“Here, try some,” Ms. Kaplan says, passing me the bag.
“You really don’t have to,” Jake adds.
“No.” I take the bag. “I want to.”
I pop an almond into my mouth and whoa.
Like. Whoa.
The almond is smoked and peppery and salty and just freaking delicious.
“What kind of almond wizardry is this?” I ask.
“Told you!” Ms. Kaplan laughs. I grab a handful before passing the bag back up front.
“It’s nothing,” Jake says.
“He’s a genius,” Ms. Kaplan announces.
I nosh on the almonds and settle deeper into the backseat. The warm air blasting from the vents turns the car into a cozy cocoon, the Temptations play from the radio, and Ms. Kaplan talks and talks with Jake and me occasionally chiming in. It’s nice, starting the day this way, with cheer and chatter, and before I know it, we’re pulling into the mall parking lot. “Thank you again for driving me,” I tell Ms. Kaplan. “I really appreciate it.”
“Such lovely manners!” She beams. “Jake, doesn’t she have lovely manners?”
Jake coughs. I resist the urge to kick the back of his seat.
Ms. Kaplan continues, “Jakey told me about the event at your store today. I love Liv Childers. Wish I could be there!”
“I’m sure Jake can get you a signed copy!” I suggest.
“Would you, tatala?” she asks.
“It’s only in hardback, Mom.”
“Oh, well that’s okay, then,” she replies.
“Totally get it.” I nod. “I’m a paperback reader too. I love breaking the spine.”
There’s an uncomfortable silence after I say that. My shoulders tense. Usually I know the exact moment I put my foot in my mouth, but this time I’m not sure what I said wrong. Darn it. Can I do anything right?
But as the song changes, Ms. Kaplan turns back to me with cheerful eyes. “Do you need a ride home, Shoshanna? I’d be happy to take you!”
“Oh, thanks! But I’m sure one of my friends can—” I stop midsentence, swallow hard, and then change course. “Actually, a ride would be great, if you don’t mind.”
I catch a glimpse of Jake in the mirror. He has a strange look on his face; one might even call it… concerned? But he quickly returns his eyes to his notebook.
“No problem,” Ms. Kaplan smoothly responds. “I don’t mind at all.”
* * *
Jake and I walk in silence toward the mall entrance. It feels even colder outside after the warmth of the car, and we have to walk all the way around because I forgot only the south entrance is open this early in the morning. Our steps echo against the pavement, Jake’s long strides and my short ones. After a couple minutes, Jake glances at me, his gaze curious. “What’s up with you today?”
“What do you mean?” I ask, shoving my hands into my coat pockets, unnerved by his inspection.
“Well, you aren’t talking,” Jake states. “Which is strange.”
The words settle for a moment, and then I surprise myself by laughing. Hard. He laughs too, and my throat catches as our eyes connect, as my eyes then travel from his smile to the curve of his jaw to his yellow-and-black flannel shirt. Only a flannel shirt. No jacket. “You do know it’s winter, right?” I ask, right as a bitter burst of wind bites against snatches of my exposed skin.
Jake raises an eyebrow. “Yes, I know it’s winter.”
“Well, you might want to wear a jacket.”
“I’m good.” He flashes me a smile so flagrantly charming it could put Noah Centineo to shame. “I run hot.”
Well, I certainly feel less cold now. I look down to hide my flushed face.
“It’s weird seeing the mall this empty,” Jake comments as we round a corner. The south entrance is in sight, finally.
“Just wait until we get inside,” I reply. “Being in the mall this early is freaky.”
We revert back to silence, our feet against the pavement again the only sound. I rub my frozen nose, and he rubs his hands together before shoving them into his pockets and doing this tiny shoulder-shiver I know he’s trying to hide from me. Ugh. Boys. I roll my eyes and rummage through my tote bag. Then I thrust a purple scarf in his direction. “Here.”
He shakes his head. “I’m good.”
“You’re cold.”
“Nah, I’m good.”
“Your cheeks are red.”
“So are yours.”
