Bookstore Girl

“Thomas Mc Flanagan was an Irish immigrant who moved to the United States in the 1970s, falling in love with the daughter of an old southern gentleman while in Charleston. Of course, southern tradition didn’t allow for that, so the couple did what any logical young couple would do, they ran! Escaped! Fled to the north and moved to a small town near Chesapeake bay and married. It was a struggle, obviously, but they managed to scrape together a living working in a nearby factory. But, that wasn’t the happy ending for this couple. No, no, no . . . they had aspirations far beyond a factory job! You see, Mc Flanagan’s wife, a woman by the name of Elizabeth, loved books. She had a dream of running a bookstore, so, with the help of her dearly beloved, she opened Factory Pages.”

“And that’s where we’re going?” I asked enthusiastically, screaming internally at the idea of listening to any more of this story. 

“Absolutely!” Martha chimed, my little sister of no more than twenty years. She loved all things weird, including secluded bookstores in old forgotten towns.

“Neat.” I said, hoping for the conversation to end naturally. Apparently, this bookstore was one that had significant historical relevance . . . but I failed to see its importance above some Irish guy loving up on some southern jezebel. However, my sister was bound and determined to make the hour drive from our home to visit it. I, as the last relative living nearby, just so happened to be free, in her debt, and flat out of excuses. 

“You’re going to love it, Peter! It’s one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen!”

“But you’ve never been there?”

“On the internet, obviously.”

Please be quiet. Please be quiet. Please be quiet. I chanted in my head. The car ride had been non-stop talking and my introverted battery was long since empty. Luckily, we soon turned onto the dilapidated main street of a town that was once bustling and beautiful. Years of neglect had rendered it devoid of life and personality. A time-worn, colorless image of red, brown, and black. You could almost imagine the families that once strolled down the sidewalk, frequenting local clothing and movie stores back in the early nineties. Now, however, there was only one building worth seeing. The rest were boarded up with broken windows, doors on one hinge, peeling paint, and the sadness that always accompanies a dying town. 

My sister sped into a parallel park between two other cars. We hopped out, myself remarking that we weren’t alone, and I dutifully followed her down the street. 

The bookstore was a simple structure, a townhouse with a converted bottom floor. At one point or another, they must’ve bought out the neighbors, remodeling their fronts and connecting them internally to the original building. It was no wonder that it was the last business standing. 

My sister ran her hands across the leaves of evergreen plants, potted with fresh soil, sitting outside the shop. “Isn’t it so quaint?” She sang happily. 

“Yeah.” 

Opening the door for me, accompanied by the single ding of a bell, she replied, “I can never tell if you’re being genuine.”

“Of course I am . . . Why wouldn’t I be?” 

“You just seem so . . . unreal.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?” I asked as I stepped past her. 

She followed me into the building. “No . . .” She trailed off.

We were floored, or rather frozen, by the atmosphere we found ourselves in. 

It was every bit as beautiful as any city-shop. A cool haze permeated the floor, carefully humidified air clinging to our clothes and skin. A counter lay to our right, unattended but covered in fresh books and newspapers. An old fashioned cash register, like the kind you see in vintage movies, shined with the reflected light of a nearby lamp. A few people bustled about, floating from shelf to shelf and scanning over rows of tomes. The thick, papery smell of the labyrinthine bookstore was overpowering, making it feel as if each breath consumed the very knowledge of which we sought. 

“This place feels old . . .” Martha said dreamily. 

But I could not respond, simply flabbergasted at how comfortable the whole place felt. It was as if I had returned home after a long, long while. Something coffee-scented wafted by, I followed the smell around a corner and to a small bar. 

“Martha! They’ve got coffee–hell yeah!” I did a little jig, laughing at my sister’s embarrassment, and gestured for her to join me. A barista stood behind it, facing away from us while working on an order. Long brown hair curled out of a ponytail down her back, dancing with her movements like water crashing through rapids. When she turned to face us, I caught my breath.

