Page 90 of The Summer of Everything

“This isn’t about the money.”

“Wes,” Leo says, sighing. He rests his elbows on the table. “Despite what you think, the bookstore’s a business. Money has a hand in everything we do as adults.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Wes says, seething. “The bookstore is the heart and soul of our community. It’s not just this entity you can write off for bad sales. It’s a lifeline. People need it.”

“People need money,” Leo argues. “They need to pay bills. Eat. Survive. They need to pay others, like you and your friends. Long-term profit matters.”

“Once Upon a Page matters,” Wes snaps.

“That’s all good and nice,” says Leo, callously, “but you can’t file a petition for sympathetic value.”

Wes glares as Leo sips water. His heart thrums in his ears. “I’m not giving up.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“Come on, Leo,” Wes says, voice catching. This is it. His resolve is faltering, nearly ready to wave a white flag. He considers getting on bended knees to beg. “There has to be more than just the numbers. You couldn’t have explored all the options. I mean, you’re just an intern—”

Leo’s nostrils flare.

“There have to be more possibilities,” Wes says, eyes softened, throat dry.

“If there are,” Leo starts, opening the folders again, eyes downcast, “You’d have to hire someone to dig deeper.”

Wes is practically bouncing in his chair, drumming his fingers on the table.

“And based on this…” Leo stabs at the email printout. The one that shattered all of Wes’s hopes in a few lines of Sans Serif font and fake cheer. “…no one has the funds to hire anyone even remotely qualified just to look this over.”

No swish. No last minute three-pointer before the buzzer goes off. Wes took his shot and missed.

Leo sips more water, then folds his hands. “Wes, I love the Rossi family…” Translation:I’m about to lower the casket. “…but I don’t see anything in this paperwork that guarantees we can salvage Once Upon a Page.”

I’m tossing dirt in the grave, filling the hole.

“I’m not in business law, but all of this looks airtight.” Leo pinches the bridge of his nose. “Maybe it’s time to let it happen.”

Wes flinches hard in the chair. His chest feels as if someone put a fist through it.

Maybe it’s time to let it happen.

That’s the problem. Wes has spent most of his life justlettingit happen. He’s had no control. He’s always been a passenger while some “adult” steered him wherever he was supposed to go. Someone else has been holding the keys out of his reach, promising one day he’d be old enough to call the shots.

He’s fucking eighteen years old. It’s time.

Life can’t take his future, his best friend,andthe bookstore.

“No,” he says, throat constricted. “This isn’t the end. The body’s still warm.”

“Bro, listen—”

“You listen,bro,” Wes demands, standing. He kicks back the chair, smacking a hand on the table. His water glass wavers, sloshes liquid on table, but doesn’t fall. “This is what you call being an adult? Giving up? When the odds are stacked too high, you just peace out? You decide the importance of something, the validity of its existence by numbers and guidelines? If you can’t find it in the text, then it’s not happening? Is that who you are?”

Leo doesn’t respond. His chest rises and falls in even beats. But his face is reddening; his eyebrows are descending.

“You’re a robot. You’re a—”

“Do you have any clue how much shit I could get into if Shelia told anyone I was looking at these files?” Leo finally spits. He launches his pen across the room. “I’m not even a paralegal. I’m the to-go lunch guy around here. I’m doing thisfor you. I’m not the enemy. I’m the guy risking his internship—risking his entire future to help you understand all of this.”

Wes snorts. “Congratulations. I don’t understandanyof it. I don’t understand you.”

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