“Argh!” I stop short and shout. “I swear to god, Jake Kaplan, don’t be so stubborn and just take the freaking scarf!”
He stops too, and blinks at me in shock. Then suddenly we’re both laughing again, and his eyes are all bright and amused, and his cheeks are redder than before, and my heart may or may not be pounding harder than that time Geraldine forced me to see one of those Saw movies, and seriously, who gave Jake Kaplan the right to be so darn attractive? It is, truly, unfair.
“Okay,” Jake relents, smile softer now. One might even call it a fond smile. Like he’s fond of me. He takes my scarf and wraps it twice around his neck. “Happy?”
I rock back on my heels and appraise him. He looks cute without my scarf but even cuter with my scarf. And it’s all really annoying, you know, because people shouldn’t be allowed to look cute before eight a.m. when the rest of us look like stuffed animals that have been run over by a truck and then thrown through an industrial washer on the heavy-duty cycle.
“Yep,” I finally say, taking a short breath. “Totally happy.” My phone buzzes. Alarm number three. Time to be at Once Upon for set up. “C’mon, we’re going to be late.”
We hurry up and make it through the south entrance. Sure enough, the mall is deserted. A few employees roam the halls, but with most of the lights still turned off, that makes it even creepier. “I feel like I’m in one of those zombie shows,” Jake says.
“ ‘The Shopping Dead,’ ” I reply.
He snorts, hard.
I bristle. “Stop laughing at me.”
“I’m not laughing at you,” Jake says. “It was funny.”
“Oh.” I tug on a strand of hair, twisting the curl around my finger. “Well, thanks. I am funny. It’s about time you noticed.” I pause. “I just feel like usually you’re laughing at me.”
“Yeah, maybe,” he admits. “Though to be fair, usually you’re yelling at me, so…”
“I don’t yell!”
“Shoshanna… really?”
I inhale quickly. I hate it how much I like it when he says my name. “I don’t mean to yell,” I say. “I just get overexcited.”
His grin is sly. “Thanks for sharing.”
I blush, deeply, and stay like that for the rest of our walk.
Ugh. Boys.
* * *
Jake and I agree that I’ll set up the chairs while he sets up the books. But when I turn to check on his progress, I find him stacking the books in a tall pyramid instead of a regular pile. “It’s going to fall,” I tell him.
“It’s not going to fall,” he replies.
Myra zooms by us, and without stopping, calls out, “It’s going to fall. Redo it!”
“Told you,” I say. “Just takes one customer who thinks the best copy is on the bottom to topple the whole thing. And yes, that has happened before. In retail, it’s important to remember that the customer is always right except for when the customer is very, very wrong.”
“Yeah, yeah, okay.” Jake runs a hand through his hair. His soft, curly hair I still want to touch, like the weirdo I am. It feels like we’re getting somewhere this morning—Jake and me, not Jake’s hair and me. But maybe by the transitive property also Jake’s hair and me. We aren’t friends, per se, but we’ve reached a more comfortable level of animosity.
“Here.” I hand him a folding chair. “You finish these. I’ll fix the books.”
“I can unstack books,” he replies with the slightest hint of an eye-roll.
I tilt my head. “Can you, though?”
“Yes.” He steps forward and goes to grab the top book. I step forward too and jump up on my tippy toes to reach the same top book.
“I’ve got it,” he says.
“I have—”
“Oh—”
“No!” I finish.
I’ve always had a suspicion I’ll die in some stupid way, and here it is, happening already, before I’m even old enough to buy a scratch-off lotto ticket.
The pyramid of books tumbles down. I brace my arms over my head and prepare for death, but then Jake pushes me in front of him and kind of holds himself over my head so the stack of books rains down mostly on him, while I’m curled under his chest. And it’s warm in here. And instead of sweet, he smells savory today, spices and herbs I can’t identify, and I wonder if my scarf will smell like him when he returns it to me, and he’s breathing heavily, and my skin is all tingly, and his chest is pressed against my back, and I kind of want to lean into him and press fully against him, and—
The last book tumbles to the floor, Jake moves away, and all of that warmth evaporates. “Ow,” he says as he rubs his head.
