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I take it and walk around to the living-room side of the two-stooled galley window that separates the little kitchenette from her living room.
“Heart is numb thanks to Kiersten’s bartending skills. The rest of me wishes I could go back to the night I met Stuart so I could tell him to fuck right off.”
As the words leave my mouth, I feel it. That pang of anger,deep within my chest, aimed not at Stuart but myself. It grows and grows until it becomes so heavy it snaps, then drops to the pit of my stomach, where it acts as a solid reminder of all the times I knew Stu and I weren’t meant for forever and ignored it. A reminder of all the other things I could have done if only I would have had the guts to walk away from the relationship.
Aunt Livi shakes her head and tuts. “Oh, you don’t mean that.” She opens the box and pulls out her own slice of pizza, her gray eyes assessing me with concern.
I take a bite. The hot cheese burns the tender skin on the roof of my mouth, forcing me tohiffawuntil it cools enough to swallow.
“I do. If you told me your Prius had a flux capacitor, I’d be hauling my ass back to the night I met Stuart at that bar, where I’d tell him to move right along.”
Kiersten appears at my side at the same time Dax enters the kitchen. My sister hands me another margarita. A peace offering. I take a long sip and sigh into my once-again half-empty cup. “I gave four of my prettiest years to that man and have zero to show for it.”
“You have me.” Dax says it so quietly from the corner of the kitchen that I almost don’t hear him. “We met that night as well, remember?”
Yes, we did. I almost forgot. Dax was there that night too. It was Stuart’s birthday party, but Dax had tagged along with a high school friend who was a co-worker of Stu’s. We had a few fleeting moments together before Stuart swept in, ready to woo.
“You were the best thing to happen to me that night, Daxon B.,” I tell him. “Too bad it took me four years to see it.”
I mean it as a joke. Or a slight at Stuart. But Dax doesn’t laugh or smile.
“Well, I don’t have a time machine,” Aunt Livi muses, “but Idid get a rather interesting book in the donation bin this week. Maybe it could help?”
A book.
I guess I should be grateful it’s not another aura-cleansing bubble bath.
I love my aunt and her unwavering belief that all of the world’s problems can be solved with the right book, but I don’t foresee how any work of literature will help me tonight. I’m beyond self-help.
But I’m also too drunk to argue. So I shrug and shovel one last piece of veggie-lover’s pizza into my stomach in hopes that it will make for a more bearable morning tomorrow.
The three of us follow Aunt Livi down the back steps to her store, which is less of a traditional bookshop and more of a curated collection of weird and wonderful things. She claims to have the biggest collection of monster erotica in the northern hemisphere. But if you’re not into milking minotaurs or dendrophilia (I once made the mistake of googling that—do not recommend), you can also find healing crystals, ancestral incense, and salts of the black, pink, Himalayan, or table variety.
It was my favorite place in the world as a kid.
When my homelife sucked, it offered refuge and familiarity. Its dark corners provided a place to escape and its owner a source of constant and unconditional love. As my high school years approached, the store became more of a humiliating secret. My tween-aged heart longed to be anything but the girl whose parents abandoned her to that weird-smelling shop on James. Now, as a partially functioning adult, I have enough perspective to appreciate it, as well as my Aunt Livi. It’s confident in what it is, unapologetic about what it’s not, and the one and only place on earth that has ever felt like home.
The store is completely dark until Aunt Livi flips a light switch,illuminating the chandelier-like light fixture that hangs in the middle of the ceiling. It’s just a series of colored bulbs hanging from wires, like an eighth-grade science diorama of our solar system, but I’ve always sworn that the bulbs shift and move when you’re not looking.
“Now, where is that book?” Aunt Livi places her hands on her hips and turns a slow 360 on the spot. “I was reading it earlier, but then I did something with it, and I can’t for the life of me remember what.” She makes eye contact with me and points toward a dark corner of the store. “Why don’t you and Daxon check that section? If I shelved it already, it would be down there. Kiersten can take that pile near the front door. I’ll check around the cash register.”
I eye the floor-to-ceiling shelves that divide the store like a garden maze.
“What exactly are we looking for?”
Aunt Livi waves me off. “I can’t quite remember the cover. It’s a book. Big. You’ll know it when you see it.”
There are at least a hundred books down that dark corridor. But I’ve learned over the years to pick my battles with my eccentric aunt, and I’m two tequilas too far in to win this one. So I follow Dax as he weaves his way toward the back, scanning the shelves for nothing in particular, until he reaches a dead end and turns around.
“Any ideas on how to find this thing?”
I shrug, but as I do, a very Aunt Livi–like thought occurs.
“I think we should listen to the books. Let them speak to us.”
Dax, who is the most practical human I’ve ever known but also the first to agree to anything that could be ridiculous fun, reaches his hand up to the shelf, letting his fingers run along the spines of the books. He closes his eyes and hums in a monotone voice.
“The book that will cure Gemma Wilde of all her problemsis…” He pulls a thick white-covered book from the shelf and holds it up.“Healing Your Inner Child in Ten Easy Steps.”
