiscent of Stitch and a boy wearing a helmet, floating in space together.

“Lennon?”

She lifts her blonde head from the book, and I quirk a brow. Does she ever read books for fun? Is she a sci-fi kind of girl?

“Do you like science fiction? We have some really good new releases that you—”

“No.” She sets the book back on the shelf and straightens it, wiping her palm over the cover like the handshake of an old friend. “It’s not for me.”

“Do you have anything you like to read?”

“No.”

“Well, what kind of shows do you like?”

“I don’t really watch TV anymore.”

Anymore. Huh.

“What about in your down time?” I silently tack, when you’re not at our apartment, which you never seem to be anymore.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, I bet we can find you something.”

“Flora.” She says it with a sigh, and I think it might be the first time she’s ever said my name to me. “I don’t even know what colors I like anymore, much less enough about myself to tell you what kind of book I would read when I never have read for fun before. I’m not you.”

Maybe it’s the optimist in me. Or maybe I am delusional. But I swear I almost hear a hint of admiration in those last three words—I’m not you—as if being me is something to be proud of.

“Well.” I don’t know how to do that. I can’t tell her, her favorite color or who she is. But, giving her the right book? I can do that. “I think I know what you’d like.”

I round around the corner and reach for a classic of mine since middle school—the first romance book I ever read. Or the first book with any romance in it, considering it’s a very minor subplot.

“ The Fireflies of Embermoor .” I turn the book over to read the back in my narrator voice. "In a mist-shrouded village where fireflies carry forgotten memories, a girl searching for her missing mother unravels a centuries-old mystery—with the help of a boy who may not belong to her time."

Lennon raises a skeptical brow at me, and I smile. “There’s a romance subplot, yeah, but there’s also ancient village lore, dream walking, time loops, and intergenerational secrets. Trust me, get three chapters in, and I promise you’ll be hooked.”

She flips the paperback in her hand, reading the back and scanning beginning pages before nodding. “Okay.”

“Okay.” I smile.

I think back to Sloane's call last week when she signed. Maybe try to make friends with the people already around you, and grin to myself. I think I might be doing just that.