Martha elbowed me in the ribs. “Peter?”

I tore my eyes from the barista, glancing at my sister. “Hmm?”

She had a devious grin, her eyes bouncing from me to the barista. “Oh-ho?”

“Shut up.” I grumbled, annoyed. 

“May I help you?” The barista asked politely. My sister simply smiled.

 I switched my eyes back to her. The woman wore a black apron that fit tight around elegant curves. It was obviously her work uniform, but I wished that I had dressed nicer, straightening my shirt and taking a step closer. 

“Y-yes,” I stuttered for the first time in my life, “I-coff-coff–”

“Coffee?” The barista helped, unsmiling. 

“Yes, my brother would like a coffee.” My sister chimed in. “You see, he’s just so lonely since he became a famous author . . . he just needs something to warm his lonely soul!” 

If looks could kill, she’d be dead. 

I hate you so much. I thought, nodding to the barista who turned to make my order. I tried not to linger on the freckles on her face, the blues of her eyes, and her unnatural smile. 

Martha giggled softly next to me. “I’ve never seen you fall apart so fast!”

“Shut up.” I whispered. 

“If you like someone, Peter, you should probably introduce yourself and ask her on a date. She can show you the store!”

“Mhm.” I tried to ignore her, but she was right. It’s worth a try. Not like it matters anyway.

The barista turned to face us, placing a white cup of coffee on the counter and sliding some sugar and cream with it. 

“No thanks,” I declined the sugar, “I like my coffee black.” I lied, intent on appearing as manly as possible. The barista said nothing, watching me completely forget to actually pick up the cup. I just stared at her like a lunatic. “I’m Peter.”

The barista smiled politely. “Peter, who likes black coffee?”

“Yes.” 

Oh God.

“I’m going to check out the new release section over there. Have fun with your coffee.” Martha said,  shuffling off. I was too focused on the barista to care. 

“Do you want anything else?” The barista asked nicely. 

“Ummm . . . No. I think a coffee is enough.” I picked up the cup, blowing on it and taking a sip, fighting off an involuntary wince at its bitterness. “Mmm. Yum.” I commented through puckered cheeks. 

“Oh yeah?” The girl smiled softly. I decided then that I enjoyed her voice. “I like mine with sugar . . . or better yet, not at all.”

“Hah!” I laughed, probably a little too loud. “Not a coffee person?”

“No. Tea is objectively better.”

“I suppose so . . . What’s your favorite tea?” I couldn’t help but smile like an idiot. 

“Green tea.”

“Y’all serve it?” 

She nodded. 

“Could I get a cup?”

She nodded again, turning silently back to her station. While she worked, I asked, “What’s your name again?”

“Again?” She hit a button, something whirred to life and began pouring liquid into a cup. I took a sip of coffee, silently wishing I had sugar and cream. “I never told you to begin with.”

Rude.  I thought, but was mesmerized by her nonetheless. “Fair enough. So, what is it?”

“Vivian.” She said, swiveling gracefully and placing the tea on the counter. I took it and drank gladly, feigning delight.

“Well, Vivian, who likes green tea, how long have you worked here?”

She hopped onto a stool behind the counter, searching behind me for customers, maybe an excuse to shoo me away, but found none. “Forever. My dad owns the place.”

“Oh yeah?” She looked as if she were in her mid-twenties, close to my age. “So . . . your dad is Thomas Mc Flanagan? The Irish dude?”

“Mhm. You know the story?”

“I do! Is it true?”

“Of course.”

There was an awkward pause for a moment. I shifted uncomfortably and glanced around. This side of the bookstore was unusually empty, the coffee bar out of sight from most customers.  “Do you like reading?” I asked, trying to keep the conversation going.

Vivian cocked her head sideways. “Like reading? Of course I do . . . Your sister said you write. Is that true?”

I chuckled lightly. “I’m new to it, but yeah.”

“Do you like reading as well?”

