Repeat

by Scott, Kylie

  “Goodness . . . I don’t know what to say.” She huffs out a breath, her shoulders slumping. She seems so gutted by my misfortune. So genuine. “Honey, I’m sorry that happened to you. I’m Iris, by the way. You’ve been coming here for years, ever since you started working in the bank on Spring Street. You’re one of my best customers and, well, I like to think we’re friends too.”

  I lift my hand in greeting. “Hi, Iris. Nice to meet you.”

  “Did they catch the son of a bitch who did this to you?”

  “Not yet,” says Frances, her voice hardening. “But we will.”

  “Good. We need coffee, that’s what we need.” Iris gets busy with a collection of mugs and the coffeepot sitting on a side table. “Take a seat, girls. Get comfortable. Sounds like we’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

  “Can I help?” I ask.

  “No. Sit.”

  I do as told and so does Frances.

  The bookstore has a large arched front window, the walls lined with shelving. In the middle of the space is a big table covered in haphazard stacks of books. A comfy-looking red sofa, a couple of wingback chairs, and an ottoman. Over against the right-hand wall is a high old-fashioned counter. Lord knows how long this place has been here. The air of permanence, the scent of paper and ink is real. It’s a great shop.

  “I had good taste in hangout places,” I say, looking around.

  Frances laughs. “Oh you’re owning this one, are you?”

  “What?”

  “Please,” Frances says, her legs crossed, foot bopping. “You’ve been constantly down on the first twenty-five years of your life. Apart from Ed, maybe. You seem okay with having been there and done that.”

  “Well, he’s a very pretty man,” I say. “Besides, you try having a lifetime’s worth of choices dumped on you with little to no explanation available as to why you did the things you did. I feel sorry for me.”

  “I’ve noticed.”

  I smile. Either my sister’s dry sense of humor is rubbing off on me or the halfhearted bitching at each other feels a lot like actual affection these days. I don’t know. But I like it.

  “We were in the middle of planning a monthly romance book club,” says Iris, arriving back and setting a tray down on the coffee table. “That’s why I was so surprised when you up and disappeared on me.”

  “Romance?” I ask, sitting up straighter. “I didn’t realize I read that too. I’ve got a lot to catch up on.”

  “I’ll make you a list, honey.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And where’s that big strong man of yours? He’s a fine specimen.” Iris winks at me.

  “We broke up. Before the thing happened.”

  “What a pity. He was always so patient when you brought him in, following you around and carrying your books for you.”

  It’s a pretty picture. Ed being my bookstore beck-and-call boy. The muscles in his arms flexing as he carries around my stacks of reading material. Sounds like a perfect boyfriend. A part of me misses him. A big part of me. Or maybe it’s just the idea of him, since it’s hard to miss something you have no actual happy memories of. Hard to tell which exactly. And what with him dating other people, it’s not like my opinion of him or our previous relationship is going to matter anytime soon.

  “Oh, get that look off your face,” chides Frances.

  “What?”

  “The sad-girl thing doesn’t suit you.”

  Iris watches us with interest. “She misses him. Sometimes our hearts are wiser than our heads.”

  My sister scoffs. “Don’t get her started on him. There’s a whole world of angst and bewilderment better left alone.”

  “True enough,” I say.

  Frances sighs. “I agree he did always seem to treat her well. Right up until he didn’t. But either way, it’s over, time to move on.”

  “Still not totally convinced he cheated,” I admit.

  “Nine out of ten men will be assholes given the opportunity.”

  “You’re making that up.” I frown. “That can’t be scientifically proven.”

  “Experience dictates . . .”

  “You’re a police officer,” I object. “Your experience is bound to be skewed. After all, you’re always having to deal with the asshole contingent of the world. That’s basically your job description.”

  “No,” Frances says. “My job allows me to properly see the asshole contingent of the world that everyone else would prefer doesn’t exist. That’s my job description.”

  “I think I better make you a list of required reading as well, Frances,” says Iris.