“Thank—” I cough, cheeks red, real red, outrageously red. “Thank you.”
Then I look at the mess, books scattered and strewn everywhere, some opened in precarious, potential jacket-cover-ripping situations. Shame pulses through me. Myra asked us to do one thing, and we’re screwing it up. I’m screwing it up. And that’s not okay. I do need to think. I do need to grow up. I posted Geraldine’s video without asking, cried wolf with an emergency at home, and now this.
“Jake,” I say, throat tight as I pick up a couple of books and inspect them, praying they aren’t damaged. “This is a big event for the store, and Myra needs us to do a good job. I’m going to restack these books, okay? It’ll go faster, and you can do the chairs, and then we’ll both get ready to greet people.”
I expect protest, but Jake nods. “You’re right. Okay.”
I let out a little sigh of relief and then hold out my hand for a shake. Jake eyes me, like he thinks it might be a trick. Which, fair enough. But it isn’t a trick. I want to do a good job for Myra, for the store, and for myself. Jake steps forward and grasps my hand. His skin is callused, and I wonder from what. My neck heats as I hold on a moment too long.
“Truce?” Jake asks.
I feel a spark at the base of my spine when his eyes meet mine. “Truce.”
* * *
By the time we’re finished with setup, at least two dozen customers are lined up outside the locked Once Upon doors. They shift anxiously on their feet. Some chat with friends, and some have their noses stuffed into books. I spy a lot of canvas tote bags. Ah, my people.
“That’s a big crowd,” Jake says.
Only Liv Childers could bring in a crowd this massive first thing in the morning, especially during the holidays. But what better time to celebrate a series called Christmas Killings? Liv is already in the store, chatting with Myra in her office, and other Once Upon employees have arrived to help shepherd customers and keep the store from falling into total chaos.
“Ready?” I ask. Jake nods, so I unlock the doors and pull them open. The customers stream inside at an alarming pace. “Like the Jews flooding out of Egypt,” I observe. Jake laughs, and I fizz with pleasure.
Turns out I really like making Jake Kaplan laugh.
As more customers stream into the store, we part ways to sell books, make sure the aisles stay straight, and confirm with one person after the next that the signing will happen after the reading. The seats fill up so quickly that people are already claiming the prime standing room spots behind the last row of chairs. After I again explain the signing line policy to someone, I notice a commotion going on up front. I push through the crowd toward a man standing before the first row. His blond hair is buzzed short. A pair of sunglasses hang around his neck, and his lip juts out in annoyance. “What’s this sign for?” He points to a chair with a reserved sign. “VIP or something? Special guest?”
“No, sir,” I say. “That’s our reserved seating for disabled customers.”
“Well, I’m not disabled. But there are no other seats left, so I’m taking it.”
My pulse upticks. Despite my penchant for falling face-first into it, I don’t actually like confrontation. And I particularly don’t like confrontation with strange men. My muscles tense as the memory of that thief in the philosophy section resurfaces.
I can’t let the guy sit here. It’s not right. But I need to stay calm. Not scream, not act on impulse, and also not run away. I need to handle this situation with maturity. “I’m sorry sir,” I say, “but you can’t sit there. As I mentioned, it’s reserved for disabled customers. I hope you understand.”
His white skin reddens. “So because you’re disabled you get a reserved seat up front and everyone else has to show up early or stand? Doesn’t sound like equality to me.”
He sits down in the seat and crosses his arms, lips pressed into a firm line. I clear my throat. “Well, you see, actually it is fair because disabled people, well they—” I know this reasoning. I know it well. Myra trains us all about accessibility, from wider aisles to large-print signs to reserved seats at events. But it’s like all of that knowledge and reason has left the building as I stare at this angry man.
“Sir,” a voice cuts in. Jake comes up behind me. I inhale his savory scent, like fresh-baked bread with freaking rosemary or something. It eases the tension in my shoulders. Jake eases the tension in my shoulders. “As my coworker here has already mentioned, this seat is reserved for disabled customers. Since you’ve clearly said you are not disabled, I need you to move and stand in the back.”