“Sometimes, but not as much as my sister. She dragged me out here, but it seems like a nice place, considering present company.” I had hoped she’d smile at the compliment, but she did not.

“Reading is good for you. What’s your favorite genre?”

“Romantic fantasy and nonsense like that.”

“Oh yeah? Do you write in that genre? Anything I’d know?”

“Heh . . .” It was a good question, but I didn’t like the answer. “Probably not. Like I said, I’m pretty new to it.”

“I see.”

“Ehem . . .” I cleared my throat, conscious of how loud I was being. “Do you– do you get breaks?”

“Yeah. Got one in five minutes.” She responded, checking a smartwatch on her wrist. 

“Oh! Cool! Want to tour the store a little?” I decrescendoed into a nervous whisper. 

She watched me unwaveringly for a second, then a minute, before finally responding. “Sure.”

I almost jumped out of my shoes– It was like talking to a statue of someone carved a thousand years ago, but I couldn’t help my joy.

“Going to finish your drinks?” Vivian asked. 

“Oh! Yeah!” I chugged the tea ungracefully. “Suppose I’ll give the coffee to my sister. She needs it more than me . . .” Running off, I dumped the beverage into a houseplant, spent four minutes wandering around a used vinyl collection, then fought the urge to sprint back to the girl. She was waiting for me at the counter. 

Taking off her apron, I nearly fainted, red in the face. 

She asked, “This is your first time here, right?”

“H-Huh? What?” My brain was just a puddle. 

“I said, is this your first time here?” She repeated herself, annoyed. 

I blushed, flustered. “Yes! I was hoping you’d show me around?” 

“Sure.” She responded. 

Hell yeah! My brain did a front flip. 

We spent the next fifteen minutes of our life exploring every crevice of the bookstore. My sister spotted us a couple times, quick to wander off whenever she did. Vivian took me upstairs first, to a comfortable loft containing the store’s oldest items; romance novels and original copies of classic works. Then through a forest of rotating vinyl, magazine, and card stands. I pretended that each item meritted conversation, trying to slow her down. There were plenty of nooks and crannies meant for customers to lounge around, read, sip coffee, and converse with a willing partner. However, she would not sit down with me, insistent that she didn’t have time. Our final stop was a sectioned-off portion of the store containing floor-to-ceiling walnut shelves filled with fantasy books. 

She plucked a random novel from the shelf. The cover contained a guy with lizard skin and a long, red tongue holding a damsel barely dressed in silk cloth. “You write stuff like this?” She asked. 

“Ab-absolutely not!” I shook my head. “Not even close.”

“Mhm.” She hummed, returning the novel and grabbing another one. Crinkling her nose, she held up the front for me to see. It showed a very cartoonish robot with laser eyes holding–you guessed it– a sparsely clad woman. “This?”

“Oh, dear God, no!” My face flushed red as she watched my reaction stoically. 

Eventually, after many more increasingly embarrassing covers, I convinced her to move on. She took me outside the shop through a back-entrance and onto a terrace with wire tables. Folks sat around eating and chatting over books. She plopped down at a particularly rusted table near the outside of the terrace. I joined her. 

“So . . . Is your dad still the owner of the shop?”

She shook her head. “Dead.”

“Your mom?”

She shook her head again. 

“I’m so sorry . . . Then who? Wait . . . it can’t be you?”

She nodded. “Yes, Peter. I own the store. After my mother left us, dad quickly descended into dementia. He died two years ago.”

“Jeeze . . . That must be tough for someone so young.”

“Young?” She scoffed, “I’m twenty-five, thank you.”

“Still.”

Leaning back, Vivian sighed deeply. “It can be. I don’t have much free time. I work all day and late into the night. No breaks, but it’s my family’s legacy. Someone has to keep it going.”

“I see.” Wait one second. “No breaks? Aren’t you on break right now?”

“No.” She shook her head, her lips a flat line.

“Then what–?”

