Not About Love

Chapter Four

The cemetery was quiet this time of morning, the birds starting to wake, the trees surrounding the lot muting the sounds of traffic from the nearby streets as people rushed about their daily routines. It was peaceful. I needed peace, because right now I wanted to curl up in a ball and cry for mommy.

It was insulting. A huge chain that could have purchased space in any neighborhood in the city decided it didn't just want to encroach on my revenue stream, it wanted it all for itself. It remained rumor at this point, but it was a rumor picking up steam and taking on a life of its own. My mind was unable to shut down, becoming a mess of horrible thoughts of standing in a line at a soup kitchen and living in a box in an alley, giving me two sleepless nights I couldn't afford. As a result, my cold was worse. My head felt like it was full of cement, my cough rivaled a harbor seal's, and my fever hadn't broken. But if there was ever a time to prove my business deserved to stay in business, now was the time. I just needed a plan.

A quick call to Tony, my landlord, had confirmed Brennan's interest and nothing more. I'd lost the next two days to fatigue and dealing with the store, and the result was three full days after the anniversary of Mal's death passed before I'd been able to make my annual visit. Tracy had returned and was opening the store in my place, giving me a free morning. I picked my way through the rows of headstones until I reached the granite marker denoting Mal's final resting place, the stone shiny even after sitting out in the elements for the past ten years.

My fingers bumped over the engraving, my only link to the boy who'd been everything to me - best friend, confidante, the boy I'd almost lost my virginity to. Malcolm Stevens, born January 17, 1984. Died April 8, 2006. I'd missed his last birthday, stupidly assuming I'd get to see him for the next one. Instead my last memory of him was his prone form lying still and silent in a hospital bed.

Settling onto the damp grass in front of the headstone, I started talking, pitching my voice low. Somewhere a lawn mower started up, and a soft breeze brought the promise of warmer weather later. I needed it. I'd been wrapped up in layers for the last few days, and short of staying in hot water the entire time, I was always cold.

"Hey hon. Sorry I couldn't get here earlier. The store's been busy lately, which is good." Tears threatened as I thought of Brennan's. "Rumor has it some big shot corporation wants my store," I said, forcing cheer into my voice, thinking if I pretended it didn't bother me it wouldn't.

"I'm scared, Mal." It was easy to admit to a ghost. "I don't know what I'm going to do. I don't want to lose the store, but I can't fight a Goliath." Letting the tears slip down my cheeks felt good, like something I would have done if he was sitting across from me. "I miss you," I whispered.

The visit was always painful. But I felt lighter, somehow, afterward, having let out everything I couldn't tell anyone else. I told him about the store, and the latest news from SUBurbia, and the last awkward conversation with my mom. Almost an hour passed by the time I got to my feet to head out. Wandering back to my car, I rolled the problem around in my mind, finding all the angles and squashing them, one by one.

The drive to the store passed in a blur as the congestion and fatigue fogged my brain, even as I struggled to find a path out of the hellhole Brennan's had tossed me into. Parking in my usual spot in the alley behind the store, I lowered my forehead to the steering wheel, begging my body for a little more strength.

I climbed out and locked the door behind me, then walked around the front of the building. It was a standalone, with narrow pathways on either side leading into the alley. The bay windows sparkled in the mid-morning sun, and the bold black letters stood out against the bright white of the sign.

A Clean, Well Lit Place.

Pretentious, certainly, to name a bookstore after Hemingway, but then, the general population of the area was thought they were cooler than everyone else, and they all loved the name, to the point the store had earned the nickname Hemingway's in the last year or so. I faced the street, noting the traffic patterns to compare to my original thoughts when I'd first opened, eyeing the pedestrians who made their meandering ways up and down the sidewalks. The cafe at one end did a brisk business, as did Minor's, the diner I usually ate lunch at, situated at the opposite end of the block.