By the weekend, my apartment looks like I’ve always had a cat. Kathleen was thrilled when I asked her to accompany me to the pet store on Friday during lunch. She helped me choose the right food and treats, litter, a scratching post, and some toys. She referred me to her vet so I could get the cat checked out, just in case Mrs. Gunderson’s neglect has any lingering effects.
Celia’s not happy with me, but I’m used to that. When I informed her I was keeping the cat, she told me to keep ‘the thing’ away for her, which I doubt will be a problem since the cat avoids her. Now I just need to decide on a name for her. I had thought of Midnight, but that seems too obvious. I toyed with the idea of Salem because I was a huge fan of Sabrina the Teenage Witch back in the day, but she’s much sweeter than Sabrina’s out-for-world-domination familiar. I ran a few other ideas by the cat to see if she had any reaction, but she always just blinked at me and flicked her tail, as if batting away my suggestions.
Bolstered by the decision to keep the cat, I decide it’s time to make a few more changes. With my bare living room walls in mind, I head to the bookstore on Saturday. The last time I was in, the owner, Piper, had just stocked a bunch of framed bookish prints.
As soon as I walk in the door, Piper rushes around the counter to hug me. “My favorite customer!” She gives me a squeeze-and-jiggle combo, sending her red ponytail swinging. “You’re actually just the person I was hoping to see.”
“Oh yeah? One of my coworkers at Santa’s Village keeps talking about signs and the Universe and stuff being meant to be. Now it seems like all these weird coincidences keep happening.”
“Meredith?” she asks, and I nod. I knew Hugh was friends with Piper, and Meredith must be too. “Some people say there’s no such thing as coincidence, you know,” Piper adds, wiggling her eyebrows and grinning. “I have some books I could recommend to you if you’re interested in learning more. For now, I have a question. Do you have time?”
When I tell her I have all day, she motions to one of the small seating areas scattered around the store. “Can I get you a coffee or tea? I just learned how to make London Fog lattes and they’re pretty good if I do say so myself.”
“I’d love one. Thanks.”
She disappears into the back and I take the opportunity to check out the art prints. There are a variety of book quotes on different backgrounds—flowers, cityscapes, starry skies. My eyes gravitate to one with beautiful watercolor flowers and a quote from Anne of Green Gables: “Dear old world, you are lovely, and I am glad to be alive in you.”
“I almost set that one aside for you when it came in,” Piper says from behind me. “I was sure you’d love it.”
“I do.” Closing my eyes, I picture it hanging next to the bookcase in my living room. Perfect. I take it to the counter and set it next to the cash register before joining Piper. “This is amazing,” I tell her after taking a sip of the latte. “You should think about selling these.”
She smiles, clearly pleased. “That’s actually part of what I wanted to talk to you about.” She sits back in her squishy chair, kicking her shoes off and tucking her legs up under her. “I know you’re busy at Quest and Santa’s Village, but I was wondering if you’d have time to work on some ideas for promoting the bookstore. In an official capacity, I mean. As in, I’d pay you.”
For some reason, this makes me laugh.
Piper takes it in stride, shrugging and laughing along. “I figured since marketing is what you do for a living and you love books, you might have some good ideas. I’d rather brainstorm with a fellow book lover than a company who might have generic and impersonal ideas, you know?”
“I’d be honored.” I’m trying to keep my cool, despite the fact I’m freaking out inside. Even though some small, secret part of me has always dreamed of owning my own bookstore, I’ve never actually thought it would happen. That hasn’t stopped me from daydreaming about how I’d run my own store, though. I would rock this job. “Are sales down?”
“Yes and no,” she says. “Since we don’t have a big chain in town, I have a loyal base of customers, plus we’re weirdly popular with the tourists. Probably because the building is old and cute. But people are buying online more and more these days. I’ve toyed with the idea of setting up a website, but I don’t know enough about how it works, and I’d rather get people into the store anyway.”
I hold up my mug. “Well, this is one way to do it. You don’t really have the space to become a bookstore-slash-café, but if you could offer a few refreshments for sale, it might draw in more people.”
We bounce ideas around over the next hour. Whenever customers come in, I take the time to jot down the thoughts flooding my mind. This job would be the next best thing to my dream. Maybe even better, because I wouldn’t have the responsibility of owning and running a store on my own. It would be the perfect way to combine my passion for books and my marketing know-how, plus get paid.
Piper flops into the chair across from me, startling me from my thoughts. “So, what do you say? Can I officially hire you and we’ll figure out the details from there?”
I don’t even hesitate. “Yes. Absolutely.”
*****
My awesome day turns into an even better night when I get two calls back to back: one from Celia, telling me she’ll be going out with people from work tonight, and one from Hugh asking if he can come over after the Village closes.