“Shush.” She cut me off. “You seem nice, Peter, so I thought it’d be nice to step away from the counter for a while. The shop can survive without me for a few minutes.”

Her story was sad, but I positively beamed at her compliment. “Do you run the place alone or . . .?”

“Or? Don’t beat around the bush, Peter.”

“Or with your husband?”

Even her stoic coldness seemed to warm at the question, slight pink hiding behind pale freckles. “No. No, I do not have a husband. There are two or three high school students who I hire to help me out seasonally.”

I struggled to contain my excitement. “Makes sense!”

“So, where’s your sister?” Vivian asked after a moment. 

“Probably perusing the historic fiction section. She’s got some odd tastes, that one.”

“With a relative like you, I’m not surprised.”

Cracking a smile, I felt my heart melt a little. “You’re not too normal yourself.”

“Don’t want to be.” She responded, quick as a bullet. 

“So . . . is this bookstore a dream come true or what?” I said, leaning back and enjoying the atmosphere. 

Vivian hesitated, something in her eyes betrayed sadness. “It’s alright, I suppose.”

“You suppose?”

“Yes, dummy.” 

Did she just call me . . . ? I’ve never had an insult feel like a compliment before. 

“I’ve actually always wanted to live in the city . . . I miss being surrounded by so many people.”

“Oh . . .” It made sense. The town must’ve been a hubbub of activity for her and her family when she was younger. “I bet. This town is so nice, it must be heartbreaking to see it empty.”

She didn’t say anything, looking out into the yard behind the shop. Little rose bushes were in full bloom with the spring sun. Animals were chirping and crickets singing. A gentle breeze cooled any heat before it could settle on my skin. 

I watched her like one observes a painting in a gallery–as if every detail, every stroke of the brush, every movement of her chest, had some significant meaning that’d be missed to eternity if not seen. She brushed a loose strand of hair from her face, resting her cheek in the palm of her hand and exhaling deeply. The sun caught her eyes, creating little stars across them. It was as if I were looking into the ocean on a sunny day. 

“Wow . . .” I breathed, melting in my place. 

“Hu-huh?” She caught me staring, real red flooding her cheeks as she scrambled to regain her composure, but it was too little too late. The facade was broken. “Stop staring at me, you weirdo.” She said, her blush bright. 

“My bad! Sorry!” I panicked a little, my heart twisting on a skewer.

She stared into my eyes for a while before saying, “Don’t apologize for stupid things.”

We spent time together for a while, playing around and chatting like friends who knew each other since birth. Eventually, she checked her watch and sighed heavily. 

“Time to get back to it.”

“Already?!” I asked, not wanting her company to end. 

“Yeah. Life keeps going, I suppose.”

“You suppose? At least let me walk with you.”

“Sure.”

We strolled, slowly, back to the counter at which we met. The hour we spent together was far too short and its end felt like an injustice. 

She marched behind the counter, her demeanor shifting into a businesswoman once again, her smile transforming and hardening into the same practiced smile that employees always give. I stood on the customer-side of the counter. 

Vivian pressed a few buttons, turning the coffee machines on, then turned to me. We stared at each other for a minute. 

“Well?”

“Well . . .”

“You, uh, do you want anything, Peter?”

 “Oh!” I jumped a bit, thinking of my options and smiling devilishly. “Sure! Can I have a coffee? One cream and two sugars.”

“Yeah?” She smiled, genuine and relaxed, before turning and fixing my cup. “Here you go.”

I grabbed the cup, waiting for something that surely would never happen, before turning away slowly. 

“Wait!” She called out. 

I spun quickly to her. “Yeah?”

“Forgot something. Hand me your cup.”

I did as I was told, watching her scribble something on the side of the vessel, handing it back to me nervously. Taking it, I saw a number and name on its side, written in beautiful dark green calligraphy. 

From that point forward, smiling with Vivian, I made that trip quite frequently . . . even without my sister.