I grin. Well you’re in luck, because I happen to hate romance. However, I’m a massive fan of comic books. You’ve made yourself an enemy for life.
Oh nooo, he writes back. Whatever will I do.
:P
I think for a second, then quickly type a second text: What should I get ur mom for her bday?
We don’t really do gifts. We just have fun.
She seriously doesn’t want anything?
She’ll just be really happy to see you. :)
Ugh. I feel the guilt nick at my heart. I’d once been afraid of Mrs. Perry, of how to approach her. I think, if I’m being honest, I’m now afraid of seeing how bad she’s gotten. I want to be there for her, but I know her disease has been progressing. It breaks my heart.
But it’s ten times worse if she thinks I just don’t want to see her, or if Ethan has to deal with her illness all on his own.
I’ll be there, I text again, more sure than before.
Thanks, Abby. Goodnight.
My heart does a strange flutter, one I haven’t felt in a long time. Is this kind of what it would be like if I ended up dating Ethan? Would he send me goodnight texts?
I shove the thought away, grabbing The Walking Dead and opening to my bookmarked page. I block out the noise downstairs with imaginings of walkers.
Chapter 9
John Price is a hefty man with a smooth bald head and a quick smile. I’m not sure if he’s always this happy or if he’s delighted by the fact that I’ve got publishing experience, even though that doesn’t entirely transfer over to retail.
“This is great!” he chirps on my first day of training. He must have been planning on hiring someone quick because it’s the day after my interview and he’s already given me a shift. I guess they need all hands on deck. “You’ll already be familiar with several titles, I take it?”
“Yeah,” I say, smiling as I follow him onto what they call the floor, which is basically everywhere except the cafe, bathrooms, receiving, or break room. “At least a few.”
“Great. Well, let me introduce you to the team. You already know Ethan, right?”
Ethan looks up from his conversation with a few others around the customer service hub, his smile widening as if I’ve just made his day. I look away, trying not to make it obvious. I feel like I’m 12 all over again.
“This is Cassie, Jane, and Howie,” John says, gesturing to the others. The girls are younger than I am, maybe early twenties at the most. Howie is one of those people where you can’t tell how old they are. “Guys, this is Constance.”
“I go by Abby,” I say automatically.
“Abby, Abby,” John repeats under his breath. Then he points at me. “Abby.”
“Um…”
“There, I’ll remember it now,” he says brightly. “Can you guys help show Abby the ropes? I have a conference call.”
“Sure,” Ethan and the others say.
“Have fun,” John says, “and here’s your badge.”
He hands me a lanyard with a photoshopped picture of a book, “Crisp Pages Bookstore” in bold type, and my name right below it. Clearly, this is not a very big chain. The store itself is large, or at least larger than I thought it’d be. It took over where the old grocery store from the ‘80s used to be. The cafe to the right of the front entryway is small; Cassie tells me she usually runs it in the mornings. There are a handful of tables and chairs over there. The rest of the store is filled with sections of bookcases, their hosted genres printed right on the edges like in a library. It’s been a long time since I’ve been in a bookstore. I was so busy in New York reading manuscripts for work, I didn’t have much time to read for pleasure. It’s a comfort, like coming home - one not filled with bickering parents or the ghost of an ended relationship.
“I should get to my station. Nice to meet you, Abby,” Cassie says, smiling shyly as she walks away.
“You, too,” I call back.
“I work on the registers,” Jane says, unsmiling but not unkind. “I’ll show you how to do that, first. We’ll flip the sign to show we’re open, and then you can watch me ring people up.”
“Sounds good.”
Ethan bops me on the arm with his finger, giving me a thumbs up. “Good luck!”
I flash a quick, nervous smile in his direction. It’s funny. I never thought I’d be one for retail, and I certainly never thought I’d be invested or anything like that. It’s just a job to tide me over until I move on in my career. Still, I find myself anxious to do well. Thankfully, everyone seems nice enough. Even the boss seems pleasant.
