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ALANA

Not being a world-famous author means I don’t have the luxury of swimming in endless royalties or six-figure advances from my publisher.

And leaving my marriage without a dime of spousal maintenance or child support— fair, really —means getting a real job.

It means venturing out into the real world and talking to actual human beings, earning a salary so I can, at the very least, afford to feed my son.

Lucky for me, there was a sign out front of a rundown bookstore on Main Street—the place is literally called Books Books Books —advertising a job vacancy.

Mrs. Middler, the owner, who was the owner when I was a small child, too, had a stroke over the winter, and though she made it through and is mostly back to her normal eighty-something-year-old self, her grandkids felt the need to force her into semi-retirement.

They don’t want to run the place themselves, and selling it in today’s economy would be worse than simply having it managed.

Which makes their unwanted responsibility my desired job.

So here I am, standing amongst the chaos and walls of uncategorized novels stacked atop cookbooks, biographies towering over textbooks, romance novels mixed with dark thriller and splatterpunk horror.

What are supposed to be aisles lined with beautiful bookshelves have turned into a hoarder’s paradise.

And still, I can’t wipe the smile from my face .

“You’re trading selling books for… selling books?

” Fox sneers over the phone. She doesn’t even try to hide her contempt.

“You could be touring and promoting your own book, but you choose to work in a pokey little store, destroy your sinuses with small-town dust, and accept the teeny-tiny salary they’re paying you instead? ”

“Fox—”

“You could be on talk shows! You could meet Oprah. You could meet Reese Witherspoon! You have a deal on the table and a really good story to share with the world. You could be rich! But you’re running an old lady’s bookstore for like, three hundred bucks a week?

This is grounds to have you committed, you know that? ”

I roll my eyes. “I have no expenses except groceries and whatever Franky needs, which means my salary is actually entirely reasonable. And Helen has never mentioned Reese or Oprah. You’re sensationalizing.”

“You’re robbing the world of your art! Helen believes in it so much that she hasn’t even fired you yet, despite how much of a pain in the ass you are. That means something.”

“Yeah. It means she gets a cut of whatever deal I get, so of course she wants me to take it. That’s hardly believing in me. ”

“Sell your damn book and come back to New York! You don’t even have to see Colin. You don’t even have to tell him you’re here. I’ll hide you.”

I exhale and lean back to study a precarious tower of… James Patterson and Tolkien. “I don’t need to hide from him. Colin has been nothing but decent since the moment we met.”

“He kicked you out!”

“He suggested we move out, expressed his growing feelings for Tasha, and explained how our marriage was affecting his relationship prospects.”

“Are you even listening to yourself right now?” Her anger pulses throughout the bookstore. “Your husband is having sex with his assistant, and he oh-so-politely mentioned that your presence within the marital home was hampering his affair. Are you serious right now?”

“You oversimplify nuanced situations for the sake of irritating me.” I leave Tolkien and Patterson to co-mingle a little longer and wander back to the desk at the front of the store.

It’s a counter, I suppose. With a cash register and an ancient computer collecting dust. Unopened mail—envelopes—creating a stack on the left, and unopened parcels—books—forming a tipping tower on the right.

An old, already-used candle hints at what was once a store Mrs. Middler intended to be quaint.

Comfortable. Somewhere people would come for the atmosphere.

And beautiful chandelier lights hang from the ceiling.

Their bulbs long ago died, but her intention is clear to see.

A couch sits hidden beneath books, and coffee tables, too, struggle under the weight of novels.

Mrs. Middler’s plan was to run a bookstore, but not the type where you would come in, peruse the shelves, and leave again.

No, she wanted to provide a space for customers to explore, selecting books according to their moods, as well as a pastry and coffee, before sitting down to enjoy their purchases for hours and hours amongst like-minded people.

And fortunately for her, she had more than enough space to cater to her dreams.

Unfortunately for her, she had so much space, I imagine it all became too much as she grew older. What was once a wonderland for written adventures became an overwhelming task to keep clean. Sprawling floors to mop. Too many shelves to dust. Simply too much to keep up with.

But now I’m here, and though my reasons for returning to Plainview aren’t entirely pleasant, I hope to make good of my circumstances.

