She is, to put it simply, my favorite customer.
I head to the break room and fill up her cup, black with one sugar, and grab her a biscotti as well. When I return to the floor, I tell her, “I’ll be around, so just let me know if you need anything else!”
“Thank you, Shoshanna,” she says warmly, sipping her coffee, her eyes already trained back on the bookshelves. Ah, a girl after my own heart.
The store is a mess. But there are only two hours left in my shift, and then Cheyenne will drive me home, and it’ll be time for Latkepalooza! I throw away trash left on display tables and scrape gum off the floor. Humans are disgusting creatures. I try to magic eraser a scuffed wall in the children’s section—Myra navigates her wheelchair with speed and precision and has on more than one occasion said if her employees employed a little more coordination like herself, they wouldn’t always be banging into and damaging her walls with the book carts. I then move from shelf to shelf, straightening books and picking up strays. There’s a tourists’ guide to Rome chilling on the sci-fi shelves because sure. I grab it and head to the travel section, which is where I find Jake, stocking the shelves with diligent attention.
I clutch the Rome book and watch him for a quiet moment. His hands are steady and purposeful. His brown curls look soft, and I have the disturbing urge to rub my fingers through them. That spiral notebook is still rolled up and sticking out of the pocket of his jeans, jeans that fit quite nicely around his behind.
I step toward him. I’m sure he’s actually an okay guy. He was overwhelmed on his first day, and I was leading orientation with 100 percent enthusiasm and 0 percent impulse control, and we got off on the wrong foot. I’ll apologize, and he’ll thank me for being so gracious, and everything will be great. I fluff my own curly hair before chirping out, “Hey, Jake!”
No response. Maybe he didn’t hear me.
Though, I’ve literally never had that problem before.
“How’s your first day going?” I ask.
He turns to me then, eyes meeting mine. “You mean before or after you announced to the store I don’t read?”
“Yeah, I’m sorry about that,” I say. “Really.”
He shakes his head as he picks another book off the cart. “I’m surprised Myra didn’t fire you. My other boss doesn’t put up with juvenile behavior.”
“Juvenile.” The word hits a nerve, and my skin flushes. I square my shoulders as I reply, “I am not juvenile.”
“Yes,” he says. “You are.”
“Am not!” I shout.
Jake raises an eyebrow.
My cheeks flame red. “Look, just because—”
“Shoshanna,” Jake says, and my heart suddenly thumps, because he says my name smooth and slow, the way someone says a name in a movie before that first, perfect, dramatic kiss.
I bat my eyelashes. “Yes?”
“I don’t care what you have to say. It doesn’t interest me. I’m going back to work.”
I gasp. “That is just—you are just—” I narrow my eyes and step forward. Damn it, he smells delicious. Like freaking baked goods. How is that even possible? Does he have a croissant in his pocket? Is that a croissant in your pocket or are you just—
Okay, focus, Shoshanna. “You, Jake,” I say, leaning even closer, “are not a nice person.”
His eyes flicker, and I inhale sharply.
But then he just shrugs and turns back around, shelving books he doesn’t even read. Adrenaline drains fast, and I feel more confused than angry, but then feeling confused makes me angry because Once Upon is my store, my happy place.
And Jake is going to ruin it.
* * *
Cheyenne drops me off at four thirty when the sun is already close to setting because winter is the literal worst. I invite her to join us for Latkepalooza, but she has a cello lesson, so she says goodbye and drives off. Cold wind rattles leaves along the driveway and whips against my bare hands and cheeks. I give Barbra Streisand a loving pat and wonder if Eve had a chance to check on her.
I head inside and find the house is empty, which is kind of weird. Mom always works until at least six, but Mama is usually home by now, out on the back porch painting or curled up on the couch with a book or her tablet games. I pull out my phone to check for missed texts but don’t see any, so I send one to the group chain asking when they’ll be home.
Despite the long day at work, I’m fidgety from my last interaction with Jake. I have shpilkes, as my bubbie calls it—ants in my pants. So I throw my energy into Latkepalooza decorations. I have excellent decorating skills. Myra has seriously upped her window-display game since hiring me.
I grab the Hanukkah paraphernalia from all over the house. Does any Jewish family keep all of their Jewish stuff in one spot? Doubtful. It’s like one of our commandments: Thou Shalt Not Keep the Menorahs and Dreidels in the Same Cupboard, and Thou Shall Not Have One Full Box of Hanukkah Candles When You Can Have Four Different Quarter-Filled Boxes Instead.
It takes more than an hour of searching, decorating, and digging old candle wax out of the menorah to get everything in place, but eventually the white-and-blue tablecloth is on the table, the HAPPY HANUKKAH banner hangs on the wall, and my moms’ presents are carefully wrapped. Mama never turns down a good Sapphic romance, so I bought her a couple of recent releases. And I know Mom is going to love the boxed set of her favorite mystery writer. She’s a mass-market-paperback fiend, and I have to say, cracking a mass-market paperback spine is the single most gratifying pleasure on this planet.
After I’m done with the gifts, I turn to the sack of potatoes sitting on the counter. Hmm. Shredding potatoes is usually Mama’s job, and Mom does the frying, but I’m still the only one here. I rock back on my heels as I pull out my phone. No new messages, and it’s six o’clock now. Mama should definitely be here, and Mom shouldn’t be far behind. I send out another text, and then, feeling a hint of worry, I go ahead and call Mama. It rings and rings, and I think the call is going to voice mail, when suddenly she picks up. “Hey, sweetie!”
“Hey!” I say brightly. “Where are you?”
“I’m sorry, honey. A teacher is out sick, and I have to pick up his classes. I’ll be home in a couple hours. You and Mom get started without me, all right?”
“Oh.” My throat feels weirdly tight. “Um, Mom isn’t here either.”
The line beats with tense silence. When Mama finally replies, she sounds funny—forced positivity like the time my elementary school music teacher told me I had a beautiful singing voice even though we both knew that was a lie. “I’m sure she’s caught up with work too!” Silence again. “I’ll see you in a couple hours. I love you!”
“Love you,” I say, before ending the call.
I put my phone down on the table, then twist my fingers together and look around the empty kitchen. It’s quiet. Really quiet. This has always been a loud house—dinners together every night, boisterous chatter and laughter, talking over each other to share our story or funny comment first. Loud and warm, just how I like it. But, standing here now, I actually can’t remember the last time we had dinner together, and my thoughts wander back to all of those muffled arguments.