Only Yours

0.3

Tamina

"Thank you, Quin," I beam, hoping he can hear the gratitude in my tone. "It's called Passion for the Game by Sylvia Day."

Quinton is fast in retrieving the chunky laptop from a compartment within the desk, notching his glasses up once again.

"How are your parents doing, by the way?" I ask, nosing at the pale pink, laminated poster propped against the back of the till screen.

Included in the meal for two: Steak, champagne, flowers, candles, and a box of chocolates.

"They're doing well, thanks." The reflection of the screen illuminates in his glasses. The keys click in a fast rhythm, minus the few backspaces and corrections. "How are yours?"

I smile at the thought of my mum knee-deep in dirt as she tends to her plants, how my dad will be conversing with his client in the back seat of his car.

"They're good, thank you."

While Quinton works his magic, memories hit me as I stare at the doorway behind him.

Within the small opening, I remember sliding books off the shelf lining both sides; desirables, we called them because people desperately wanted copies ordered. On the other side, on the left, I remember the reasonably sized staffroom where I would take my thirty-minute break and nibble on their brownie bites. Across from it was where I sat, sorting through the stock into genres and bringing them through for the shelves.

I do miss being here, amongst the books and the friendly faces. But volunteering was only going to get me so far.

Now I'm at the point it let me reach.

The notion that after eight years of visiting, nothing has changed brings a smile to my face.

The feeling doesn't last long when the corner of Quinton's mouth turns down. The eagerness and hope whoosh out of me.

He offers an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry to say we don't have any copies right now. . ." Closing the laptop with one hand, the other flicks his mop back from his eyes. "But I can have a word with my parents to see if they will be able to purchase it from the publisher or distributors; that's in their expertise, not mine."

The frustration ebbs away at the sight of the book on the counter, and the notion they can get more in lifts my spirits.

"Thank you for checking anyway, Quin." I give him one of my best reassuring smiles. "I'll be back."

"No problem at all, Terminator." He chuckles. "I haven't asked, how's work going for you?"

He picks up the book I laid flat on the counter, giving it one more inspection.

Looks like I'm not the only one who's curious about this mystery.

"A little quiet," I admit. "Then again, I can't complain."

I try to grin, but I know it doesn't quite meet my eyes.

It gives me a decent wage, some of the staff are nice, the manager treats us well, and the hours work for me. There is an area for improvement, but I won't give up on it.

He doesn't waste time in collecting a sticky note, a luminescent orange one. I catch the title I'm after, and before I can see the rest, he puts it under the desk.

"That bad boy is so I don't forget." There's a pause as he squints ever so slightly.

Unsure of what's caught his attention, I glance over my shoulder, then down at myself.