The Boy with the Bookstore

by Sarah Echavarre Smith

There’s only one thing I love more than the smell of fresh-baked bread and that’s the smell of books.

“I’d be happy to listen to you talk about tonguing and licking and sucking again. If you wanted.” “Screw talking. What if I just do it?”

God, I’m so, so pathetic. I spent a year and a half crushing hard on a guy who, after one makeout session, discarded me faster than stale chewing gum.

What I really wanted to do was take her out for a drink tonight and hear that melodic laugh, see that gorgeous smile. I wanted to run my fingers through that wild mass of black hair again, taste her lips again, feel her thighs on my lap as she worked herself all over me while kissing me breathless. I wanted to fog up those insanely sexy glasses she wears. I wanted to hear her moan again, hear her shout my name . .

“Don’t be sorry, Joelle. These furry little bastards own our hearts. We can’t help but cry over them when they give us a reason to.”

“You know, I am so sick of books written by wanky dead white guys a million years ago still being thought of as sacred, when in reality they’re boring as hell to read.”

“Then it’s really not much of a loss. The world does not need more copies of dead white dudes’ books. Pumpkin did everyone a favor.”

It’s like I’m carrying an invisible anvil on my shoulders just being in his presence. Like I’m always expecting to do something wrong that will set him off or make him get mad at me.

But I want to say something. I want to make it clear just how much I admire her. I want her to know in this moment, no matter how messed up things are right now, that’s she’s an incredible human being.

I glance over at her as she helps her customers, in awe of how she’s kindness and grit in equal measure—how she stands up for what’s right, no matter what.

“I was just being decent. Decency shouldn’t be thanked. It should be baseline.”

Just seeing her look comfortable again eases the knot inside me. I can’t imagine what it must be like to be a woman and have to deal with that bullshit day after day. How demoralizing and even terrifying it must feel to have men repeatedly violate your sense of security.

“Because it takes longer to make an ube latte than a regular black coffee. And when I stood in line the first time I came into your bakery, I noticed how you chatted with customers if their drink took a bit of time to make, and I, um . . . well, I thought you were really pretty and sweet, and I wanted a reason to talk to you for longer than it would take for you to pour a black coffee.”

Shy, introverted women like me don’t nab hotties like Max. We sit quietly in the corner and watch as everyone around us pairs off. And then if we get lucky—or we get drunk or desperate enough to approach some random guy or DM him—we score a date that maybe sometimes goes somewhere for a while. But then it ends. Eventually. It always does. And then we’re left to quietly go back to our corner.

“It’s just . . . I wasn’t expecting you to do that so . . . enthusiastically. You come off so shy and sweet and innocent.” I bite my lip. “I am. Until you get me into bed.” His eyes bulge. “Okay. Very, very hot.”

“I want you right here, Max.” I gasp into his mouth. “I want them to see. I want to show them I’m yours.”

I’ll still have my family. They’ll help me in whatever way they can. They’ll love me always. And I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that they would never, ever do something so hurtful to me. They’d rather endure the worst pain in the world than see a single horrible thing happen to me. That’s something I’ve taken for granted my whole life. It’s not something everyone has.

“You love her?” “So much. More than I’ve loved anyone.” Another long pause. “Good. Because she loves you too.” I almost choke. “She does?” “Yes. She is head over heels in love with you, Max. She told me after the weekend you two went to the coast.”

My boys. My whole world, right in front of me.