With a little over an hour to kill before Hugh arrives, I grab a notebook and start jotting down ideas for Piper.
-Book club where participants get a discount off each month’s book?
-Implement a store loyalty reward system?
-Social media contest—people take pics of the books they buy, themselves inside the store, at events that happen there, and then do a monthly gift card draw.
I’m still scribbling notes—and I do mean scribbling, because my brain is working at warp speed and my hand only moves so fast—when Hugh buzzes from downstairs. I greet him at the door, launching myself into his arms the moment he appears.
He lets out an ‘oof’ followed by a laugh as he wraps his arms around me and buries his face in my hair. “Nice to see you too.” He presses a kiss to the side of my head. Whatever he’s carrying bumps against my arm and then falls to the floor. “Ahh, fiddlesticks.”
I burst out laughing. “Did you just say ‘fiddlesticks’?”
He crouches, shooting me a grin. His attention shifts to the cat when she runs over to inspect what I now see is a box from the Village’s bakery. Hugh holds out his hand for her to sniff, then pets her in long, even strokes. I swear her eyes roll into the back of her head in sheer bliss. Can’t say I blame her.
“Aye, I said ‘fiddlesticks’.” Hugh gives the cat one last pat before scooping up the box and rising. He takes my hand and leads me over to the couch. “When you work with kids, you learn quickly to watch your language. Sometimes things burst out, so I’ve trained myself with creative alternatives.”
As soon as we sit down, the cat jumps up on the arm of the couch. She walks across my lap and stops with her front paws on Hugh’s leg, as if trying to decide which one of us to sit on.
“Fiddlesticks,” I say.
Hugh gives a dry chuckle. “I’m glad I amuse you so.”
“Fiddlesticks?” I say again, this time to the cat. Her ears flick. She stares at me for a minute before moving fully into my lap, resting her paws on my chest the way she did that first night. “Hugh, I’d like you to meet Fiddlesticks.”
“You’re naming her Fiddlesticks?” he asks, incredulous. At my nod, he cocks his head and studies the cat. “Suits her. And having her seems to suit you.”
“It does. Believe me, no one’s more surprised by that fact than I am.” I look at Fiddlesticks; she gives a slow blink, then closes her eyes. Turning my attention back to Hugh, I incline my chin toward the bakery box. “What’d you bring me?”
He lifts the lid and my nose is greeted with the rich scents of cinnamon, ginger, and sugary goodness. “I got a variety,” he says. “The baker was experimenting with gingerbread flavors and came up with a cupcake.” He angles the box so I can see the cupcake, slathered in thick frosting with a mini gingerbread person on top. The box also holds a cinnamon roll and a couple of cookies shaped like reindeer.
“Wanna split the cupcake?” I ask. Hugh nods and peels off the paper. He breaks a piece off and brings it close to my mouth. I’ve never been all that comfortable with guys feeding me, but his fingers are already covered in icing, which means I’d get sticky if I took it myself. I’m not sure Fiddlesticks would be too pleased with said sticky fingers in her fur.
“I figured this would be easier than attempting the whole cupcake,” he says, eyes on my mouth. “I wouldn’t want to smush the frosting all over your face.”
I open my mouth and Hugh gently feeds me the bite of cupcake. My lips brush his fingers. A thrill zings through me when he licks those same fingers, cleaning the icing off. Okay, so I guess there’s something to be said for letting a guy feed you occasionally. It shouldn’t have been a sexy gesture, and yet the air is suddenly charged. Hugh’s gaze returns to my lips as I chew and swallow mindlessly, only vaguely aware of the gingerbread flavor.
“You have a little something…” Hugh points to my mouth. He leans toward me, his breath warm on my face as he lingers for a moment before pressing his lips to the corner of my mouth. “Sweet,” he says in a quiet, rumbly voice before his lips capture mine.
Fiddlesticks makes a disgruntled sound and slides down my lap. She doesn’t go far, because her weight shifts and settles on my knees. My awareness of her, along with everything else fades as I’m consumed by Hugh—his scent, his taste, the warmth of his body, the slow slide of his tongue over mine. Good god the man knows how to kiss.
His fingers have just found their way under the hem of my shirt when the sound of keys in the lock jolts me back to reality. The door swings open and Celia’s gaze settles on us. I expect her to glance away quickly like she usually does when she finds Hugh and me together, but she seems frozen, her wide eyes taking in the scene before her.
Hugh clears his throat and eases into an upright position. It seems to break whatever spell Celia is under. I have a second to see the twist to her lips before she turns to close and lock the door. She kicks her boots off haphazardly, letting them remain where they land, then sheds her coat and jams it on the coat rack. I inhale deeply, knowing a snide remark is imminent in three…two…one…
“Isn’t this cozy?” She whirls around, waving a hand in our direction. Her eyes narrow when she sees Fiddlesticks on my lap. “I don’t have anywhere else to go, so I’ll just go to bed and leave you to it.” She snatches her purse from where she dropped it on the floor and flees to her room.
