Page 22 of Silver Linings

twelve

. . .

I don’t want to call it.

Those gruff words and Hendrix’s rough hands on my body have been playing on a loop in my head since last night. My skin tightens at the memory of his lips moving against mine, and I find myself zoning out far more than I’d care to admit.

This is going to be a problem.

I can’t remember a time when a kiss distracted me well into the next day—scratch that, ever . With past hookups, it’s been an in the moment feeling, we say our goodbyes, and I don’t think of it again. But with Hendrix, I can’t seem to stop thinking about it.

I had thought I just needed to get him out of my system, but one fleeting moment has turned into an all-consuming derailment of my day. It’s alarming how I’m feeling today post hot-as-hell make out against the very counter I’m leaning on.

I recall in visceral detail the way his mouth felt slanted over mine. How his palms felt running up my thighs, callused and confident. The sounds he elicited that I’ve never heard myself make, with anyone . Desperate and wanting, like if I didn’t get more of him, closer to him, I would regret it.

I’m feeling what I can only assume are butterflies, smiling down at wood stain swatches for the floors and stair banister, when the shop phone trills out a loud ring that makes me jump out of my skin.

The fact that no one ever calls here should have been my first indicator that the store was in the red and reminds me that I need to call the phone company and get the account transferred under my name and update our devices.

“Brownstone Books, how can I help?” I chirp into the phone.

“Hi, honey.” All the blood drains from my face, and a pulsing drumbeat starts up in my head.

This is the second time my mom’s called me in just a few weeks, and her persistence is starting to put me on edge.

I can’t even begin to fathom what she could want outside of money—hopping from town to town and never settling in one place can get expensive, after all.

But she always went to Nan with that sort of request. It seemed to be the one thing she wasn’t interested in burdening me with.

Child abandonment and its subsequent trauma was okay, though.

“Yeah?” My voice comes out low and hollow.

How easy it is to revert to the eight-year-old version of me when she’s around. For feelings of intense sadness at having lost not one parent, but two, to drag me down. Losing my father was too much for her to deal with while having a kid. Her solution: ship me off to grandma’s house forever.

Memories resurface of me standing outside The Langham, otter stuffy dangling from one hand while I waved goodbye, thinking she would be back for me soon. But soon turned into a week, that turned into a month, and that turned into forever.

“You never got back to me after our last talk,” she admonishes.

“I didn’t realize we were on a call back basis. I must have missed all of yours growing up.” It’s impossible to keep the bitterness out of my tone.

“Don’t be like that. I just want to see my daughter when I’m in town in a few weeks.” Always on her schedule, only when she wants or needs it.

“Now’s not a good time. Maybe next time you’re visiting.” Also not likely, but anything to end this phone call and the chill that’s crept over my body like a fog.

“Silly, please, we should really talk?—”

“Sorry—what–I…hear–phone’s cutt—” I wince. Hanging up the phone was definitely not the mature approach, but panic started to sink its claws in.

A sticky feeling coats my skin whenever I’m confronted by the hurt my mother’s actions caused.

I didn’t date, kept nearly everyone at a distance, never chose a career path because commitments didn’t mean anything in my world.

Nothing was permanent, and anyone could change their mind in an instant. Even a mother could leave her daughter.

I frantically grab a sticky note and write a new task to get done: change the shop phone number.

Maybe I’m lucky to get this second call, to get this reminder of why I don’t like committing to anything or anyone. It’s too hard, and people always end up hurt in the end. It’s easy to get swept up in a moment and let it nearly knock down your carefully constructed walls.

I have to end this.

Whatever is going on with Hendrix, I have to end it now, or I’m going to find myself swimming through capsizing waters I vowed to myself long ago I would never drown in.

I can’t be like my mom. I won’t.

I won’t let my world get so wrapped up in a person that I can’t function without them. It’s easier to stay detached in the long run. If I don’t let myself want it to begin with, I can’t be disappointed when it doesn’t pan out the way I’d hoped.

And I could see myself getting attached to Hendrix.

I allow myself a few moments of longing, one moment to reminisce on the heat of last night’s kiss before I let it go.

I’m going to end it. I am .

I have to.

“Are you okay?” Holly knocks me out of my tortured reverie.

