Emily 1

The smell of rain drags me from a restful sleep before the sound of it does. Damp, earthy, and mixed with the metallic scent of the city. I keep my eyes shut tightly as I stir in bed, grabbing at the sheets and pulling them up over my head. I wish I could lay here forever, warm under the plush blanket while the air around me is cold and still. But I can't stay in bed forever, not today anyway.

 

The alarm on my phone chimes loudly and I furrow my brow, hitting snooze and procrastinating getting up as long as possible. I’m just beginning to drift back to sleep when the snoozed alarm goes off again. Letting out a groan, I sit up and shove the sheets off my body, leaning back on my elbows and squinting at the morning light filtering through the windows. I swing my bare feet over the edge of the bed, the polished concrete floor of my small loft apartment is perpetually cold, especially in January. Various thrifted rugs cover most the floor as a barrier between my feet and the icy concrete, thankfully I didn’t need many to fill the small space.

 

I shuffle sleepily to the window in the living room, taking a moment to peer out. The world below my fire escape never seems to stop or sleep. It's always awake, always moving. I turn back toward the bathroom door, nearly stumbling over the orange fur ball weaving between my legs. Scooping the kitty up, I kiss him gently on the head before placing him on a couch cushion.

 

“Wait here,” I say, giving him a gentle boop on the nose. Stray animals have always had a way of finding me, as if they gravitate toward me. I can never say no to them, so it is rare to find myself without a little pet occupying the home. This one had been on my fire escape nearly every day for a month before he finally came inside. He has a long, wicked looking scar cutting across one eye and down his cheek, but also one of the sweetest temperaments of any animal I've encountered and has quickly made himself at home.

 

Home. What even is home now anyway? I muse to myself with a sigh. Home used to be an old Victorian style house with a squeaky porch swing, an overgrown garden taking up half the yard, a bundle of dried herbs tacked above the front door, and sunlight streaming through stained glass. Home was sitting on the couch under a homemade crochet blanket while Aunt Bethany made me a cup of lavender tea. Though Aunt Bethany had only been in my life for ten years since my mother passed, she is still home to me.

 

She left me that house in her will, and I really tried to stay in it, but after a few months of feeling haunted by her absence, I couldn't stand being there alone. I also couldn’t stand to sell that last piece of her, so it currently sits abandoned just outside the city. My new apartment is still littered with boxes stacked in the corners, yet to be unpacked a couple months later. When my motivation ran out, I had discarded the box cutter on the kitchen counter next to the small lavender plant I had dug out of Aunt Bethany’s Garden in an attempt to keep her with me. Looking at it as I pass, a weight settles on my chest. I really wish I had a cup of her tea right now, somehow it was always able to make me feel better.  I've tried to make it for myself, but for some reason I can never get it quite right, it always tastes wrong when I make it.

 

Entering the bathroom, I pull on the jeans that sit crumpled on the floor, straighten my camisole, then splash some water on my face, studying my reflection in the mirror. I am surprised to find the curls in my hair have held up well overnight. Raking my fingers through the auburn spirals, I let them fall loosely over my shoulders. My cheeks are flushed from the chilly air that creeps its way between the bricks of the apartment walls. Suppressing a shiver, I decide boots will be needed today as I button up my favorite green flannel.

 

I step into the rarely used kitchen, most of the appliances neglected as I am a terrible cook. Instead, it houses the many plants I bring home. Greenery spills like waterfalls down the cabinets and fills the remaining corners. I root through the pantry, thinking no morning would be complete without my favorite breakfast, a bag of sour gummy worms. The breakfast of champions. Pushing the crumpled bag of candy into my small leather backpack and pulling on my worn Doc Martens, I give the kitty one last scratch under the chin before heading out and locking the door behind me.

 

Being a relatively broke college dropout has its drawbacks, not having a car being one of the slightly more annoying handicaps. On a less wet day I would have gladly walked the four blocks to Augustine’s Book Store. I pause under the awning of my building, peering down the sidewalk. People hurry past with umbrellas and coat collars turned up against the rain and cold. I spot the Number 23 bus rumbling down the street toward my stop. It’s a funny coincidence that the bus number is the same as my age. Numbers have always followed me, I always seem to be glancing at the clock and seeing patterns, 11:11. 3:33. 4:44. Angel numbers, Aunt Bethany had called them. 

 

The bus pulls up against the curb, letting out a hiss as it lowers and the doors swing open. I follow the person ahead of me aboard and pull my backpack around to my lap as I sit. The rain sounds even louder inside the bus as fat droplets splat against the windows. My gray eyes nearly match the sky outside and they glaze over as I watch the city go by. I had taken this route dozens of times when I was younger. Aunt Bethany loved taking trips into these little downtown areas to shop. Her favorite places to visit were an apothecary on 3rd street that sold herbal remedies and teas, and Augustine's bookstore. My fingers absentmindedly fidget with the ring on my right hand, a thick silver band with a green stone in the center. Aunt Bethany never took it off, and from her death bed bade me to do the same.

