"Hi," I say, smiling at her.
She walks behind a shabby desk that looks like it's used as a register. A can of pens topped with faux flowers sits beside an outdated cash register. She’s wearing a cute crop-top and high-waisted jeans, and I wonder if she’s from around here. She doesn’t have the hippie vibe most others do.
"Welcome to Books 'N' More." She gazes at me expectantly, her voice completely monotone, telling me she most definitely hates her job. “Let me know if you have any questions.” Her dark, curly hair just barely touches her shoulders and she wears large gold hoop earrings.
I look around the place, then back at her. "Hey," I greet her. "I do have a question."
She stays quiet but nods her head, giving me permission to ask.
"Why the word More in the name of the store? I only see books."
Yes, I’m having that kind of day—desperate to get my mind off of Owen and my mom so I’ll chat up some random chick about her store name. The woman grimaces as she steps around to the side of the desk and props a flattened palm on the worn surface. "That would be the work of my crazy grandma. Bless her heart." Her other palm, the one she's not using to balance on the desk, covers her heart. "She owned this place for years. Still does, technically. We didn't realize she was losing it a bit." The woman points to her head and makes a swirl with her fingers.
I wince, in part because I feel bad for the grandma and in part because I'm taken aback by the brutal honesty of this girl.
She notices. "Did I overshare? I'm a say-it-like-it-is person. Blame it on my New York upbringing.”
I smile and instantly like her. "No, you didn’t overshare. I've spent the last six years living in Manhattan. What part are you from?"
I see amusement trickle into her eyes and her lips curve into a slight smile. "A fellow New Yorker, don’t get many of us around here. I grew up in Queens. What's your name?"
"Autumn Cummings."
Not sure I would call myself a “New Yorker,” but I'll run with it.
She extends a hand. "Well, Autumn Cummings who lived in Manhattan for the past six years, I'm Olivia Rhodes. But don't call me that, because only my mother does. I go by Livvie."
I like how fast she talks. I like her tough exterior. Taking her hand, I give it a good shake.
"What do you have in those bags?" She peers pointedly at my hands.
"Fudge, soap, wine, and olive oil."
She raises one eyebrow. "You sharing?"
"You want to eat soap and drink olive oil?"
She barks a laugh. "No but I’ll take some of that wine."
I look at the front door, certain she’s kidding. "Aren't you open for business right now?"
Livvie marches to the door and turns the lock. Then she flips over the Open sign and turns back to me. "Not anymore," she announces. "Pop a bottle. I need a drink."
"That's the saddest reason I've ever heard for coming home," Livvie says after I've told her part of my life story and why I’m back in Sedona. She takes a sip of her wine, shaking her head.
We're drinking from paper cups she grabbed from beside the coffee machine.
I take the tiniest sip. I'm supposed to pick up my mom when she's finished. The last thing I need is to tell Owen I can't make it because I've been day drinking.
"And somehow your reason for being here is not just as sad?" A senile grandmother who'd been running her business into the ground unbeknownst to her family makes for a depressing tale too. Livvie jumped in to try and save it, but she’s ready to sell it and be done with the whole business if she can’t turn it around and make a profit.
Livvie leans back against a row of books. We're sitting on the ground between two bookshelves, hidden away from anybody who might pass by and peer through the store window.
She sighs. "I guess my reason for coming is pretty sad too."
She stretches out her left hand, curling and uncurling her fingers, her eyes focused on the motion.
A huge diamond glints in the dull overhead light. I don't know much about diamonds or weight, but the center stone is the size of a plump blueberry and is surrounded by smaller, yellow diamonds.
"That's quite a ring on your finger," I comment.
Livvie makes a grunting sound in the back of her throat. "If only the man who put it there also cared enough to be around me."
I'm not sure how to respond, but after a beat, I ask, "He didn't come out here with you?"
She shakes her head. "Too busy working."
I hear the heartbreak in the smallness of her voice. Funny how someone can break your heart, even while you're married to them.
"I'm sorry, Livvie."
She looks up at me, pushing back the hair that had fallen into her face. When she does this, two more diamonds peek out from her earlobes.
"Don't be. Sometimes things just go to shit."
I laugh once, an empty, knowing sound.
She eyes me over the brim of her cup. "You know what I'm talking about? Did someone in New York break your heart?"
My head tips up, bumping against the bookshelf behind me. Instead of moving it, I let it rest there. "Someone here," I correct.
Livvie's eyes widen. "Have you seen him since you've been back?"
"He's my mom's oncologist."
"Nooo," she draws out the word in whispered disbelief. "The universe must hate you.”
I bust out laughing. Livvie isn’t one of those friends who will lie to make me feel better and I like that. Considering all of my high school friends have either left town or I haven’t seen them in a decade, I could use a new one.
"Right?" I ask, joining in her disbelief.
"When did you two end it?"
"A long time ago, so you'd think we'd be over it by now. But it wasn't a clean break … it got ugly.”
Livvie clutches her cup tightly. “Go on. I can keep a secret.”
Fear and panic rush through me. I don’t tell my story about Owen to many people. Any people, actually. It’s my deep dark secret that festers inside of me and I don’t let it see the light of day. The only people I’ve told are my college therapist and my old roommate Anna.
Two people. And Owen. And Ace. Four people on Earth know our story. Sometimes keeping it inside of me feels like I’m drowning, like it sits heavy in my throat, begging to be let free, to escape so I can breathe.
I don’t know Livvie, so maybe that’s why I decide to tell her.
“When I was eighteen … three weeks before I was about to leave for college, I got pregnant.” The tightness in my throat eases a bit as Livvie nods in complete understanding. She doesn’t say anything, so I go on. “I … chose not to keep it.”
The word “abortion” just adds to the shame that I feel, so I try not to use it. Some women don’t regret their decision and casually talk about their choice, and I respect that. I envy that.
I’m not that person.
I deeply regret the choice I made, forever altering my path with Owen and destroying our future.
Livvie reaches across and squeezes my hand, her eyes growing misty. Am I going insane? Sharing my story with a complete stranger in a dusty bookshop over wine? Maybe I am. Maybe my mom’s return illness and coming home has finally pushed me over the edge.