It’s not even noon, and the odds that I’ll get that gelato aren’t looking good.
Today would have been Ethan’s and my fourteenth anniversary. I woke up on the verge of tears, a tangle of grief and relief and loss knotted into a lump in my throat. I don’t want to cry today, even if feeling all of that makes sense. I want to focus on my job and feel a sliver of happiness. Because The Bookshop ismyplace. My happy place.
I love working at this bookstore. I love books. I love helping people find booksthey’lllove. I love the crisp scent of paper mingled with rich espresso brewed at the coffee bar, the shush of pages being turned, the hum of patrons speaking softly as theybrowse. I love the bubbly laughter of students who trickle in on their walk home for oversize cookies and a chance at the coveted front-window alcove seats; the hiss of city buses coming to a stop right outside, spilling out people, some of whom walk toward our door and, as they drag it open, usher in the familiar whoosh of North Side traffic, even the wail of a siren barreling toward the hospital where we’ve donated books, reminding me The Bookshop isn’t just located in the heart of this neighborhood—it’s part of the heart of this neighborhood.
I still feel like an outsider in this city, most of the time. But when I’m at The Bookshop, I feel a sense of belonging, connection—happiness. I want that to hold true even on a hard day.
I suck in a breath, trying my best to tune out the world’s most emo playlist ever filling the speakers; apparently one of my coworkers felt that’s the vibe we needed today.
As I scoop up a box of new releases to restock, I mutter on my exhale, “Gelato. Gelato, gelato, gelato.”
I’ve just ripped open the box of new releases when The Bookshop’s door swings open, and in walks Lauren, looking like a pissed-off supermodel. She spots me immediately, only a few feet away, and flashes me a smile.
Through the speakers above us, Tori Amos wails about being lost in the rearview. Lauren’s smile evaporates.
“Who the fuck,” she asks the store at large, “put on Tori Amos?”
Dan shrinks on his barstool perch at the front register. “Well, um. I did—”
“Daniel.” Lauren stares him down. “Do. Better.”
Patrons have tuned in, a tableau of wide eyes, lowered books, coffee cups suspended midsip. They are captivated by Lauren’s profane drill-sergeant entrance.
“Sorry,” Dan whispers.
“I don’t need a sorry.” She hikes her bloodred designer bag higher on her shoulder. “I need a solution. Play something happy. Please,” she adds offhandedly as she walks my way, an attempt at politeness for my sake. She knows I’m allergic to offending people.
Dan salutes her as she marches past him. “On it.”
For the first time today, I don’t feel like I’m about to cry. I wrap my arms around Lauren and hug her hard. She squeezes me back.
“Thanks,” I whisper.
“Such a dumbass,” she mutters. “What did he pull up on Spotify, the heartbreak special?”
I laugh. “Let’s just say Damien Rice opened for Tori today.”
“Jesus.” She rolls her eyes. Suddenly, Pharrell Williams’s “Happy” floods the store’s speakers. “Men,” she sighs. “So literal.”
“I like this song,” I tell her, trying to throw Dan a bone. I turn and give him an encouraging thumbs-up.
Dan smiles nervously, his gaze darting from me to Lauren. She does not acknowledge him. Dan wilts. He has a brutal crush on her.
Everyone who meets Lauren has a brutal crush on her.
Because Lauren Vaughn is the whole package—gorgeous, smart, and, beneath that tough exterior, deeply kind. Lauren is the one friend I’m proud to say I’ve made on my own in my three years since moving to Pittsburgh. Every other friend I had was through Ethan, and, along with the house and the newer car, he walked away with them. If I had to have only one friend, I couldn’t have picked a better one than Lauren.
Pharrell croons that contagiously upbeat chorus, the perfect soundtrack for this moment—finally, once again I am in my happy place and actually happy.
Thea stood at the store’s threshold, smiling at her friend, brimming with gratitude for her happy place, which gave her not just a job she loved but her best friend. Lauren was a successful architectural designer, health nut, and marathon runner, a fancy-food and fine-wine and designer-everything gal, and Thea was none of that. She truly believed their lives would have never crossed paths if it weren’t for The Bookstore.
“Thea?” Lauren says. “Where’d you go?”
I blink, snapped out my bad habit. “Nowhere,” I tell her.
Lauren tips her head. “You were clearlysomewhere.”
Lauren swears under her breath as her phone starts to ring. She rummages around, finds it, then groans. “Dammit, I have to answer this.”