We - Jane and I - walk to the front and switch the sign. Immediately, three people come in, two of whom go straight to the cafe. I don’t get it. They do know that there are other coffee places around here, right? They don’t need to stand in front of the doors like vultures. The third person goes straight toward the customer service desk.
“I’m surprised it’s this busy,” I murmur to Jane as she shows me the icons on the cash register’s monitor. “I mean, it’s not busy, but…”
“It’s worse on the weekends,” she says, glancing at me.
“It’s got to beat working at Target or Walmart, though.”
“One would assume,” she says pensively, “but I think when you work at a bookstore, you hope your patrons will be a little less emotional. When they snap at you for something stupid, it kills a little more of your hope for humanity.”
I laugh, but she doesn’t. I can’t tell if that’s because she’s honestly worn down by the stupidity of man or if it’s simply her personality.
A customer comes in, heading straight for us. I straighten, immediately regretting these shoes. I’d chosen them because they were cute, professional, and pumps, not heels. Still, my feet already ache.
“Hi,” the customer, an old man in a checkered shirt.
Jane brightens. It’s honestly like night and day. “Hi there, welcome to Crisp Pages! It’s so good to see you again. Are you looking for anything in particular today?”
“I’m looking for a book,” the man mumbles. “It’s some popular one my wife wants.”
“Hmm. I think Ethan and Howie at the customer service hub in the back of the store can help you,” Jane says cheerfully.
The man looks bewildered, turning behind him and spotting both guys waving at him. “Oh,” the man says, eyes wide. “All right then.”
“All right!” Jane repeats, smile wide. “I hope you’re able to find what you’re looking for.”
We smile and watch the old man leave. Then her smile drops entirely. “That’s going to happen about five times a day, so get used to it now,” Jane says dully.
“What? People asking for help?”
“No,” she replies. “People going to the wrong place asking for help.”
Sure enough, it does happen several times, but not as much as one might have thought. Most of them come up to purchase their books or pick up their reservations. A few of them demand that their book is here, but a simple search on the PC shows that indeed, the books were ordered, but to ship to home rather than ship to the store. One of them, a middle-aged woman with a short haircut, becomes increasingly irate, telling us that someone typed that order in wrong. I watch in awe as Jane handles it all with ease. I feel my irritation boiling for her, but she handles it like a pro. No one would doubt she’s a happy person, including myself, if I didn’t hear her deadpan complaints after each transaction.
After that, Ethan comes and gives us a break. As soon as we’re in the break room, Jane pulls her phone out of her purse and starts to swipe through whatever app she’s on. It’s apparent that she has no intention of speaking with me at the moment, so I look back at the texts between me and Greg.
A lot of it was very affectionate, texts made before my Mark carved itself on my skin. But quite a few, I realize, are messages in which he seems completely passive.
Where do you want to eat? I’d ask him, and he’d take five minutes to respond before saying, You p
ick. It took me forever to realize he enjoys Mexican food. He likes American food well enough, but he dives into burritos. I always felt like I was guessing with him, wondering what his thoughts were, wondering if he really was content.
I lean my cheek into my hand, staring at those messages.
* * *
It’s impossible not to notice Ethan when he’s working, especially since it’s slow up at the registers.
He always has a pleasant smile on his face, taking even curt customers’ comments in stride.
The thing is, it’s the same type of smile I’ve seen all my life growing up with him. It’s pleasant, unoffensive, and makes me curious. No one could possibly have that much patience. What’s Ethan Perry like, deep down?
“Excuse me,” says one woman when she approaches him near the cash registers. “I’m looking for a book.”
“I can help you with that,” he says, giving his usual smile. “What’s the name of it?”
“Oh, I don’t know. It was a red book. I think it used to be on a table back there? I don’t know.”
“Do you remember the author’s name?”
“No, I don’t.”
Ethan thinks for a second. “Do you remember what the book’s about?”
“I think it’s about a girl? I don’t remember.”
