Page 28 of Book and Ladder
“I’m sorry,” I say to him. “You two mean well.”
“We really do,” he assures me.
I smile at him. “Real life, Waylon. I’m old-fashioned. I want to meet a man in real life. Not through some mysterious connection. Not a dating app. And for sure not a note in a letter stuck in a box outside my place of work.” He looks slightly defeated, so I backpedal. “Thank you, though. I appreciate you thinking of me.”
I point toward the office. “I left a list of stories we’regoing to read during the event tomorrow on my desk. Can you grab them and stack them in the book nook?”
As if on cue, my phone pings with an email notification. BTTP? I smile a private smile.
“Excuse me,” I tell Waylon.
Then I duck into the office, handing the list out to him and shutting the door behind me to read BTTP’s email.
I feel like a schoolgirl with a crush. My whole body is alight with anticipation. Not that I’m crushing on the host of my favorite podcast. I’m not under any delusion that our online connection is more than something fun and temporary. Still, our emails have become this sweet secret, a highlight in my days—and nights.
Only, when I tap the email app, my inbox doesn’t have an email from the host ofBurning Through the Pages.
The air rushes out of me like a deflating balloon.
The email is from an unfamiliar address. The subject is:Date.
“Aunt Becca,” I say aloud, flopping into my desk chair.
I tap the email to open it.
Hi, Daisy,
My name is Franklin, like the town outside Nashville. Your Aunt Becca gave me your contact info. I was hoping you’d join me for dinner Friday night. I heard you own the bookshop in town. I’m in IT. Starting my new job in a few weeks. Anyway, I hope we can meet.
Franklin
I sigh. May as well get this over with. It’s like the dentist. Prolonging the visit only means you’re more likely to get a cavity. Maybe Franklin is nice.
“Ugh. Nice,” I groan.
Then I scold myself, “Nothing wrong with nice, Daisy.”
I don’t answer myself. I’ve heard a sign of insanity is when you really get into full-blown self-talk.
Maybe I’m actually losing it, because I add, “I want so much more thannice.”
I didn’t say no when this ball started rolling, so I have to follow through. I hit “Respond” and type:
Hi, Franklin,
Thank you for reaching out. I’d be glad to join you for dinner Friday night.
- Daisy
He responds with plans and a time he’ll pick me up. I tell him I’ll be at the shop. Call me hyper-vigilant, but I don’t want a first date picking me up at my house if I don’t know him—even if he is nice. We’ll be closed an hour before he shows up. I’ll send my employees home so I don’t have three sets of beady eyes peering out the window as he walks me to his car.
I emerge from the office, resolved to focus on the customers who filter in sparingly the rest of the afternoon and evening. I send my employees home and lock the door behind them at seven.
I’m weary, but content when I go to close out the register, rubber-banding the day’s Z-tape with today’s Post-it. Hands down, my least favorite part of the job these days.
I scrawled Goal $900 on the Post-it note this morning in a sort ofField of Dreamsmoment—if you build it, they will come. Well, they didn’t come. I circle the total at the bottom of the tape. $413.07. I tuck the whole sad reminder of the financial realities of the shop into the accordion file. I rest my elbows on my knees and my forehead on my hands and sigh. Then I stand and shut the office door behind me.
Gran always said there would be feast and famine. That’s all this is—the ebb and flow of small business ownership. If anyone asks, I ten out of ten recommend feast over famine.
