Much Ado About You

by Samantha Young

  But I’d thought it was real of him to admit that. I didn’t think beyond our cute banter and the fact that he loved Shakespeare just as much as I did. We’d discussed our favorite Shakespearean tragedies and argued over which of Shakespeare’s comedies were best. He said Two Gentlemen of Verona; I said Twelfth Night. I’d been pretty excited to find someone who enjoyed my favorite playwright so much in this day and age. On top of everything else, he really had seemed too good to be true.

  It all was too good to be true, apparently.

  Or . . . what if Aaron had shown, saw me, and decided I was too fat or too tall or too—

  Evie, shut up! I yelled at myself.

  I would not let him do this to me.

  Enraged, I pulled out my phone.

  ME

  You at least could have had the decency to say you were no longer interested in meeting me.

  My heart raced and my palms were clammy as I saw he immediately opened it.

  But no reply was forthcoming.

  What the hell?

  Hurt, sad, angry, confused, all of it mingled as I jumped on the Blue Line to get to my tiny studio apartment in Wicker Park. All that emotion I’d kept buried at the restaurant started to flood up out of me. By the time I got into the apartment, tears were streaming down my face. I brushed them away with frustration, cursing myself not only for letting Aaron upset me but for how much of myself I’d put out there to someone I hadn’t met in person.

  What a naive moron! I knew better than that.

  No. I shook my head. I couldn’t do that to myself. He wasn’t worth my tears. And he didn’t get to make me feel like I’d done something wrong.

  Maybe he was just another boring, judgmental jerk that was looking for the kind of woman who didn’t exist outside of movies and airbrushed magazines.

  Did that sound bitter?

  “That sounded bitter,” I murmured to myself.

  Okay. So maybe I was a little bitter.

  But this was why I avoided dating, because even in my thirties it could reduce me to feeling like a rejected sixteen-year-old.

  My phone buzzed in my purse, making my heart jump into my throat. There was a text on the screen from my best friend, Greer. Disappointment filled me and then I felt instantly horrible about it. I tapped to open the message.

  How did the date go? Or is it still going?

  I snorted, my lips trembling as I bit back more tears and quickly texted back. He never showed. I messaged him, he opened them, but he never replied.

  That rat bastard! Do you need me to come over?

  She would too. I smiled through my tears but shook my head as I texted, I’m fine. He’s a dick. It’s done. I’m just going to bed. I have a big day ahead of me tomorrow.

  My phone buzzed again in my hand, but this time Greer was calling. Not really in the mood to pretend I was fine during the call, I hesitated a second. But then I picked up. This was Greer. I knew she was probably worried about me.

  “Hey.”

  “First off,” she said, “he is a dick. Forget about him. Any guy who claims to be a Shakespeare fan but hates Romeo and Juliet isn’t worth shit. Second, yay for tomorrow! You have to call me as soon as they give you that freaking editor’s office.”

  I hated that Aaron’s mixed signals had dampened what was an important time in my life. “I will.”

  “And third . . . so okay, I was going to wait to meet face-to-face to tell you this, but I think you need something to cheer you up right now.”

  “Okay.”

  “Evie, babe . . . you’re going to be an aunt!”

  Trying to make the words make sense, I shook my head. “Uh . . . how . . . what? I don’t have . . .” I was an only child. Greer knew that.

  “Oh my God, you’re slow tonight. I’m pregnant, Evie! Yay!”

  I blinked in confusion. “Are you joking? To cheer me up?” Because Greer had told me more than once that she didn’t want kids. Or to get married. She’d been dating Andre for two years, but it was a very relaxed relationship.

  “No!” Greer giggled. “Andre and I have been talking about it for a while and I’m thirty-four, I’m not getting any younger, and well . . . we decided to try. And I’m pregnant!”

  Holy Mother of God.

  Greer and I were two of six friends who had met at Northwestern and stayed in Chicago after college. Over the years, my friends had dropped like flies. First marriage, then kids, until the only times we saw one another were at their kids’ christenings and birthday parties, and once every couple of months for dinner when they found a babysitter.

