Page 28 of Drawn Together
When she’s done, Edith turns to me with a wide smile and a thumbs up before mouthing ‘Great hire!’ and I take the win as my own, since I think she’s only smiled at me once since I started working here in June.
Lennon and I take on the next big project—readjusting the windows. Edith seems to think part of the reason our foot traffic has significantly slowed down is due to our outward appeal. So, she assigns the two of us to decorate the window displays for fall.
“They’re not doing well here?” Lennon whispers, but even if she yelled it, Edith can’t hear unless you’re shouting at her.
“Truthfully, it’s been slow from day one of me being here.”
We get the most customers are during story time, and even then, they rarely buy the book. They’re mostly just taking in the free snacks and coloring pages—courtesy of HoneyBell—and going about their merry way.
Lennon takes the plaid flannel blanket of rich, autumn hues—burnt orange, mustard yellow, and deep burgundy—to form the backdrop, while I work on writing ‘Falling into a Good Book’on the vintage chalkboard sign with a coffee mug drawn beside it.
“Huh.” She folds the corner and tucks it into the display at a perfect ninety-degree angle. “I’m surprised.”
Honestly, me too. There could be a handful of reasons. For one, there is literally no online presence of the store whatsoever. You can Google ‘bookstores near me’ standing on the sidewalk outside, and Nook and Cranny would never pop on the list. Also,Edith has a strict ‘no phones or devices’ policy, forcing every customer and employee to leave their phones in a basket at the door. She says it makes it mysterious and unique, but I think she severely underestimates how some big book influencers could flip this place around. Then, there’s the obvious fact that our prices are higher than some other bigger stores in the area.
And even with all that, the store is so lovely I still can’t understand why it’s not doing better.
“It’s a really great place.”
Lennon nods, tongue poking out as she gives her full focus to the blanket in front of her. “Fletcher said it was, too.”
“He did?”
“He didn’t say anything about it when he brought you your jacket?”
“Not really.” I think back to him sitting hunched over in the tiny pencil chair and I snort, the curve of my ‘l’ earning a tiny notch in the top.
We wrap up the display surprisingly fast. A small twig tree stands in the center, its bare branches holding books like fruit, surrounded by stacks of seasonal reads—cozy mysteries, classic novels, fall-inspired sci-fi’s, and autumn-themed cookbooks—each with handwritten staff recommendation cards sticking out the tops to look like leaves. Tucked among the books are tiny pumpkins, a vintage thermos with a steaming mug, and a plush cat curled up next to an open novel. Lennon adds a chunky knit scarf draped casually over the display, and my hand-lettered sign on a small chalkboard reads, “Falling into a Good Book: Cozy Reads for Crisp Days,” in my classic calligraphy.
It’s by far my favorite display yet.
“Alright, we can probably take the old decorations back to storage and—” I pause when I realize Lennon is frozen, staring at a dystopian science fiction book we got in last week. The frontcover has an alien that is somewhat reminiscent of Stitch and a boy wearing a helmet, floating in space together.
“Lennon?”
She lifts her blonde head from the book, and I quirk a brow. Does she ever read books for fun? Is she a sci-fi kind of girl?
“Do you like science fiction? We have some really good new releases that you—”
“No.” She sets the book back on the shelf and straightens it, wiping her palm over the cover like the handshake of an old friend. “It’s not for me.”
“Do you have anything you like to read?”
“No.”
“Well, what kind of shows do you like?”
“I don’t really watch TV anymore.”
Anymore. Huh.
“What about in your down time?” I silently tack, when you’re not at our apartment, which you never seem to be anymore.
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I bet we can find you something.”
“Flora.” She says it with a sigh, and I think it might be the first time she’s ever said my name to me. “I don’t even know what colors I like anymore, much less enough about myself to tell you what kind of book I would read when I never have read for fun before. I’m not you.”
