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Chapter 3
“Lyric!” I bellow at the top of my lungs. My hands strained to the max with an insurmountable volume of books that could make Atlas himself buckle under its weight. I wince as the pile begins to sway precariously to the right, threatening to catapult me into a sea of literature. “Oh, heavens! Lyric! Where art thou, bitch?”
“I’m here! I’m here!” she cries back, just as the leaning tower leans a pube-hair too far. Panic sets in as I try to steady myself but end up crashing shoulder-first into a colossal oak bookcase. “Son of a biscuit!”
Her hands clasp mine as we labor together, sweat and tears streaming down our faces, determined to rescue every single word before they plummet to their demise. With panting breaths, we work in unison, and she takes half the bookish burden. Together we shuffle toward the stockroom, her leading the way, cautiously avoiding any potential hazards.
“Watch your step,” she warns gently, tossing a glance over her delicate shoulder.
I roll my eyes. “It was an accident. Don’t be a fusspot—” My pump snags on something that’s invisible to the naked eye, and I stumble forward, my grip on the books tighter than a boa constrictor. We both freeze, our eyes locked in terror. “What are the odds of us sweeping this under the rug?”
She blinks twice quickly before shaking her head and letting out an exasperated sigh. “Zero. Zilch. Nada.” She pivots on her heels and resumes our journey.
Lyric gingerly places her stack onto an overflowing stock table before quickly helping me unload my own books. I take a moment, allowing myself to appreciate this monumental event.
After years of owning DNF together, this part never gets old. When we first started this used bookstore, it was an uphill battle to get people to donate books. But after an aggressive marketing plan, people in the community started to take notice. Now, we receive over a hundred books per month! Books that would otherwise be tossed into the abyss, or worse, converted into doggy pee pads!
The thought alone makes me shudder.
“This donation was a boatload,” she murmurs, caressing each one's spine with a nurturing touch.
I pick up the first book in my pile and agree. “Yep, but it's all for a worthy cause. Any books we can't sell will be donated to the event. They'll find a home, eventually.”
Lyric shoots me a cautious look. “But what about the goats?”
My eyebrows knit together in confusion. “Goats?”
“Yeah…” She wrinkles her button nose as she lifts an ancient-looking book to inhale its aroma. “It's a farm, Story. They have goats there. What if they start eating the books?”
I nod in agreement with her concern. “We'll have to be vigilant.”
“Maybe we should rethink those guards,” she suggests. I weigh our options, considering the cost of hiring our own security team for the event. It’s not a bad idea.
Next month, DNF is hosting a community event at Duckblind Farm, where ducks see with their hearts instead of their eyes. The owners’ goal is to rehabilitate every visually impaired duck in Massachusetts. Kids and families from all over Salem will assemble to read stories to those on duck-row getting ready to exchange their yellow wings for white ones.
We're donating books on their last page for ducks on their last feather. It's poetic, really.
“We're doing God's work,” I sniffle, choking back a tear.
Lyric pats my back reassuringly. “I know, right?”
I wipe the tears from my eyes, and we begin to work on sorting our intakes. A mere trickle of customers comes in and out, but it’s disappointingly slow, so we're able to power through our task without interruption. Before long, my mind begins to wander as it usually does. Being surrounded by tales of far and wide is an all-consuming experience that can make anyone lose themselves in their imagination.
Me, frolicking in another world, a golden dress swirling around my ethereal body. I can practically feel the rolling green hills beneath my bare feet, can nearly taste the delicious grass. All around me, faeries with pretty pointed ears flit with mirth. Above me, the skies are purple and a unicorn flies by because magic genuinely exists.
I’m in a world where true love's kiss can heal a broken heart, and everyone has a fated mate. Someone who will love you unconditionally, regardless of how much of a troll you are when you wake up. They will not only adore every inch of your body—even the divots, winding curves, and cottage cheese thighs—but would raze the world for just a tiny taste of your yummy mate-dew.
Yeah, I internally swoon. That’s a world I could get down with.
It's magical.
It’s wondrous.
It’s books.
And I want it more than my next breath.
“Fuck, I’m starving,” Lyric groans, breaking me from my reverie. I jump with such a loud screech that we both nearly fall over. My eyes flit around wildly, realizing that the entire stock room is sorted and tidy, the usually overflowing tables clear from mountains of books.
