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Wednesday afternoonsat Gatsby’s Place are always a little slow. The bookshop is still far from being a thriving business. Some months, I barely break even. But I love it because it's mine. It's something I've built that I can be proud of. At Gatsby’s Place, I’m surrounded by my favorite things. Books and the people who love to read them.
Reading has always been my escape. When I was young, my mom used to cry about money. She never knew when my dad was coming home, or even if he was coming home. I used to lock myself in the shed outside and pretend that my life was different. When I opened the pages of a book, it really was different.
I found father figures in Aslan and Atticus Finch, and I realized that I didn’t need my own anymore. As I grew into my awkward frame, my solace in the world of fiction only cemented. It didn’t matter if I had glasses and zero social skills because I could be anything I wanted to be when I read. I fell in love with Narnia and Nancy Drew, and I knew it would be a lifelong bond.
I wasn't wrong.
This bookstore has always been my dream. The one thing I’ve held onto when everything else was disposable. It’s small and quaint and in need of some renovation, but it’s mine.
The shop gets a mixed bag of customers. Young and old, new readers, avid readers, and then the genuinely obsessed like me. I love to watch them come in and look around. I love to wonder what they'll pick. It's a feeling I can't quite explain, knowing that literally anyone could walk through that door at any moment and we can form a connection over a simple love of reading. It's a magical feeling.
Until it isn't.
Until Daire walks through the shop door and poisons everything around me. He doesn't come here. Ever. And I prefer it that way. I can only imagine what he must think when he scans the storefront with his shrewd business minded eyes. This must be such a joke to him.
"What are you doing here?" I ask.
"Just came by for a visit.” He swipes a mint from the bowl on the counter and pops it into his mouth. "Kosher?"
"But it's a Wednesday.” I slide the bowl of mints from his reach. "In the middle of the afternoon. Shouldn't you be like... stealing the souls of your new employees or something?"
Britt returns from the back room and mouths OMG behind him before waving to get his attention. I roll my eyes.
"You asked for my help," Daire says. "No time like the present."
He’s got me there. But that still doesn't explain what he's doing here. Daire doesn’t do things out of the kindness of his heart, and he never goes out of the way to help anyone, even if he does feel obligated. And now I feel like this was a horrible idea because his eyes are roaming over me in my orange and blue gypsy dress with the non-matching yellow bangles.
"You need new clothes.”
His words are meant to wound, and they do. But I refuse to give him the gratification of a reaction. I’ve dealt with my fair share of bullies in life, and I know that’s all they really want.
I smooth my hands down my skirt. "Probably."
My sense of style isn’t the kind you’ll find in a magazine. I'll never be one of those well put together Pinterest girls. At least, not without Daire's help. So, I accept it. Because this is in fact what I asked for.
He walks around the counter and makes himself at home in my space, removing my purple framed glasses. His fingers brush over my skin, and for a minute I forget how to breathe. He studies my face, paying close attention to every detail before settling in on my eyes. It’s unnerving being the focus of his attention because Daire notices things that other people can’t. He might act aloof, but he wouldn’t be so good at what he does if he didn’t have a keen eye for detail.
He’s reading me right now, and as much as I want to pretend I don’t care, I’m curious what he thinks. I can't recall being this close to him in years. He smells good. And he's much taller when he’s right in front of me. His hands are warm even though I always assumed they’d be ice cold. When I shiver, it’s involuntary, and Daire doesn’t miss that either. It triggers my vulnerability to him all over again, and I hate that feeling.
"I can’t decide whether contacts would improve the situation here or worsen it."
I can’t believe I even had to wonder what he was thinking because this is Daire. He’s a prick. The entire time I’ve been wavering under his scrutiny, he’s been wondering how to improve my face. I snatch back my glasses in dramatic childlike fashion.
"I hate contacts, and I’m not wearing them."
He shrugs. "Hate them all you like, but you will wear them."
It isn’t a question because that would be beneath Daire. He doesn’t ask questions. He makes demands. And he knows the amount of energy it would require for me to argue with him about anything and that I usually just give in.
"Whatever," I mumble.
"That’s good, Lola," he praises. “You do everything I say, and this might actually work.”
I nod and then he grasps my chin in his fingers.
“Now tell me what you did wrong.”
I stare at him in confusion. He just told me I did good, and now he wants me to tell him what I did wrong?