  “I’m not into romance, neither the genre nor the state of being.”

  “Have you ever read one?”

  “Well, no, but I’ve tried a few real-life romances and I have to say—”

  “Of course you have to find the right one. The story that speaks to you.” Iris sips her coffee, somehow appearing both serene and stern. It’s quite a trick. “At the heart, romance is about hope, and that’s what keeps us going, dear. The eternal quest to improve ourselves, our lives, our world.” Suddenly, she snaps her fingers in front of her face. “Ah, I have it. Just the one.”

  Now Frances looks vaguely worried. “It’s fine, really. Don’t trouble yourself.”

  In a flash, the coffee is back on the little table and Iris is off to the bookshelves, moving like a woman on a mission. “No trouble at all. Romance isn’t all kissing and bedroom action, you know. Though there’s often some of that too. Don’t be a mindless slave to misogynistic prejudices. That’s never a good look. Think for yourself, form your own opinions. These are stories about women standing up for themselves and what they believe in. Women working to be whole and demanding what they deserve. Here we go!”

  I’m pretty sure Frances would climb under the chair if there was a chance she’d fit.

  In a moment, Iris is striding back and handing Frances her prize. “I get the feeling you’ve suffered some hurts, but it wouldn’t do to grow bitter and closed-minded. I think you deserve better than that, don’t you?”

  “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to try just one.” Frances closes her mouth, her brow furrowed as she takes the book. I peek at the title: Sweet Dreams by Kristen Ashley.

  “Excellent.” Iris’s smile is beatific. She sits back down, picks up her coffee, and turns her attention to me. “Now, what are we going to do about you, Clementine?”

  “Me? I’ll read the books you tell me to.” After her impassioned spiel to my sister, I wouldn’t dare do otherwise. “Promise.”

  “I meant about your situation, but I’m delighted to hear that you continue to love reading.”

  “Oh, there’s not much we can do on that score. The bank let me go since I can’t remember what my job is and that’s not going to change anytime soon,” I report. “And I’m supposed to be taking it easy, though I’ve been doing that for weeks, and it’s boring as all hell. It just means I have more time to spend alone, fixating on everything I don’t know and getting stressed out.”

  “You’re lost.” Iris sighs. “I don’t like seeing you like this.”

  “She’ll figure things out eventually,” says Frances. “There’s no rush.”

  I set my mug back on the tray. “I need something to do with myself before I drive what’s left of my mind insane. Maybe I should volunteer somewhere.”

  Iris tips her head. “Well, I could certainly do with some help here. I can’t afford to pay much, but you’d be very welcome and the work wouldn’t be overly cumbersome. No need to take on more than you’re ready for.”

  “Really? That would be great!”

  “You’re supposed to be resting,” says my sister, face tight. Definitely not pleased with the plan at all. “Doctors don’t give out orders just for shits and giggles. It freaks me out enough that you wander the streets on your own, going out for coffee.”

  “Come on, Frances. I need to start rebuilding. Look around you. This is as soft a start in as safe a
n environment as I’m going to get.”

  “I’d be able to keep an eye on her if she was here, make sure she’s not overdoing things. Surely that’s better than her being on her own?” Iris sounds so calm and reasonable, making it hard to disagree. “Why, there’s even the sofa if she needs to rest. She wouldn’t be in anybody’s way.”

  Frances looks between the older woman and me, her mouth little more than a thin worried line. “I don’t know; it’s so soon.”

  “This is an awesome opportunity, and I’ll be fine.” I meet her scowl with one of my own. She won’t win this fight. She has to know that. I needed my own space, my own life. And I want to do this.

  “It’s not like I can stop you,” she mutters. “I guess.”

  That’s about as good as it’s going to get.

  Iris and I grin. Look out world, I am gainfully employed.

