Next-Door Nemesis(93)
“Drew!” Mona’s voice bounces off the overstuffed bookshelves. Even at seventy, she strides through the store in her trademark three-inch stilettos, which make my feet wince. Her gray hair has not a strand out of place and her pink-painted lips stand out on her pale, gently wrinkled face, which has aged gracefully over the years. “What are you doing standing over here looking all sad? Is it because you’re wearing those sandals again?”
“The way you come for me every time you see me is still completely unnecessary, Mona.” We live in Colorado: Birkenstocks are not only a completely reasonable footwear choice; it’s practically mandatory for all Denverites to own a pair.
Also, it’s still strange for me to call her Mona instead of Mrs. Fuller, but as I transitioned into adulthood, she insisted that I call her by her first name only. It’s weird, but I acquiesced. Respect your elders and all that jazz.
It is kind of nice to feel like I’m on an even field with them now. Even though they’re a lot older than me, they’re still the coolest people I know.
“Coming for you? I just want you to join us and sit with some old ladies for a little while.”
“Well, if you insist.” I play it cool, but there’s actually not a chance in hell I’d ever pass on the opportunity to listen to them very self-righteously talk shit about every person they know.
I aspire to be just like them when I grow up.
Minus the book club, obvi. Maybe I’ll start a podcast club or something.
She links her arm through mine. Her nearly translucent skin is a stark contrast against my golden-brown skin.
“How’s Mr. Fuller?” I always ask about her husband of almost fifty years when I see her.
“Old and cranky. Happy golfing weather has returned, though not as happy as I am to get him out of the house.” The snide words don’t match the dreamy look that crosses her face whenever his name is mentioned.
I love seeing how happy she still is. My best friend, Elsie, married her high school sweetheart before she could even legally drink—I still tease her relentlessly for her sparkling grape juice toasts—and is blissfully happy with four kids. As for me, however, I’m very much not into the idea of marriage.
I don’t even like myself half the time and you’re telling me it’s a good idea to latch myself on to one other person until death do we freaking part? Or more likely, until they cheat, get bored, or whatever other reason fifty percent of marriages end in divorce.
Yeah. No thank you.
It’s probably a good thing I have no interest in marriage. I’m not fighting off a swarm of potential suitors. Apparently my winning personality isn’t doing it for them.
Their loss.
When we reach the back corner of the bookstore where the Dirty Birds—the name they chose for their book club—meet on the second Wednesday of every month, they’re cackling just like their name would suggest. Copies of whatever romance novel they decided to read this month are sitting on the coffee table and each woman is in her unofficial-official chair. None of the chairs are the same. Gran and I would take weekly trips to the flea market, and she’d treat me to a fancy coffee and pastry before we’d spend hours wandering around, hoping to find the next treasure to grace her store. It took us months before we found all seven chairs that now occupy the nook portion of the Book Nook. I sanded and painted them all a creamy shade of mint while Gran sewed cushions to top them.
Now when I look at the chairs filled with all her friends, laughing and chatting like she imagined, I struggle to remember the joy we had creating them. All I see is the empty seventh seat.
Her seat.
“Did you finally read this month’s book?” Collette, the most crass of the Dirty Birds, narrows her eyes when I sit. Her hair is dyed a bright red that turns a little orange and always clashes with her red lipstick.
“You know I didn’t.” I’ve never participated in a book club and I never will. Once I watched the movie instead but was shamed so intensely for it, I avoided them for a week. The Dirty Birds are vicious.
“You do know you own a bookstore now,” she reminds me, as if I’ve thought of anything else since the lawyers read Gran’s will all those months ago. “You have to read books. You can’t keep this place running if you don’t know the products.”
“Geez, Collette, give the girl a break. She just inherited the place!” Sweet Beth sticks up for me. “Not even you could read all the time when you were working. Just because you’re retired now doesn’t mean she can do whatever you think she should be doing.”
I want to high-five Beth, but I resist when Collette’s knowing glare cuts my way.
“Fine,” she mumbles, leaning back into her seat. “But you’re going to need to start reading something. You can’t own a bookstore and hate books!”
She’s not wrong. This is why I thought Gran was only leaving me her necklace I loved so much.
My fingers drift to the pendant always resting on my chest. She still left me the necklace; it’s just that now it feels more like an apology than a gift. Especially since she left me to fight off her son too.
“I’ll figure it out.” I wave off her concern, sounding much less worried than I actually am. “What book are you reading this time?”
Vivian leans forward, the creak of her chair cutting through the quiet chatter. “Last Hope, by Jasper Williams.” Color fills her cheeks as she summarizes the book for me, and I can’t help but wonder exactly how dirty these Dirty Birds are getting. Maybe I should start reading along, given how single I am. “Oh, and it was just so lovely. The way he writes. I’ll never get over it.”