Page 29 of A Dead Girl's Guide to Living
Me, on the other hand? Nada.
And yet… the thought of another one-star review appearing online. Another disappointed customer unable to get the service still printed on our signage...
It would be like proving Uncle Bill right. That I was in over my head running this place, trying to carry on Margaret’s legacy.
My mouth opened before I could stop it, the words tumbling out impulsively as they always did.
“They… don’t agree with you being here.”
It was a stab in the dark, prompted by the cross around her neck. But I regretted the words the moment they left my lips. Shame and fraudulence surged through me like ice.
She blinked. “What?”
My palms went clammy. My heart raced as I realized what I’d just done. A rolling nausea churned in my stomach. A prickling sensation at the back of my neck made me feel like Margaret was standing right behind me.
Watching.
Judging.
The candles in the room flickered slightly—probably just a draft from the vents—but the woman’s eyes widened. She let go of the cross and rose abruptly to her feet.
“Okay, point made,” she said, her voice suddenly bright and airy as she smoothed down her blazer. “Great work. He—he was an asshole anyway. I—I don’t know why I wanted to hear from him. Old habits,” she added quickly, cheeks flushing as she patted her neck once more.
“Oh no, wait.” I started to rise, but her hands were already rifling through her bag before she slapped two crinkled twenty-dollar bills on top of the table.
“Excellent work,” she said again. “He would—he would have lost his mind if he were alive and knew I had come here. It—it goes against everything… I gotta go.”
She rushed out before I could stop her.
My hands trembled in my lap as I processed what I had just done, what I had allowed myself to do. The incense curled thickly in the air, and Margaret’s chair creaked beneath me. I pressed my palms flat against the table, running them along the worn velvet as a wave of disgust washed over me.
Was this who I was now?
Was I destined to become as slimy as Uncle Bill?
I glared at the two crinkled bills on the table, then snatched them up and shoved them into my back pocket, storming out of the reading room and back into the main shop. The woman who’d been browsing earlier was just leaving, a brown bag in hand, likely filled with things Ida had gently convinced her to buy.
“Everything all right, dear?” Ida asked as I returned to the counter. “Your customer all but cantered out of here.”
“It’s fine,” I murmured, my voice shaky. I moved to grab the tea she’d prepared earlier, grateful to find it still warm. “She—she got a little overwhelmed.”
“Ah,” Ida said with a nod, then took a long sip from her own mug.
The bell jingled again.
“Oh, fuck me,” I muttered under my breath, earning a surprised look from Ida. “Sorry. I just don’t feel well.”
“That time of the month?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Sure.”
I looked toward the door, silently begging the new customer to make a fast purchase and leave. I just wanted to return to wallowing in self-disgust, anxiety, and shame. I took a sip of whatever herbal concoction Ida had handed me. Liquorice, definitely. Something sharp and grounding.
A girl had walked in, around my age, I guessed. Not particularly tall, but with the posture of someone trying to stand straighter than they actually wanted to. Her red hair was pulled into a ponytail, the coppery strands catching the sunlight that filtered through the shop windows. The rays hit the hanging crystals, casting rainbow mosaics across the floor, and across her shoulders.
She wore simple jeans, white sneakers, and a blue crop top that didn’t quite show any skin. It was the kind of outfit someone wore when they wanted to seem relaxed but also blend in. I clocked her instantly as preppy, awkward, and pretendingnotto be both.
She was probably here looking for a gag gift for a friend’s party.
