Page 18 of Crazy In Love
I’m fragile.
I need to be handled with care.
And he told me in five different emails how unwanted I was.
But no one wants to hear about that.
“Please?” She takes my hand and tangles our fingers together. “It would reduce my stress by a whole lot if I knew he was okay when we’re not in the same room. This matters to me.”
“Fine,” I grumble, petulant and proud of it. “For you. Because I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
“I won’t tell him he’s unwanted,” I clarify, since I’m all about the details. “I promise nothing about irritating him in general.”
She snickers and tightens her fingers around mine. “I figured as much.”
“I’ll just be me. And I won’t intentionally hurt his feelings. But if my existence is a bother, then that’s something he’s gonna have to handle all on his own.”
“This is going to be a bumpy six weeks,” she sighs. But then she hisses and grabs her stomach. “She’s talking business now. Ouch. She’s gonna come out swinging.”
“Little fighter baby.” I set my coffee on the railing and press my palms to her stomach. “Sheesh. You weren’t kidding. Your stomach is tight as hell.”
ROUND SIX
CHRIS
The bell above the bookstore front door jingles downstairs, alerting me to visitors. Though I know they’re not customers.
They’re Franky and Fox, here to settle in and discuss business.
I carefully set my wrench in my toolbox and take a step back from the spout that, an hour ago, leaked a constantdrip-drip-dripinto a shower that hasn’t been used in months. Perhaps even years. And though turning the mains off to conserve water briefly passed through my mind, it took only a moment more to realize those same pipes feed the shop downstairs, too. If I cut one half of the building off, the other half goes without. Which means no toilets. No sink. No way to refill the coffee machine to appease the steady stream of customers Alana has cultivated over the past few months.
No coffee means the old ladies of Plainview might revolt. And shit, but they were young in the sixties. Every smart man knows not to fuck with folks from that era.
“I’ll show you upstairs soon, Aunt Fox.” Franky closes the front door, his voice echoing throughout the long shop and up the stairs into the apartment Fox will move into soon. He clomps across the store and flicks the lights on, and after that, the computer.
I know his routine almost as well as he knows it himself.
He moves to the cash register and powers it on so the Wi-Fi has time to catch up, then he switches the coffee machine on so customers have something delicious to drink while they peruse books.
“My mom sometimes bakes things herself for the fridges. And other times, the bakery up the street supplies us.”
“Does your mom call them the day before to let them know?”
“Yep.” He drags a stool over the old flooring, a tooth-aching screech announcing exactly where he is.At the computer.“She usually writes a list each day of all the things we need for the next day, and then she decides which ones she’ll bake herself. Whatever is left over, she tells that to the baker, and the baker takes care of it.”
“Sounds like a good system.” There’s no click-click-click of heels on the floor. So… sneakers? Flip flops? “Do you usually sell a lot of baked items?”
“We sell them all. Every single day.”
Fuck, I don’t have to see him to know his face glows with pride.
“We sell themfasterwhen Mom bakes them,” he adds smugly. “And usually, whoever the first customer is, asks, then they tell everyone else, ‘cos this town is run on a grapevine.”
“A grapevine?”
“Yeah, like,gossip. We don’t even need TVs around here. Everyone knows everything about everyone else anyway.”