For my sanity and for Franky’s, too.

“Alana?” Fox’s feelings about my move are complicated, from pure rage at the fact I’d leave, to encouraging me to be brave when my nerves faltered.

From nagging me to stay, to demanding I get in the car and stop being a coward.

She wants what’s best for me, but struggles knowing best isn’t black and white.

“Come back to New York and run a bookstore here. This is where all the real readers are. It’s where all the colorful, wonderful, exotic, and varied personalities congregate.

Plainview is just…” She expels a noisy breath of air. “There’s a reason you left.”

“Yes. There was.” I turn at the counter and glance out the dusty windows that overlook Main Street as old, rusting trucks putter by and little old ladies sit outside the drugstore with their purses on their laps and unkind sneers as their only expressions.

They’re literally the same old ladies who sat in the same spot, doing the same thing, ten years ago.

“My reasons were valid, Fox. Even if no one besides you, Colin, and Helen know them. They were real and rational and important to me. But now my mom needs me here, and Colin needs to move on. I’m not moving into your apartment on a long-term basis, and I can’t afford to live in New York on my income. ”

“You could if you sold your damn book!”

“Fox—”

“Your advance alone would support you and Franky comfortably for a year. Colin would give you anything if you asked for it. And I want you to move in with me. So, really, you could have no rent to pay in either place. No utilities. Just food and whatever things Franky needs. Come back,” she groans. “Your life is here now.”

I spy my mother and Franky wandering along the sidewalk, their steps painfully slow and Franky’s sour face as loud as if he were screaming and waving his arms in the air.

But, of course, my baby would never do such a thing.

“I have to go now, Fox.”

“Wait…” Stunned, she makes a sound in the back of her throat. “What? We were in the middle of an important discussion.”

“No. You were in the middle of what you think is an important discussion. But me and Franky are already here. We already moved, and there isn’t a dollar amount the richest man on the planet could offer that would convince me to climb back into my car and make the twenty-four-hour drive again so soon. ”

“Alana—”

“But you should come out here for a visit.” I pick up my phone and take the call off speaker, then bringing it to my ear, I move to the shop door and open it, the bells above drawing Franky’s forlorn eyes.

“We’d love to have you, and we have an unused guest bedroom at the house, so you could stay with us. ”

“At your mother’s house? The woman who kind of hates you because your dad cheated on her, ditched town with the mistress, and because you kind of look like him, she likes to punish you simply for existing? That house?”

I cough out a quiet laugh and step back to allow room for Franky to pass through. My mother, of course, is still twenty feet behind. “Yes. That house. But if you’re not comfortable, there’s a bed-and-breakfast not so far from my place that has pretty decent Google reviews. Consider it.”

“Alana—”

“I have to go. But I’ll text you later.” I drag the phone from my ear and end the call without giving her a chance to argue, and for the eternity it takes my mother to hobble through, I remain patient.

Impassive. “How was your day, honey?” As soon as she’s in, I release the door and turn to my son. “What did you do?”

“This is a lot of books.” Ignoring my question, he ambles the packed aisles, scouring the overflowing shelves and sliding the tip of his finger along random spines. “The fiction and non-fiction are mixed up, though.” He scowls. “That’s not right.”

“No. It’s not.” I slip my phone into my back pocket and follow him.

I’d prefer to be near him over my mom any day.

“The lady who owns this shop is older now and a little sick, so things got messy. But that’s my job now.

I’ll clear everything out and start again.

I’m not sure Mrs. Middler even knows what stock she has anymore, so I think it could be a fun idea to write it all down and?—”

“You should use a spreadsheet for that.” He pauses in front of a middle-grade fantasy series, the bright purple and orange spines a beacon for his curious gaze.

“Don’t use a pen and paper, or else you’ll lose track, too.

Actually,” he stares up at me through smudged glasses, “I’ll make the spreadsheet for you. ”

“Whew.” Mom moves books aside and sits on the couch with a harrumph. “This kid, Alana. Constantly leaving me speechless.”

Unlikely. She’s always got something snarky to say.

“He’s pretty amazing.” I watch as he continues browsing. “What did you get up to today?”