 

The doors to the bus hiss open and with a start I realize that we are already at my stop. Nodding a thank you to the driver, I hurry into Augustine’s. Memories of childhood flood back to me as I enter the shop. I love the smell of the books, the worn leather chairs tucked into the corners, the ornately carved shelves.

 

“Good morning, Ashra,” comes a cheerful and raspy voice from behind a bookshelf. The owner of the store, Henry, a short man with a scruffy white beard that’s almost always hiding a smile. “It’s been too long, I was so sorry to hear of Bethany’s passing,” he wraps me in a tight hug, his familiar licorice scent caressing my nose. “You can put your bag behind the counter there dear,” he says, handing me a blank name tag and a pen. Tucking my backpack under the counter, I write “Ash” with a flourish and pin the tag to the front of my flannel. “You will get the hang of things quickly, as much time as you’ve spent here, I’m sure you remember the layout,” he says, gesturing around the small store. “This is Zeke,” he adds as a man about my age saunters out from between the stacks. Zeke pushes the long sleeves of his grey cardigan up to his elbows, a small silver hoop glints on the side of his nose and his short, neat hair appears freshly bleached. “You two will be working together so if you have any questions, he’s a great resource. You’ve used a register before, and you can look up the books in the system on the monitor there.” I nod in agreement. “I’ll be working downstairs if you need me,” he waves as he walks toward a door near his office.

 

“Nice to meet you Ash,” Zeke says with a smile, bringing out dimples on his freckled face.

 

“Likewise,” I smile back at him.

 

“We just got a new shipment of books in, so I have a lot of shelving to do if you don’t mind keeping an eye on the register? Holler if you need anything,” Zeke waves his fingers at me before disappearing back into the stacks.

 

I casually glance around, people watching. A few patrons browse the aisles, some sit in chairs with a book in their laps, sipping a warm drink from the café across the street if the logo on the cup is any indication, or chatting quietly with each other. I perch on the stool behind the wooden counter, organizing the stack of books next to me that need to be placed back on the shelves. I pull a sour gummy worm out of my bag and nibble on it. One of the books catches my eye, it is slightly askew and not in the pile with the rest. I raise my eyebrows, licking the sour sugar off my lips as I pick it up. Absentmindedly thumbing through it, I stop in the middle and let the pages fall open to read a sentence. [“the bulge in his jeans presses against my thigh as he slides his tongue up my neck, under my jaw, and-”] my face flushes and I drop the book onto the counter as if it had burned me. 

 

“Thanks for finding it, I was wondering where that one went.” I freeze as I glance up. A man is suddenly standing before me, palm pressed against the counter as he leans over it. “I must have left it on the counter when I picked up the others. Can I have it back?” He asks, flashing his receipt to prove he paid for it. “That is, unless you’re enjoying it.” He straightens, revealing his full height, a smile tugging at his mouth.

 

“N-no. It’s yours,” I stammer, flustered, sliding the book across the counter toward the stranger. He seems to take a moment to study me, his keen gaze making me all but squirm in my seat. The dark curls framing his face cause his green eyes to stand out piercingly. The intensity in his stare feels like hot daggers going through me.

 

“May I?” The stranger inquires, tipping his head toward the pile of small paper bags next to me. I nod shyly and reach to hand him a bag. His fingertips brush against mine for a fleeting moment as I pass it to him. I pull away, feeling his touch linger on my skin. “Thank you,” he says, leaning closer again, his bright eyes lowering to my chest. I almost huff indignantly before realizing he is reading my name tag. “Thank you, Ash.” My name on his lips sends a ripple of something I can only describe as pleasure down my spine and I’m too dumbstruck to come up with a response.

 

He turns to leave and is a step from the door when an unexplainably horrible feeling suddenly blooms in my chest. I want to say something to him before he is gone, feel as though I need to say something to him, but the words catch in my throat. I panic, having never felt like this before, this helplessness. Maybe I let out a small noise of distress, or maybe he just senses something in the air, but the stranger turns back toward me, my heart hammering so loud I feel sure he can hear it, my ears fill with a high-pitched ringing.

 

“You have a little something,” he gestures toward my mouth, slowly running his tongue over his bottom lip. I bring my hand shakily up to my mouth, brushing away some sugar still on my lip. A grin breaks across his face. “Good girl.” Another step and he is pushing through the heavy wooden door, tugging the hood of his thick red coat over his head.

 

I stare at the door slack jawed for a moment before Zeke’s voice from behind makes me jump nearly a foot in the air. “Guuuuurl, that fine specimen was totally smoldering at you.”

 

I glance back at him incredulously. “He so wasn’t,” I grumble, cheeks heating.

 

“Oh honey, denial isn’t just a river in Egypt,” Zeke singsongs as he flits out of swatting range.

Author's Note

This book started as a "pass the page" sort of endeavor between three people taking turns writing sections of the story. Now one has dropped out so there are two of us taking turns writing (hence the names of the chapters corresponding to who wrote that section) so there may be some tone shift because of this that we work to make as seamless as possible with editing. Any feedback is greatly appreciated!