Page 20 of The Words of Us

I start rearranging the chairs, each one holding its own story. Some are old, wobbly things my grandmother had picked up years ago at a yard sale; others are new and sturdy, but still feel like they belong. I line them up neatly, knowing that by the end of the night they’d be scattered and moved around in the happy chaos of people finding their place.

As I adjust the mic stand, the bell above the door jingles, and I turn to see Mrs. Landry sweeping in with her usual flair. She is a sight in a bright purple dress, a chunky necklace, and those gold bangles that clink with every step. Mrs. Landry has been coming here since before I was born, and her presence feels like a link to every past version of this bookstore.

“Morning, Evie!” she calls, her smile as big as ever. “Look at you, all busy and important. You getting ready for tonight?”

I laugh, giving her a quick hug. “Always. You know me, Mrs. Landry. I’ve got to make sure everything’s just right. You coming tonight?”

She nods, her eyes sparkling. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. I remember when your grandmother used to have these nights. They were packed to the brim with people spilling out onto the sidewalk. You’ve got the same touch, Evie. This place feels just as magical as it did back then.”

I smile, feeling the warmth of her words settle in my chest. “Thanks. I’m just trying to keep the tradition going. She really knew how to make people feel at home.”

“She’d be so proud of you,” Mrs. Landry says, giving my arm a gentle squeeze. “You’re doing something special here, you know that?”

I nod, my throat tightening with gratitude. Mrs. Landry wanders off to her usual corner of the store, flipping through the new arrivals, and I take a moment to soak in the familiarity of it all. This is what I love most about the bookstore—not just the books, but the people who fill it, each of them bringing their own stories, their own energy.

I go back to setting up the event, making sure the chairs are spaced just right and the stage looks welcoming. As I straighten the last row, the door jingles again, and I look up to see Malik, one of my regulars, slipping in with his ever-present notebook clutched to his chest.

“Hey, Malik,” I call, waving him over. “You ready for tonight?”

He shuffles his feet, giving me a shy smile. Malik is one of those poets whose words burned brighter than he ever let on. Quiet and unassuming, but once he is on that stage, it’s like watching a match strike in the dark.

“Yeah, I think so,” he mumbles, glancing around nervously. “I’ve got something new, but...I don’t know. It’s different. I’m not sure if people will get it.”

I hand him a stack of chairs to set up, knowing that keeping his hands busy would help settle his nerves. “Malik, people love hearing you read. It doesn’t have to be perfect; it just has to be yours. That’s what makes it special.”

He nods, still looking unsure, but I see the flicker of a smile. “Thanks, Evie. You always know what to say.”

As he moves off to set up the chairs, I feel a little burst of pride. Watching Malik grow as a poet, seeing him find his voice in this space, is one of my favorite parts of these nights.

I keep moving, arranging books on display and setting up the refreshments table with coffee, tea, and a few bottles of wine tucked discreetly at the back. I can already picture the room filled with people, the low murmur of conversations, the nervous excitement of those waiting to perform. I want tonight to feel special, and I can’t help but hope that Sasha might walk through the door, bringing that spark she always seemed to carry with her.

Lost in my thoughts, I don’t hear the door open again until I look up and see Mr. Dupree, a local musician, striding in with his guitar slung over his shoulder. He’s a regular fixture at these events, always ready with a new song or a story that can make the whole room laugh.

“Evie!” he calls, setting his guitar case on the counter. “What’s the word? We all set for tonight?”

“Hey, Mr. Dupree. Just about. I’m glad you’re playing. I heard you’ve got something new.”

He grins like a kid with a secret. “I’ve been working on something a little different. Thought I’d shake things up. You think I should go with a love song or keep it upbeat?”

I lean against the counter, pretending to think it over. “You know, I think we’ve had enough love songs lately. Give us something with a beat, make people want to move.”

Mr. Dupree laughs, strumming a few chords on his guitar. “Your grandmother always said the same thing. ‘Make them dance, Mr. Dupree. Make them feel alive.’ That woman knew how to throw a party.”

I nod, a pang of longing tugging at my heart. “She really did. I’m just trying to keep the tradition alive, you know?”

“You’re doing a damn fine job of it,” he says, giving me a warm smile. “And hey, save me a dance tonight, alright?”

“Always,” I promise, watching him head to his usual spot by the stage.

For a moment, I let myself drift back, thinking of the nights when my grandmother was at the helm, directing everyone with her infectious energy. She’d always been larger than life, someone who could light up a room just by walking into it. When she passed, I’d felt the weight of the bookstore shift onto my shoulders, heavy with the responsibility of keeping it all going. But days like this made it all worth it.

As I move through the store, I find myself lingering by the poetry section, running my fingers along the spines of books that hold memories I can never quite put into words. It’s here in these aisles that my grandmother had taught me about the power of stories, the way a single line of poetry could cut straight to the heart.

But as much as this place is tied to my grandmother, there are also memories of my mother woven into the shelves. My mom was a wild spirit, never content to stay in one place. She’d drifted in and out of my life like a wayward breeze, always chasing something beyond my reach. I remember the few times she’d swept into the bookstore, full of grand ideas andbig promises, only to disappear again before the ink on those promises was dry.

Her death had been sudden, jarring in its finality. I’d been just a teenager, trying to navigate the messy reality of losing someone who had never really been there in the first place. It was my grandmother who’d stepped up, filling the gaps my mom had left behind, teaching me to love the bookstore, to find solace in the rhythm of the community she’d built.

“Evie?” Kenneth’s voice breaks through my thoughts, and I turn to see him standing with a box of new books, watching me with his usual gentle concern. “You okay?”

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