I can feel my eye twitching. In New York, my impatience could be mistaken for being focused and driven. Here, I really have to reign it in. On the one hand, at least it means that I’ll gain some patience from working here. I’ll gain that customer service smile Ethan has.
I just wish he didn’t use it on me.
Not that I care, of course.
“Ethan,” John calls, approaching him. “I’m sorry to interrupt, ma’am. Ethan, you have a phone call.”
Ethan looks at him, and immediately I see that customer service smile flicker away, fear taking over. He grows pale, then regains his composure as he excuses himself. John takes over helping the woman, although his expression is much more bewildered than Ethan’s ever was as he listens to the woman ask him to locate a book she can’t describe.
A few minutes later, Ethan returns, his umbrella with him. He was smart; I forgot to bring mine. The rain splashes against the windows behind me, a rumble of thunder rolling distantly.
“John,” he interrupts, “I’ve got to go.”
I blink. I expect John to give him a stink eye or at least a passive-aggressive remark about leaving a shift early. However, instead he nods. “We’ll take care of things. Do you need someone to drive you?”
“No, it’s fine,” Ethan bursts out. “I’ve got my keys.” He pats his pocket, then pauses. He immediately starts patting all his pockets, expression blank.
“I can drive him.”
Everyone turns to look at me. Oh. I guess I was the one who said that. But I might as well. My shift is short today since it’s just training, and I’m ten minutes away from clocking out anyway. “If that’s okay,” I add, looking at John.
“You don’t have to,” Ethan says, but I wait for John to say, “Hey, thanks, Abby. Good work today. Jane can show you how to punch out.”
Jane pulls up the screen, both of us ignoring Ethan’s protests except for her to tell him to just go back and find his keys while she shows me what to do. Eventually, he leaves while she pulls up the time clock screen. “Enter your numbers here, then click Punch Out.”
I do so, and a box pops up, stating that I have officially clocked out for the day.
“Good job today,” she says, smiling a little. It’s the first one I’ve seen from her that’s not in front of a customer.
I smile back. “Thanks for everything. You, too.”
Ethan returns to the floor, my purse in tow. “Here,” he says, handing it to me. “You really don’t have to do this.”
“It’s fine,” I say. More quietly, as we push open the front doors, I whisper, “This gives me an excuse to get away from some of those customers, anyway.”
He gives me a tense smile. It makes me grow tense, too. “Keys,” I tell him, holding out my hand.
“I can drive,” he protests.
“Ethan,” I say sternly. “It’s not good to drive while you’re upset.”
“Do you even know how to drive?”
“Wow, rude.”
“No, I just mean that you lived in New York all these years…”
“I drove when I lived here. It’ll be fine.” I snatch his keys from his hand, and he holds the umbrella over the two of us as we hurry into the downpour, the rain tumbling off the umbrella in rivulets. When we get to his car, I have to pause before getting into the front seat. Driving other people’s cars always makes me nervous, but I’ve never seen Ethan like this before. He’s an absentminded mess. What is going on? If the call was from Mrs. Perry, she must be okay enough to contact him. So what has him so nervous?
I think about asking him, but I keep my mouth shut, except for asking, “I’m guessing we’re going to your house?”
“No, the hospital.”
I glance at him, then back to the road as I put the key in the ignition and turn, the engine rumbling to life. After a moment of searching, I find the switch for the windshield wipers and turn them on full blast before turning on the headlights. “You’re going to have to remind me where to go for that.”
I expect him to pull up Google Maps or something, but instead, he tells me exactly where to turn. It makes my heart sink. The hospital’s in the next town over, so he shouldn’t be that familiar with where it’s located. Clearly, this isn’t the first time he’s had to go there.
We lapse into silence as I drive slowly and carefully. At each stop sign or red light, I glance at Ethan’s face, his expression vague in the shadows of the storm. Maybe I should cheer him up. But how? I can’t just crack a joke right now. Something serious is happening.