The slamming of her door makes something in me snap. Fiddlesticks must sense it because she scrambles off my lap and ducks under the couch. “That’s it. That. Is fucking. It.” Hugh reaches for my hand as I stand, and I shake him off. “Sorry,” I say quickly, touching his hand where it still hovers between us. “I just need to deal with this.” I’m torn between begging him to stay and asking him to leave; I have a feeling a screaming match is about to ensue, and I’m not sure I want him to see that side of me.
“I’ll be right here if that’s okay,” he says. My relief must be visible because he gives me a small, reassuring smile as he settles back on the cushions. As I walk away, I hear him coaxing Fiddlesticks out from under the couch.
I march down the hall and throw Celia’s door open without bothering to knock. She yelps, tugging her pajama top into place. Oops. “We need to talk.”
She heaves a tired-sounding sigh. “Not now, Ivy. Go be with your lover boy and let me go to bed.”
“Not until you tell me what your problem is.” She rolls her eyes and moves toward me as if she’s going to shoo me from her room. I stand my ground, anchoring my feet and crossing my arms. “I’m sick and tired of you stomping around here, treating me like shit, and going off on me for absolutely no reason. I’ve tried over and over again to get you to open up, to do things with me, or at least to cohabitate peacefully, and you’ll have none of it. I’m not leaving here until you tell me why.”
“Why?” Her voice is so loud it startles me into taking a step back. She lets out a bitter laugh, her head swinging back and forth, and her feet picking up a short pacing route around her room. “You don’t even realize how good you have it, do you? Everything is so easy for you. It’s always been so easy for you. You have a great job, great friends, and now a great guy to top it all off. And here I am—” she stops in the middle of the room and holds out both arms “—here I am, always trying, always struggling, and never able to get my shit together.”
She turns away and starts pacing again. “In a couple more weeks, I’ll be unemployed—again—and I have no idea what I’m going to do. Nobody will hire me. I can’t afford a place of my own, so I’m stuck here. My family has all but abandoned me, and I have no friends. I have no one.”
“Are you kidding me?” My voice is so shrill it could shatter glass. It catches Celia’s attention, though, because she spins around to stare at me. “How can you say you have no one when you have me? You’ve always had me, but you’re too wrapped up in yourself to realize it. All these years, we could have been like sisters. Best friends. But you keep me at arm’s length, push me away, make snide remarks every damn chance you get. You act like you hate me, and yet that doesn’t stop you from expecting me to put my whole life on hold to help you. And what do I get in return? Hostility at every damn turn. I could deal with your complete lack of gratitude if I wasn’t constantly being piled with all your other shit.” I’m out of breath by the time I finish. I suck in air and let my arms drop to my sides, feeling suddenly exhausted.
I give Celia a minute to…I don’t know what. Defend herself? Explain? Apologize? Start yelling again? But she’s angled away from me and won’t meet my eyes. “Okay,” I say at last, shrugging even though she’s not looking at me. “I can’t do this anymore.”
I’m almost out the door when she says my name. It’s so quiet I wonder for a moment if I’ve imagined it. I glance over my shoulder and Celia has turned to face the door. She’s looking at the ground, but I can see tears rolling down her cheeks. Her shoulders are slumped, arms wrapped around herself as if she’s trying to physically hold herself together.
In all the years we’ve known each other, I’ve never seen Celia cry. She looks so vulnerable, so small, so young. Like the tiniest breeze could knock her over and she’d shatter into a million pieces. Without a word, I close the distance between us and wrap my arms around her. Celia jerks slightly, maybe from surprise or maybe from her natural instinct to pull away and not let anyone close. I hold on to her rigid frame until her arms fall limply to her sides and she collapses against me. She lets out a strangled sob, her body shaking as she cries.
My arms stay locked around her, holding her up. I only remember a few instances of my mother holding me like this. God knows my aunt never showed physical affection; I don’t even remember her hugging me when my parents died. Bridget and her mom were the ones who taught me it’s okay to cry, okay to hold and be held when you need it. That sometimes a quiet hug or clinging to someone like your life depends on it can make all the difference. So that’s what I do now for Celia.
After awhile, she lets out a shuddering sigh and eases away from me. Part of me expects her to lash out now. To punish me for seeing her so defenseless. I hold my breath until she motions to the bed and asks if I’ll sit with her.
She crawls onto her bed, leaning against the headboard and hugging a pillow tightly to her chest. I sit on the edge of the mattress, angling my body toward her.
