Page 18 of Safety Net
“Neither is the old man. We’re free to get a little wild,” Eli teased, still balancing and talking, voice steady as ever. It was impressive. “Might throw in some mashed potatoes and gravy. Now there’s a real party.”
I scoffed. “What was it this time?”
“A house in Richport?” Eli asked, looking at Luka for confirmation.
“Nah, I think it was that apartment in Lake City,” Luka corrected. “Ground floor. Flooding.”
My parents often ran around town during the weekend to manage what we all knew was a burning legacy. Dad inherited ten real estate properties from his father. His only experience with buildings was being a construction worker on a crew that built beautiful houses for cheap.
Cue Grandpa. A man who hated all three of his children (and six grandchildren) without prejudice. Dad was the least hated, so in the final will, he inherited six houses, three commercial properties, and an old community center.
“Think they’ll come to their senses?” I wondered out loud.
Luka snorted. “You know those two are too prideful to call it quits. They’ll drown in their narcissism together. I’ll be counting the days until they do. Good fucking riddance.”
Eli’s chuckle almost resulted in a dismount. He was at five minutes now.
As soon as my brothers were able to move out, they did. And whenever they came home, their focus was one hundred percent on me or one another. I didn’t think they’d bother making the drive down when (or if) I ever got the chance to move out, too. Ididn’t blame them, but I also felt a pang of sadness for a version of our family I’d never experienced.
We didn’t have a mantle littered with childhood photos, plastic trophies, and finger paintings. The closest thing we had to a tradition was an argument on the eve of any holiday about who was cooking what and when. Sometimes, when we convinced ourselves to try our hand at lighting the fireplace, it emitted dark clouds of smoke we’d inevitably have to extinguish. It was almost as if, even when we tried to be a cookie-cutter family from the suburbs, the universe was there to remind us, 'No, you just look like one.'
“You sure you don’t want company?” Eli asked.
I smiled, grateful to have them, to know them, and to have them want to know me. “I’ll make you a deal: you stop asking, and I’ll make my lemon cake.”
“You better shut the hell up,” Luka warned. I could never tell which one of them was more obsessed with the recipe.
“Fine, fine,” Eli conceded. “Will it have the drizzle frosting, though?”
“Duh,” I said.
“Then I promise, my lips are sealed.” He finally dismounted. “Until next time.”
I laughed. “Nice to do business with you.”
Mountain Pine Books was nestled in the heart of Main Street. According to the plaque above the front door, it was the only building on the block made up of its original bricks from the early 1900s. Inside, the air smelled of coffee and pinecones, courtesy of the on-site café and the burning candles placed rather boldly throughout the store. The abundance of windowson the ground floor welcomed in a healthy dose of sunlight. Heat from the rays meant the AC and fans above worked overtime.
“Welcome to Mountain Pine. Let us know if you need help finding anything,” a worker behind a stack of new hardbacks greeted. She didn’t even look up as she waved in my direction.
I murmured a thank you; my heart drummed as I dipped into the closest aisle. The weathered wood floors groaned underneath my sandals.
My fingers ran over the mix of old and new spines as I took a couple of deep breaths. In for five, hold for three, out for five. Repeat. My lightheadedness subsided. The shaking of my hands was still present, but scrolling through my phone for the list of books would help.
Carter had a vast catalog to choose from. I looked up at the wooden signs hanging from the ceiling, which indicated the location of each genre. The mystery section was on the back wall, filling most of the built-in shelves.
The bookstore was nearly empty. My shoulders relaxed as I browsed without worrying about getting in anyone’s way. I found Carter easily enough. The first one I laid eyes on was a tattered used paperback with yellowing pages on sale for a dollar. I read the synopsis and was surprised to find a murder mystery set in the Wild West sounded interesting. I moved on to Doyle next. It couldn’t hurt to work in a classic, too. I’m sure Lincoln would appreciate discussions about more than just his favorite author. As expected, there was a whole section dedicated to Holmes.
“It was brilliant,” someone’s muffled voice could be heard a few shelves over.
“Hardly,” the other person scoffed. “Lazy writing, lazy premise, lazy characters.”
My back stiffened when I realized footsteps were approaching. I did my breathing exercise again and repeated mymantra:No one’s focused on you. You’re a side character in their story.
Monstrous me threw her opinion in the ring:Or you’re a silly joke they’ll share in passing. The girl in the bookstore nearly passed out while trying to browse.
I tried ignoring her, drowning the voice out with thoughts of how the used books felt dry and fragile in my hands, how they smelled of old ink and aging fibers. I kept my gaze locked on Holmes as the voices neared, hoping to find support in the timeless detective. The colorful illustration of Sherlock stared back at me, aloof and unfazed by my panic. Everything I knew about this character I learned through TV. Despite not knowing his original story, I was confident enough in my knowledge of Sherlock to confirm he wouldn’t be able to stomach my constant bouts of sky-is-falling rhetoric, which put me in an even deeper state of unease. Not even a fictional character would be able to deal with me. This wasn’t something to get worked up over, and yet, I found a way.
“That’s what makes it fun,” the original voice insisted. My throat tightened at the low chuckle that followed the statement. There was no way it was him. The odds were… decently high considering this was the only bookstore in town that carried Carter’s books, and he didn’t seem like the type to order online. Lincoln liked being outside.