“Do you want me to just hang out in the parking lot when I drop you off, or should I come in with you?” I ask after a moment.
“It’s up to you.” My eyes flicker to him once more, but then they return to the road. His voice has never sounded so empty and apathetic. My heart pounds in my chest. What’s happened to his mom?
“She’s had a bad flare-up,” he says at last, as if reading my thoughts. “Her vision’s gone, and her legs won’t move at all. They’re checking to see if it’s her MS or a stroke.”
My heart seizes. “Oh my gosh,” I breathe. “Ethan, I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t say sorry,” he snorts. “She’s not dead. She’s fine. It’s just a hiccup. We’ve been through worse.” But it’s clear that he’s still tense, his jaw clenching.
I’m going into that hospital.
We exit Lake Redwood, the sign reading “THANK YOU FOR VISITING US!” barely visible in the torrential rain. With each passing moment, Ethan grows more agitated. His leg starts bouncing.
“Do…you want some music?” I venture. I have no idea what to do in situations like this.
“Why would I want music right now?” he says quietly, but it hurts nonetheless. Ethan Perry getting mad at me is something I’ve never experienced before.
“She’s going to be okay, right?” I say. “I mean, you said so yourself. She’s been through worse.”
He doesn’t answer. “It’s 45 miles an hour here. You can drive a little faster.”
“I’m just trying to be safe.”
“Do you really have to argue all the time?” he says curtly.
I swallow, holding back my response. This isn’t about me. This is about the Perrys.
We don’t talk again for another twenty minutes. By that time, we’ve arrived at the hospital, and I’ve put the car in park. I grab my purse and unlatch the car door, but Ethan doesn’t exit the car. He doesn’t even touch his passenger door handle. He just sits there, staring at his lap, looking forlorn.
“Do you want me to call my sister?” I ask hesitantly.
“No,” he murmurs.
“Do you want me to leave?”
&
nbsp; “No,” he says again. Then he adds, “It’s fine if it’s you.”
I don’t know what to make of it. But he takes in a deep breath, as if my questions have stirred him into motion, and he says, “All right. Let’s go.”
Chapter 10
By the time we see Mrs. Perry, we’ve been informed that it was a flare-up, but it should settle down with the help of steroids. There’s no signs of a stroke.
Thank God.
“Mr. Perry, do you mind if I talk to you for a moment?” the doctor says as we approach his mother’s room.
Ethan turns to me. “You can go in.”
It intimidates me, the idea of going in to see his mother so ill. It was much easier to consider when I thought we’d go in together. Still, I manage an “Okay” and head in.
Mrs. Perry, in my memory, had been a woman with dark hair streaked with silver. She’s now a skinnier, white-haired version of the woman I knew, her hair cut short into a bob. Her eyes sweep the room, but they never focus on anything, let alone me. “Hello?” she calls. She has a Southern accent; it explains why Ethan sometimes slips into a Southern lilt himself. When we were little, he used to call her Momma, and he used to sound like he was from Georgia.
“Hi, Mrs. Perry,” I venture. She’s connected to a monitoring device. My heart races. I don’t want to be in here. Even if the heart rate monitor is going off at regular intervals, even if she’s talking, I can’t quite catch my breath.
“You a nurshe?” I can hear now the slight slur in her voice, as if she has cotton in her mouth.
“No,” I say. “I’m Abby. Abby Doyle. I don’t know if you remember me, but I used to - ”
“Oh, Abby!” she cries, half her face slipping up into a smile. “Come here!”
She stretches her hand out, and, well, who am I to say no to that?
I go to her and take her hand in mine. Her veins are thicker than my mom’s. Seeing the blue lines puts me even less at ease, but she squeezes my hand lightly. “Wish I could she you,” Mrs. Perry says.
“You’re not missing much,” I say. “I don’t look very different, anyway. I wear my hair a little longer, I think, and I wear mascara now. I don’t think I did that when I helped around the house. But otherwise, same old me.”
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