  Chapter Five

  Noise startles me awake. The glowing green digits of the alarm clock indicate it’s around three in the morning. The crash of glass breaking. A thump and groan followed by metallic screeching. It’s all jarringly loud in the dark. I almost fall off the mattress, frantically searching for my cell on the bedside table.

  Close by, a dog starts barking. A man yells from somewhere across the street. Frances isn’t due home for another hour or two so I’m on my own. My head’s so fuzzy from sleep, it doesn’t occur to me to be scared. Not yet.

  I stumble out into the quiet of the house, pulling back the curtains on one of the front living room windows.

  Huh. Everything outside seems to be as it should be. With the exception of the dude across the road standing on his front porch in his robe. So I’m not the only person who heard something. At least that means it wasn’t just a dream.

  But wait . . . my older-model hatchback sits parked at the curb, moonlight reflecting off the sharp edges of shattered windows.

  “What the hell?”

  I put down my cell and grab my sister’s baseball bat (definitely intended more for home security than sports) out of the hallway closet. I shove my feet into some sneakers, flick on the outside light, and unlock the front door. Two days ago, I had my second self-defense lesson. Gavin probably didn’t have a baseball bat in mind when he was giving us the eyes-throat-groin talk, but a dark part of my mind kind of liked where the combination might lead. My grip on the bat strong, I stride out into the night.

  The man from across the street is checking out my car with a heavy scowl on his face. His bathrobe is white and he has fluffy slippers on. They’re quite fetching.

  “Did you see anything?” he asks, eyeing my baseball bat a little warily.

  I just shake my head.

  “Me neither. Thought I heard an engine start up down the street, but . . .” He mutters on under his breath. “Jesus, they did a hell of a job, and they were fast too. Is this yours?”

  I nod. Though it looks more wreck than actual vehicle now. A piece of postapocalyptic art, maybe. Just as well I wasn’t relying on it to get anywhere anytime soon. Shadows darken the indents in the door and hood. Lines of silver show where the paint’s been cracked or removed. The windshield is a shattered ruin. It’s almost pretty, the way the light traces the web of broken glass.

  “Kids, probably,” he says. “Your sister’s a cop, right?”

  “Yeah, she’s at work. I’ll go call her now.”

  He nods, crosses his arms, and settles in to wait with me. Nice of him. “Sorry about your car.”

  I just keep staring at the car in disbelief. Who could have done this? One thing is for certain. My vehicle is well and truly fucked. “Yeah, me too.”

  * * *

  Once daybreak and business hours arrive, I make a detailed (not that I have any actual details) report for the police, then start in on the insurance side of things. Frances talked me through what to say and what to expect at the police station. The insurance company keeps me on the phone answering questions for roughly three and a half years. At the end of the interrogation, I’m told an assessor will be out in a day or two to decide if it’s even worth fixing. Given the vehicle’s age and the damage, it’s apparently unlikely. The inside is full of glass. But my new friend from across the road, Martin, and I managed to get a tarp tied over it to protect the interior from inclement weather.

  “There’ve been some small acts of vandalism at the school, and a car parked on the street a few blocks over got rammed a month or two back by joyriders,” says Frances. “Unlikely either of those events have anything to do with this, though.”

  “So I either have shit luck or I’m being targeted. Those are the two options here.”

  “Let’s not jump to conclusions. This could very well be about my job. Someone who had a bad experience with the police and decided to take it out on a vehicle parked out front of an officer’s house.” She sighs. “It happens, unfortunately.”

  “Maybe. Who knows?”

  “I am sorry this happened, Clem.”

  “Me too,” I say. “But I mean . . . let’s face facts. It was most likely just a random malicious attack by some local troubled youths out to relieve their boredom at odd hours of the morning. Or people who really hate hatchbacks, I don’t know. Maybe they had bad sex in one once. Pulled a hamstring or something trying to get a leg over.”

  “This isn’t funny.”

  I sigh. “No, it’s not. Making jokes is apparently my new coping mechanism.”

