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How could she? Like, were they both naked and he somehow tripped and fell into her vagina?
Please.
I didn’t want to hear it, either. Returning to Turn the Page in my bare feet, I sent Tyler a furious text that I expected him to get the fuck out of the apartment before closing—and that was right before I impulsively went online and bought a new mattress to replace the one upstairs.
That was the last time I saw either of them face to face, and boy did it take a lot of rosé to burnthatout of my brain.
Still, sometimes I do wonder if Tyler decided to dump her when—gasp—she hit her big 3-0 in February or if they’re still together. I have no way to know. When my parents told me that I should want my ex-fiancé and my sister to be happy, I went no contact with all of them.
Pretty easy when I spend nearly every waking hour in my store, and not one of my family members ever gave a crap about my business.
Besides, Kennedy always does what she has to to survive. She moves on, even when it seems like it’s impossible.
And when she gets her mind stuck on something, she’s like a dog with a bone only even more tenacious.
I hadn’t taken a vacation since Tyler heeded my unsaid threat and packed up all his shit by the time I closed the store up that fateful night. I might look delicate and sweet, with a heart-shaped face, a gentle smile, and a seemingly innocent expression… but I have a temper. He knew that better than anyone.
I’m also super stubborn, too. Throwing myself into work, I would prove to him—prove to all of them—that I didn’t need to be in a relationship to be happy. He always accused me of loving my store more than him anyway, and maybe he was right. I settled for him because he said he wanted kids and, apart from Turn the Page, it’s always been my dream to have a big family of my own.
Now Hallie is living the life I once thought I wanted, and I can’t stop thinking about abookof all things.
I didn’t regret selling it until a couple of days into my vacation. By then, I’d already done a few searches online, hoping I could find another copy of theGrimoire du Sombra; if not, then at least some information on it. I guess when I told Shannon it was one of a kind, I was right.
I don’t know why I’m so drawn to it. The embossed pentacle on the cover caught my attention when I found it thrown into a box of stock I bought from an estate sale I went to one night in Connecticut, but except for reading the strangely formatted title page written in an unfamiliar language on the inside, I didn’t get a real good look at it before I sold it to Shannon.
That was probably my mistake. If I’d flipped through the pages, maybe tried to translate some of it, there’s a chance I’d have already forgotten about it like I do every other book I sell.
But I didn’t, and I haven’t.
All I remember about it is its title, and while I already knew what a grimoire was—hence me telling Shannon it was a spellbook—I had no clue was a Sombra was. Google failed me on that front, too. Somehow I doubted the book had anything to do with a video game from 2016 or a brand of topical pain relieving gels, but those were the first results that came up when I looked.
So, you see, that’s why I thought stealing it seemed like a brilliant idea. When I couldn’t even explain to myself why I felt like one particular book—of the thousands I’ve sold over the years—called to me over all others, how could I bring it up to one of my best customers without looking like a lunatic?
With the seagulls cawing over my head, I did manage to talk myself out of stealing it from Shannon. After wasting so much of my life with Tyler, I could kiss my dream of having kids and a man who actually loved me for me goodbye if I got thrown into jail for a little breaking and entering and some petty theft. I would just have to wait until the right time to see if maybe Shannon would be interested in letting me buy it back.
Even if Ididend up cutting my vacation short.
Instead of staying through Sunday, I decided to go home late Friday night. And while I could blame it on the rainstorm that came through the shore town or not wanting to miss out on any weekend sales, I know the truth. Shannon likes to stop by on Saturdays when she’s off work, and even if she doesn’t stop by my shop, odds are she’ll go to The Beanery for her daily latte. I can flag her down there.
That was my plan. It was a good one, too, and I resigned myself to waiting until I saw Shannon. I was banking on her visiting Turn the Page. One of my most loyal customers, the snarky yet friendly blonde usually came by every couple of weeks to check out my new stock.
I could wait. And maybe by the time I see her again I’ll have gotten over this ridiculous need to get back the old book I sold her.
Icouldwait—but, as it turns out, I don’t have to.
* * *
Turnthe Page follows a similar set of hours as the other shops that line Main Street. We open every morning at ten, close at six, and I work all shifts, Sunday through Saturday. Along the stretch where my store sits, there are only two establishments that open before ten: The Beanery, the coffee shop next door, and Sal’s, a deli that serves bagels in the morning and sandwiches for lunch.
My first day back, I almost decided to stop by Sal’s for an onion bagel with cream cheese. By the time I arrived back in Jericho last night, I was too beat to restock my fridge; whoever says that some folks need a vacay from their vacay got it right with me. I barely had enough energy to unpack and do a load of laundry last night, let alone go grocery shopping.
But then I thought about how much work waited for me after a whole week off. Instead of the bagel, I popped into The Beanery to grab some coffee and a croissant. It would be quicker, and I’m thinking I’m going to need the caffeine. Especially after last night’s sleep… and how little of it I got.
Notably, for the first time in days, I didn’t dream of myself in my shop, leafing through the same leather-bound book that’s been haunting me lately. Instead, I had the strangest… I don’t know. I don’t want to call it a nightmare exactly because I wasn’t scared. The opposite, actually, since I woke up with my hand inside of my panties.
I can’t tell you the last time I had a sex dream. Ages, but what made me so unsettled when I woke up wasn’t the disappointment that I was alone in bed. It was the memory of the faceless male who was stroking me reverentially in my dream as I rubbed myself in my sleep.
Male’s the right word for it. He wasn’t a man. He was more amonster. Huge and muscular, with a dick to match, I couldn’t help but think he wasinhuman.
