2
Mia
Yeah, my dad may be good with the numbers, but he’s got a thing or two to learn when it comes to organization. Trying to get through the new shipment of books would be a lot easier if he hadn’t dumped all the crates in the basement with a bunch of his old crap.
“What is all this stuff anyway?” I say aloud, pulling the tape off on one of the water-damaged carton boxes. Not much in there apart from some clothes and what I’m guessing to be toys from when I was a kid. In fact, I’m sure they’re mine when I find my stuffed elephant toy.
“I remember you,” I say. I used to love this thing.
“Mia, what’s taking so long?” My dad’s voice calls out from the shop upstairs.
My instinct is to tell him to come down and do it himself and not put the new deliveries down in the dusty basement in the first place, that there’s a perfectly good stockroom for just that. For the most part, I bite my tongue. It’s not easy living and working with your father, but I can see that he tries his best. I do, however, remark on his decision for putting the crates downstairs.
“I didn’t want to get the stockroom all jammed up. Anyway, did you find the new copies of Rachel Buckworth’s Forbidden Thoughts?”
I laugh as the title of the new best-selling romance novel leaves his mouth. More so, knowing that if he actually read it, that he probably wouldn’t be so keen to have it on our shelves. Or maybe he would, as he is a numbers guy after all. Not that I’m complaining—I’ve also read most of them. There’s something exciting about a man with a sense of danger around him. Little same can be said for the guys in this town.
I grab a box of the new books and climb back up the few steps to the shop. A few of the ladies from town are searching for their next read. There’s a look of excitement on Mrs. Turner’s face, especially when she sees me putting the new, raunchy novels on display. She takes one immediately and turns it over to read the back cover.
“So far, the reviews say it’s better than her last,” I tell her as I arrange a few copies in the shop window display.
“Is that right?” She brings the book close to her bosom. “And how is it that we never see you with a nice man by your side. You’re such a beautiful young lady, surely the local boys are lining up to take you out on a date?”
I smile toward Mrs. Turner instead of telling her to mind her own business. All these old gals seem to be interested in nothing more than cookbooks, erotic novels, and my sex life.
“Well,” I respond, “I guess I haven’t met the right guy yet.”
“Oh? What about Chad?”
“Chad’s a good boy!” My father shouts out from behind the counter.
I can feel my cheeks turn red. Not at the mention of Chad’s name, but from the fact that our little bookshop always seems to turn into some sort of town council where my dating life is the main topic of discussion.
“I told you already, old man.” I hope my father can read the annoyance in my tone. “Chad is really not my type.”
Not by a long shot. Truth is, I can see why my father would insist that I date a guy like Chad. For the most part, I’m sure he seems like the golden boy. He comes from a respectable family, makes a decent living as a business banker—a numbers guy just like the old man—and I guess for most women, he’s not bad to look at either.
“If I was your age,” Mrs. Turner says, “I wouldn’t have given it a second guess.”
“If you were my age, then there would be a queue of boys from here down to Jane’s florist at the end of the street.” Maybe a bit of flattery will move this conversation onward and let me get on with my day.
Mrs. Turner laughs and gives me a playful pat on the shoulder.
“You got that right,” she tells me, then walks toward the counter with the book in her hand.
Once the shop empties, I let my father know how I really feel. “You have to stop insisting that I date Chad. I’m not interested.”
My father curses in Italian. I’m not sure what it means, but it’s the same word he uses when he accidentally cuts himself or stubs a toe. “Come on, Mia. I’m not trying to insist on anything. Just give the boy a chance—he obviously likes you.”
“Papa, stop it already. Do you really want to know the truth?”
My father pats down his remaining hair before placing his spectacles on the top of his head. He nods.
“Guys like Chad make my skin crawl. He’s too, too—”
“What Mia? Too...what?”
“Boring,” I blurt out. “Too boring.”