  My sister ravages her thumbnail cuticle for a while, a glass of orange juice sitting forgotten in front of her. She’s probably wondering what would have happened if they’d taken the crowbar to one of the house windows. What might have occurred if Martin across the street hadn’t likely scared them off by getting out there so quickly.

  “Frances, it’s not your fault I was here on my own. You were at work. You’re allowed to work. Indeed, money-wise, you kind of have to.” I yawn, beyond tired. “I do not need to be constantly watched. So please stop being anxious. You’re making me anxious, and this is just a whole new circle of hell I’m not up to dealing with on limited sleep.”

  My sister takes a deep breath and sets her hands in her lap. “I take it you’re still determined to work in the bookshop?”

  “Yes. I told Iris I wouldn’t be in today given all this. But tomorrow . . .”

  “Okay. I’ll give you a lift in the morning.”

  “Okay?” I repeat, a little startled.

  She just shrugs.

  “I’m just used to you fighting me on things. Not that supporting my choices isn’t nice.”

  “You’re a grown adult. There’s only so much I can do with my work hours the way they are at present.” She sits back, crossing her legs. “Life goes on, et cetera and so on. Right?”

  “Yes, right.”

  “Still aiming to go in five days a week?”

  “Seems best. Iris says she can only pay me for three, but God knows I need the experience, and it’s not like I’ve got anything else going on.”

  She nods, gaze thoughtful. “Okay. All right, then.”

  It’s nice, not fighting with my sister about my welfare. I have to admit, however, I’m surprised. If anything, I’d have thought the incident with my car would have made her double down on the security side of things. But no.

  Great. I smile, she smiles, we all smile. Maybe this day isn’t so completely shit after all.

  * * *

  New releases take up the front half of the shop. Secondhand books and a range of literary themed items and locally made handcrafted giftware—such as T-shirts, coffee mugs, and sea glass pendants—inhabit the other half. Of course, there’s also the counter area off to the side and a staff bathroom and storage area out back. To say Iris is happy to have me there would be an understatement. I think she gets lonely. How you could feel isolated with people coming and going, I’m not sure, but everyone’s different. I find the semi-constant stream of customers a little overwhelming. It’s a good opportunity to work on my next-to-nonexistent conversation skil
ls.

  I asked Iris why she wants someone working in her shop who only remembers ever actually finishing a couple of books. She said because I was trustworthy and still loved books, just needed to catch up on my reading.

  All day, the pile of books sitting at the end of the counter waiting for me has been growing. I’m only borrowing them. Guess it’s a staff-bonus type thing. Otherwise, I’d be further in debt as opposed to actually moving forward financially. Which, let’s face facts, I’m still barely achieving. But at least I’m not bored.

  The door jingles and I quickly straighten up from the fluffing and strategic placing of cushions on the couch. Because having your ass in the air when someone walks in is such a good look. And oh shit. “Ed, what are you doing here?”

  “She means hello and welcome,” singsongs Iris.

  The man stands just inside the doorway, face tense. Although, I’m not sure I’ve ever even seen his face un-tense. And it’s probably not something likely to happen around me anytime soon. Sneakers, jeans, and a faded black T-shirt. Of course, he makes vaguely disheveled look good. Damn good. He licks his lips and my mind blanks; my heart stutters. I just stand there like an idiot.

  Having a crush on my ex-boyfriend is problematic.

  “We need to talk,” he mutters, gaze fixed on me.

  “What have I done now?”

  “Clem . . .” His lips morph into a slightly lesser scowly type look. Rueful, I guess you could describe it. He nods at the couch, wandering over to take one of the wingbacks for himself. Not like I wanted to sit next to him anyway.

  After getting the nod from Iris, I sit. Curious as per the usual. “So?”

  “I called your sister just to check on you and she told me.”

  “What about?”

  “’Bout what happened to your car, and how you’re alone a lot with her doing shift work,” he says.

  “None of that concerns you.”

  “She’s worried about you.”

  I shrug. “She’s a worrier. It’ll pass.”