“Are you serious?” the man asks, casting his eyes around, as if waiting for other customers to agree with him. But everyone seems to be pointedly staring in any other possible direction. “Look, I’ll tell you what.” The man directs his focus back at us. “If a disabled person comes up and asks for the seat, I’ll give it to them.”
My frustration bubbles over. “That’s not how this works,” I say, doing everything within my power to keep my cool even though all I want to do is shout. Seriously, screw this guy who thinks the world exists to cater only to him. “Disabled people shouldn’t have to constantly ask for accommodation in this world. They shouldn’t have to feel uncomfortable going up to someone and asking them to move. That’s my job.” I keep my voice firm but calm as I level my eyes at him. “So. Move.”
Jake leans closer to the man. “Now. Or we’ll call security.”
“This is ridiculous,” the man mutters, but he gets out of the chair. “You just lost my business. I hope you’re both happy.”
“We’re ecstatic,” I mutter once he’s out of earshot, shoving his way through the crowd and leaving the store.
Now that he’s gone, I notice how fast my pulse is racing, adrenaline pounding through my veins, hands shaking lightly at my sides. I turn to Jake and realize he must feel as much rage as me by how hard his jaw is clenched. I swear a vein even ticks in his forehead. “That guy was a jerk,” he finally says.
“The jerkiest,” I reply, letting out a shaky breath. “Thanks for the help, by the way.”
“Sure.” Jake’s stance relaxes, and so does mine, and I want to say something else to him, something more, but then Myra’s office door opens, and she heads toward us with Liv Childers at her side. I’m glad she wasn’t here to witness that guy. And I’m surprised, but glad, I was able to handle it without screaming or stealing someone’s walkie to use the PA system. And as Myra and Liv settle at the table and begin the panel, a woman with a canvas tote bag and a slight limp walks into the store, notices the RESERVED sign, and sits down in relief.
Chapter Ten
I’m exhausted,” Jake says.
“I’m Shoshanna,” I reply automatically.
He snorts. “Nice dad joke.”
“Thanks.” We walk into the break room and promptly collapse into chairs. My head feels a solid five pounds heav
ier than yesterday, and I crack a giant yawn. “Oof. I’m exhausted too. But also, that event was awesome. We sold so many books!”
The event was awesome, well, after the incident with the jerkiest of jerks. Liv Childers was charming and audacious—totally titillating the crowd with real life stories of gore. Everyone was in a good mood, not minding the two-hour—yes, two-hour—line to get their books signed. Jake and I used so many QR codes we’re definitely in the lead for the competition, which hopefully means I’m in the lead for the competition.
Thankfully Arjun and Sophie-Anne were assigned to break down the chairs and clean up because Jake and I need a rest after that marathon. Myra even said we could take a full hour for lunch. I glance at Jake, who scratches his jaw and blinks sleepily at me like a kid who just woke up after a road-trip nap. Cute. I smile a little smile and decide to offer him an olive branch. “Hey,” I say. “Want to join me in the food court? I’ll probably grab lunch with my—”
Oh. Wait.
I can’t grab lunch with my friends. In the exhausted haze of a frenzied event, I almost forgot my two best friends currently hate me. I clamp my mouth shut and look down at the table.
I can feel Jake’s curious gaze on me. “What was that?”
“Hmm?” I ask.
“You did the same thing in the car earlier. Are you fighting with your friends?”
I force a laugh and nonchalant tone. “Okay, Sherlock, nose in your own business, please.” He’s silent in response. I inspect the table. Illustrations are scratched into the wood. Going by the Satanic symbols, I guess they’re probably the work of Sophie-Anne and Arjun.
Jake screeches his chair back and stands up. I assume he’s going to leave me alone in the break room, but then he asks, “Want a sandwich?”
Um. What?
I look up at him. “Jake Kaplan, are you offering to make me a sandwich?”
His eyes flicker with amusement. “Sure. Why not? I’m making one for myself.”
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