Snapping back to reality, I straighten from the counter—the one I was just laying on horizontally, as if I could infuse myself into the wood grains and stay in the memory of kissing Hendrix just a little longer.

“Yeah, why?” I infuse my voice with levity so she doesn’t suspect something’s wrong.

“It’s just that you were staring off into the distance, and it looked like you were trying to hump the counter.”

“What goes on between me and the cash wrap is no one’s business but ours.”

“How was last night?” Holly’s tone is just a little too casual to not be suspicious.

“It was fine.” Cool as a cucumber.

“Mmmm.” I know she’s not buying it. “The store already looks better. I like the color you chose.” She points to the wall behind me. “It livens up the place, but it’s not so bright that it distracts from everything else going on.”

Grabbing my iced coffee from the counter, I step out and walk the floor to where she stands, surveying the work we got done the previous night.

“I’m really happy with it too. We’re going to fix and paint the shelves white to offset the flooring, and I’ll grab some colorful rugs to put under the tables.”

“Have you thought about changing the name of the store?”

It has crossed my mind, but when I tried to come up with another name, the commitment and permanence of that decision started to make me feel panicky. So, I threw it to the back of the filing cabinet in my mind to be looked at another day.

“A little. But there’s just too much else to focus on. Hendrix and I spent four hours working last night, and this is all we got done.” I point to the wall we finished.

“Speaking of Hendrix…” She trails off, raising her eyebrows and looking to me to spill any kind of dirt on the previous night.

I consider telling her, would have in the past, but something stills my tongue. It’s a weird sense of wanting to keep that moment with Hendrix between just me and him, like if I don’t put the moment we had into words, I can pretend it didn’t happen and it’ll make ending it with him easier.

“We’re just friends, Hols.”

“That’s not what it looked like from where I was standing. I was practically being hotboxed with sexual tension. It made me a little horny myself, actually,” she pouts.

“You’re ridiculous.” I laugh. “Can we get to the task at hand, though?”

She squints her eyes at me. “Fine. Let’s talk about events.”

“Perfect! So for now, we can have events here on the main floor by shifting these tables off to the sides and setting up chairs. When we fix the second floor, we can do them up there so we won’t have to disturb the main floor.”

“What other events are you thinking about other than the book club we’re starting next week?”

“I was thinking we could host writing socials. Once a month, we offer a free space where writers can come together in a safe space and just get out of their head for a bit.” I can see the happiness in her eyes. Holly may work here, but writing is her first love.

“Silver–”

I cut her off. “I was also thinking we could do author events eventually, book release parties, signings, that kind of thing. Maybe a localized mini market once a month to give artists a place to sell their work on weekends. Dating mixers could be fun?—”

“You know who could benefit from a dating mixer?” She points a direct look at me.

“I don’t date.” Holly opens her mouth to continue, but I cut her off. “I’d love any and all sorts of ideas from you and Carmen, though.”

“Craft events would be fun—like a make your own bookmark station. Maybe we can partner with that craft store over on Mulberry and help drive business to them too.”

We bounce ideas back and forth throughout the day while helping shoppers and shifting around stock to make room for the newer titles released this week, trying not to think about Hendrix every time I see the new paint color adorning the left wall.

“You have to knead the dough, Silver,” Seraphina shouts at me from the kitchen of her and Holly’s home in Brooklyn.

I am fulfilling my bargain to be a test dummy for Sera’s baking workshop. That way, she can work out any kinks in her curriculum before she takes the announcement live to her blog, Mental Bake Down, and starts booking regular classes.

“I do need the dough. I need it in my mouth,” I quip while Kena snorts next to me.

“I told you bringing her here would be a disaster.”

“Hey!” I huff out in a grumble and settle my flour-coated hands on my hips in indignation.

“Sweetie, I love you,” I smile at his words, “but we both know anything to do with cooking or baking is not your strong suit.”

“And that’s what makes her the perfect student,” Sera says, walking back into the dining room where we’re at. “Knead,” she directs with a tilt of her head toward my slab of lumpy dough.

“Will you come show me how? Like we’re Patrick and Demi in Ghost at the potter’s wheel?”

“Stop hitting on my wife!” Holly shouts from their bedroom, where she’s working on her current manuscript.