Page 2 of Bookish Girl’s Emergency Contact Is a Lycan King

It’s already on tomorrow’s list.

I look at the list. I look at my new note. I stick it on top of the old one anyway.

Redundancy is not the same as dysfunction. Redundancy is a system. Systems are good. Systems are what keep you from burning down your bookstore.

The closing checklist is taped to the back of the front door, written in purple ink on an index card I laminated myself at the library three years ago. The lamination is starting to peel at the corners, which I’ve been meaning to fix, but every time I sit down to do it I get distracted by something else and then three hours have passed and I’ve organized my entire pen collection by color instead of accomplishing anything useful.

ADHD is fun like that.

Register closed and reconciled.

I look at the register. Did I reconcile it? I remember closing it. I remember the sound of the drawer sliding shut. But did I count the drawer first? Did I check the credit card receipts against the…

I walk back to the register and open the drawer. Count the bills. Check the receipts. Close the drawer.

Yes. Done. Move on.

Deposit prepared and locked in safe.

The safe is under the counter, and I kneel down to check it even though I already know the deposit is in there because I put it in there twenty minutes ago. The little stack of cash and checks is exactly where I left it, nestled in the fireproof interior, a very boring treasure.

Back door locked.

I walk to the back of the shop, past the chaos shelf that desperately needs reorganizing and the stack of returns I’ve been avoiding and the little bathroom with the sticky lock that I keep meaning to fix. The back door is solid and green and leads to the alley where I park my car, and when I check the deadbolt it’s firmly in the locked position.

I check it again.

Still locked.

Third time.

Still locked.

“Okay.” I take a breath. Then another. “Okay. You’re done. You did all the things. Now you just have to do the other thing.”

The other thing.

The thing I’ve been avoiding for six years.

You can do this. You’re a person who drives. You drive places. Not often, and not far, and not without extensive preparation and at least one minor panic attack, but you do it. This is a thing you do.

I grab my bag from behind the counter, oversized canvas tote, covered in book-themed patches that Millie got me for my birthday, stuffed with receipts and sticky notes and a paperback I’ve been trying to finish for three weeks. My jacket is hanging on the hook by the door, and my keys are in my jacket pocket, and my keys have the car key on them, and the car key opens the car, and the car is what I’m about to get into.

See? Logic. You’re very logical when you’re panicking.

I take one last look at my bookstore, my beautiful, cluttered, desperately-in-need-of-organization bookstore, and I give myself one more pep talk.

“You’re a person who drives. You drive places. You’ve done it before and you’ll do it now. The fact that you haven’t done it in a while doesn’t mean you can’t do it now. The fact that your hands are shaking doesn’t mean you’re not capable. The fact that your heart feels like it’s trying to escape through your throat is just… enthusiasm. Cardiovascular enthusiasm. For driving.”

My voice cracks on the last word.

I leave before I can talk myself out of it.

The alley behind Fable Tales smells like damp concrete and fallen leaves, that particular autumn scent that means the world is dying beautifully and will be born again in spring. My car is parked in its usual spot, which is technically not a legal parking spot but also nobody in Hartsgrove has given me a ticket in three years, so I’ve decided it’s fine.

The Subaru is old enough to vote, a 2006 Outback in a color the dealership optimistically called “champagne gold” but which I would more accurately describe as “sad beige.” It has 187,000 miles on it, a concerning noise every time I turn left, a tape deck that I’ve never used because who owns tapes anymore, and a passenger seat that’s been empty so long there’s a permanent indent in the shape of my bag.

I love it. I hate it. I’m terrified of it.