My stomach began sinking at the thought of having a real conversation with Josh, and strangely, it outweighed the sinking stomach for bringing a gun to work. There was a lot of sinking going on.
Grandma was still asleep, but upon opening the refrigerator, there were two brown paper bags waiting for me. She had placed a note on one that read, “I put in some extra cookies for Hank. Tell him I said hello.”
Opening up my backpack again, I put the two bags in there more carefully than I normally would, resting them on top of the cardigan and secretly hoping cookies wouldn’t make the gun go off. Irrational, but that was how my brain worked. So far, not looking good for the “keep the gun” argument.
Checking my watch, I noticed I was running a little late, so I hurried out the door and kept a brisk pace heading for the bookstore.
The alley snuck up on me like a second unwanted nightmare. A low, deep chuckle vibrated in my ears as I approached it, laughing at me and my decision to bring the gun with me.
Even in the daylight it was dark and foreboding, mocking me, telling me I wasn’t good enough, that I’d always be living in terror, that it would always be here, waiting for me. I wondered if light itself had been sucked into its grasp, like a portal leading to some kind of hell dimension. Holding my backpack closer, as if somehow the gun could protect me through the bag, I ran the rest of the way to work.
I wouldn’t let it win.
I wouldn’t let it take me.
Running set me free.
Running made me forget.
Catching my breath, I walked into the store to a resounding frown from Rachel (shocker), but I hurried past her and went directly into the back room. I took the two paper bags out of my backpack to put in the fridge, and the gun toppled out of the bag, hitting the floor with a frightening impact.
Boom!
A bullet shot through my gut, blood pouring through the wound. I tried to hold the blood in, but there was no stopping it. I was going to die.
Shaking out of my day-nightmare, I found the gun was safe inside the backpack still covered by my cardigan.
No wounds.
No gunshot.
I needed to stop doing this to myself.
Shoving my backpack into a locker, I locked it with the padlock. No one was getting in there without my key. Tucking the small key into my pocket, I sighed in relief.
Rachel appeared in the doorway, blocking my way out.
“What’s in the locker that’s got you all worked up?” She eyed me suspiciously.
“My backpack,” I answered honestly, but my hands shook.
Rachel walked over and inspected the padlock as if she may find something there.
“I always put it in there,” I defended myself lamely.
“Uh-huh.” Rachel watched me with mistrust. “You’re sweating.”
“I ran all the way here, and it’s warm back here.” All of which was true.
Rachel didn’t seem convinced. “Listen, Jeraline, you haven’t heard anything about Josh’s stolen picture, have you? It couldn’t have fallen into your backpack, could it?”
“No.” Why wouldn’t she let the picture go? Because you stole it.
Oh yeah.
“Then why so nervous?” Rachel asked carefully.
Because I have a gun in my backpack. “Too much coffee?” I glanced at the clock on the wall next to us. “I’ve gotta get out there.”
Before Rachel interrogated me more, I skirted around her and walked toward the front counter.
Only one customer was in the store as I reached the main cash register, and he arrived at the counter the same time I did. As the man handed me the book he wanted to purchase, Josh walked in and gave me a little wave.
There went the knees.
I nervously looked away to really cement that I was a jerk in Josh’s eyes.
Luckily, he didn’t seem to notice as he headed to the back room.
I took the customer’s book and saw that it was Jane Austen’s Emma. One of my favorites. “It’s a good one.”
The customer handed me the cash. “I have to read it for class, but thanks.”
One thing I’d noticed about working in a bookstore: people usually only bought classics for school, that or they were trying to do some sort of reading challenge. Either way, I hoped the guy would enjoy the book.
Josh walked back out until he stood in front of me. Me. I didn’t think my knees would hold me much longer.
“Hey, I saw you used a padlock on one of the lockers. Would you mind if I put my jacket in there too?” Josh asked politely.
He talked to me.
Did this count as a conversation?
Only if I said something.
I handed him my key and said, “Sure, no problem.”
Josh smiled sweetly. “Thanks.”
I shockingly smiled in return, silently patting myself on the back as Josh left to the back room once more.
That should totally count as a conversation. Technically we didn’t talk about work at all.
Emma Woodhouse from the Jane Austen book Emma appeared next to me, dressed in the height of 1800s fashion. Emma glanced in the direction Josh disappeared to. “‘Sure, no problem’ is not a conversation. You’ll have to do better than that.”
“Grandma didn’t give me any rules except ‘no work talk.’”
Emma shook her head, staring at me with disappointment. “Really? This experiment is supposed to help you fall in love.”
“I think I prefer liking from afar. Interaction is overrated.” These were the commandments I lived by.
Emma shrugged as if I were a lost cause. “Well, if Josh jostles your backpack around too harshly, he may shoot himself by accident and you won’t have to worry about having a conversation at all.”
Emma disappeared as my stomach dropped and my eyes widened.
Boom!
The sound of my gun was deafening.
Everything moved at a snail’s
