Page 34 of Silver Linings
Silver’s voice pulls me out of my daze, and I realize I’d been painting over the same spot so much, it left streaks. I grab the roller brush to give it another coat and smooth it out.
“What do you mean, it’s going to costfifty thousand dollars?” Silver’s voice rings out, rising in octaves with every word.
I step off the ladder and move closer to the door leading into the living room, where her footsteps are wearing a path through her floor.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” She sounds like she’s pulling at her hair, making it wild and messy. “No, I can’t proceed!” A pause, more pacing. “Because you’re price gouging me, you cretin. You wouldn’t be doing this if I was a man. It’s despicable, you’re despicable.”
Cold fury washes over her tone. I’ve never heard her so angry, and hearing her sound so upset has me on edge as I step into the doorway.
Just to check on her, I tell myself.
She’s pacing through her living room, skirting a path between the packed bookshelves that line the back wall and her pink velvet couch. She moves around her side tables and in front of a coffee table that houses evenmorebooks, then back to the bookshelves again. She’s created an F1 racetrack in her own living room, all the while listening to whatever the person on the other line is saying. She’s shaking her head, and a scoff slips from her full rosebud lips right before she starts punching the air like there’s a Century Bob in front of her. Her form is surprisingly good, even as she holds the phone between her shoulder and ear.
She stops abruptly and goes eerily quiet. “You’re going toruethe day you crossed me, Phil.” More silence follows. “Yes, people do say that in real life! You’re fired.” She hangs up the phone, lets out a silent scream, and then turns to toss her phone onto the couch. When she spots me leaning in the doorway, she jumps.
“What the hell, you creeper!” She’s clutching at her chest, trying to catch her breath. “You can’t just eavesdrop on someone’s conversation like a real life Joe Goldberg.”
“Who?”
“You?”
“Me?”
“No, it’s a show calledYou—never mind!” She settles her hands on her hips. She’s dressed in a pair of cut off denim shorts and an oversized Rangers tee. The sight is so casual but still makes my insides twist and pull like they’re on a taffy stretcher.
“You have a lot of books in here.” I nod around the room at all the books lining the walls, on the coffee table, lining the window sills.
“It kind of comes with the territory.”
“What, do you work at a bookstore?”
“I own one, actually. It’s falling apart,” she huffs a harried laugh, “but it’s mine.”
I walk toward one of the shelves now, pulling off a title and looking over the cover as I think about how much the occupation suits her. She seems exactly like someone who’s spent her life jumping through different worlds, like the one she lived in couldn’t contain all her wonder or satiate her endless curiosity.
“Is that what the phone call was about?” I glance toward her discarded phone.
She groans and plops down on the plush, rosy cushions of her couch. Tucking her smooth legs underneath her, she reaches behind her for a throw pillow that she clutches to her chest while motioning for me to sit down next to her.
I place the book back on the shelf, hesitantly taking a seat, unsure of what to do. Do I face her and relax? That feels too familiar. But sitting here as if I have a rod shoved up my ass like a marionette puppet isn’t much better.
“You can relax. Your virtue is safe here.” She chuckles at my hesitation.
“I’m not worried about that,” I grumble as I adjust myself to fit more comfortably on the couch, it’s small size bringing us closer than is wise.
I clear my throat. “Is something wrong at your store?”
“So, here’s the thing…I sort of impulsively bought the bookstore I worked at around a month ago with blood money.”
“What do—” She cuts me off before I can finish asking my obvious question with a finger to my lips.
“Shhh,don’t interrupt.” Her eyes flick down to where her digit rests against my mouth. I’m so tempted to bite the pad of her finger, but before my intrusive thoughts can win out, she yanks it away and sits on her hand.
“I’ve worked at Brownstone Books since I was in college, and the owner, Pat, decided she wanted to sell. I just couldn’t stand to see the place turned into another Dunkin Donuts or something. And Ilovedonuts, so that’s really saying something.”
I grimace.
“Don’t tell me you don’t like donuts,” she trails off.