“I’m s-sorry.” She trips over the word as if it’s foreign.
When she falls silent, I nod, not sure what to say. Her brows are drawn together and her mouth is turned down in a severe frown. Severe even for Celia. “This may not be the time to bring this up,” I say slowly, choosing my words carefully, “but I have to say it now before we say anything else. Do you really believe I have it easy? That I’ve always had it easy?”
Celia brings the pillow to her face and holds it there for so long I worry she’s trying to smother herself. I’m about to reach out and grab it when she groans and drops the pillow to her lap. “Of course not,” she says. “That was such a stupid, insensitive thing to say.” She groans again. I remain silent; the only thing I’d be able to say would be in agreement. It was a stupid, insensitive thing to say. Between my parents’ deaths and living with family who would make Siberia seem tropical by comparison, my life has been far from easy.
“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m good at saying the wrong thing,” Celia says, staring at the pillow in her lap. “I’m also good at hitting people where it hurts. Hitting you where it hurts.” She glances up at me, then away quickly. “My parents were always telling me to be more like you. ‘Study hard like Ivy. Be a good girl like Ivy. Respect us the way Ivy respects the Chens. Be involved in school activities like Ivy.’ It made me hate you because to them you were perfect and I was just…me. Smart enough, but not driven. Shy and awkward. I wanted to be left alone most of the time, but they were always trying to force me into things, and always using you as the marker for success.”
I wince. “I didn’t know. That wasn’t fair of them.” Things are starting to make sense. Despite being far from perfect, I tried to act like I was because it kept my aunt off my back. I worked my ass off in school and got good grades so I could get scholarships and get away from my aunt and uncle as soon as possible. That work ethic stuck with me through college and into my career.
“I hate being this way,” Celia says in a voice so pitiful it makes my heart ache. “I don’t want to be angry all the time and make it hard for people to like me. It’s just become a way of life, and I can’t seem to stop. I think…I think I’ve always taken it out on you because you’re safe. You’re like family, and no matter how awful I am or how much I push, you’re still there. You may get impatient and I think there have been times when I was lucky to escape without bodily harm, but you’re still there.”
She lets out a shaky laugh, meeting my gaze for a second. “I hoped living with you might change things. Instead, it just made me even more jealous. You’re so successful and you have your shit together. It made my own faults more prominent and I felt worse and worse about myself, and then I took it out on you. I should be locked away somewhere and not allowed to interact with other people.”
“Hey.” I reach for her hand and she lets me hold it. “Can I tell you a secret?” When she nods, I take a deep breath. I haven’t said any of this out loud, and I never expected when I did it would be to Celia of all people. “I don’t have my shit together. I just have a lot of practice making it look like I do. I have a great job that pays well, but I’m bored and restless with it. I miss Bridget like crazy, which is ridiculous because I still see her all the time, and I’m happy for her and David, but I can’t help it.”
I suck in another deep breath because my next admission is the one that scares me most. “I’m falling for Hugh, despite telling myself not to.” My eyes dart toward the door, hoping Hugh hasn’t suddenly appeared to check on us right at the moment of my confession. “The point is: I’m a mess too, Celia. If you stopped pushing me away and treating me like the enemy, we could be a mess together.”
Celia’s eyes fill with tears again and my heart sinks. I’m not sure I can handle seeing her cry twice in one night. I already feel as if my world has been turned upside down. “I really am sorry, Ivy,” she says in a shaky voice. “I’m going to try to do better. To be better.” She fiddles with the corner of her pillow. “One of the girls at the Village told me she sees a therapist. I was wondering if that might be a good idea for me. To talk to a professional and find out where all this anger comes from. Maybe learn some coping mechanisms.”
“That’s a great idea,” I tell her. “You could make an appointment with your doctor and get a referral, or you might consider talking to Hugh.” Her eyes go wide and almost panicky, so I quickly add, “Not in a professional capacity. Holy awkward. I meant he might be able to help you find someone who specializes in what you need.”
She nods slowly. “I’ll think about it.” She climbs off the bed and goes to her dresser. Only now do I realize she’s still wearing her jeans and not the bottoms that match her pajama top. With her back to me, she asks, “Is it okay if I keep living here until I figure things out?” Before I can answer, she whirls around, clutching her PJ bottoms in her hands. “No pressure, but I don’t know where else I’d go or what I’d do. I keep worrying you’ll reach the end of your rope and kick me out. And yet I keep pushing you, testing you.” Her face crumples, cheeks flushing crimson. “How sick is that? I really do need help.”
I stand and motion Celia toward me. She takes a few wooden steps forward until we’re facing each other. And then I say something I never thought I’d say in a million years: “Stay as long as you need to. We’ll get through this together.”