  The knowledge that Greer never wanted to settle down and have kids had made me think we wanted the same things and I wasn’t alone.

  Now, my last friend standing was going down with the baby ship.

  “That’s great!” I forced a happy tone and cursed myself for my utter selfishness. “What a surprise!”

  “I was going to tell you at lunch on Saturday, but I thought you needed this news now.”

  “I’m so happy for you!” Those words weren’t a lie. I wanted only happiness for Greer. But I felt conflicted about her news. “Well, I’m gonna hit the hay. I’ll let you know about tomorrow. And we’ll still do Saturday lunch, right? To celebrate your news. Tell Andre I said congrats.”

  “I will, babe. And yes, Saturday, definitely. To celebrate both our news.”

  We hung up.

  Striding over to my bed, I flopped down on my back and stared up at my cracked ceiling. I could hear the murmur of my upstairs neighbor’s TV.

  Greer was pregnant.

  If I was honest with myself, I was scared I was about to be left behind.

  My phone buzzed again, and my heart beat at triple speed at the sight of the Snapchat symbol.

  I opened it up.

  AARON T

  I’m sorry. I’m not ready for something serious after all and I know that’s what you want. Sorry I was a dick about it. You deserve better. Hope you find what you’re looking for.

  Fresh tears filled my eyes. I didn’t know if he was telling the truth, but I would be honest one last time.

  ME

  I’m sorry too.

  Sorry for the last four weeks of wasted emotional energy.

  When the status remained as delivered, I tapped on his profile and noted I could no longer see his Snapchat points. He’d deleted me from his friends list.

  Well, that was final.

  Despairing, I lay in the dark trying to figure out if I was sad over facing another romantic disappointment or if my pride was merely hurt.

  Maybe both.

  “Tomorrow,” I whispered to myself. “Things will pick up tomorrow.”

  Two

  There you are, Evie.” My editor, Patrick, lifted his hand and curled his fingers, gesturing me to follow him.

  My boss had jolted me out of concentration mode. Outside of work hours, I offered freelance editing services to self-published authors to supplement my income, and one of my clients was a crime writer. An old friend of mine from Northwestern worked with the FBI, and I’d emailed him three days ago with facts I needed checked. The author had gotten her info online, and I just wanted to make sure it was correct. I’d received my friend’s response minutes after coming into the office. Fascinated with the information he’d sent me, I’d forgotten I was at work.

  Patrick’s sudden appearance caused giddiness to fill me, swamping the melancholy that lingered. I strode through the open-plan office, smiling at my colleagues as I made my way toward Patrick’s office. My desk sat in front of the glass cube that housed his space.

  Picking up speed, I hurried to follow him inside.

  “Close the door.”

  Despite everyone being able to see what was going on in the office, once that door closed, the cube was soundpro
of. It was pretty cool. I glanced around. Patrick’s desk sat near the bank of windows that looked down over East Washington Street downtown.

  Boxes containing my boss’s belongings filled the space.

  I’d worked for Patrick for ten years. He was a good enough boss. Thanked me for my work. Seemed to appreciate me. However, we’d had our differences over the years, mostly because he’d never championed me the three times an editor job opened up at the magazine.

  Now he was retiring, and as I was his loyal, long-standing editorial assistant, everyone at the magazine predicted that I would get his job.

  “You’ve packed up really early,” I observed. “The job is still yours for six weeks.”

  Patrick nodded distractedly. “Evie, take a seat.”

  Not liking his tone, I slowly lowered onto the seat in front of his desk. “Is everything okay?”

  Come to think of it, when was the last time Patrick beat me into work? I usually arrived at least fifteen minutes earlier than him every day.

  “Evie . . . you know I think you’re a great assistant. And you’ll make a damn good editor one day . . . but the higher-ups have decided to hire an experienced editor. Young guy, twenty-five, certified as an editor, been working at a small press for two years. He’s coming in next Monday so I can show him the ropes.”

  It was like the floor fell out from beneath my feet. “Wait . . . what?”

  My boss frowned. “Gary Slater. He’s going to be your new boss.”

  Was the room spinning?

  Or was that just the anger building inside me so much that my body couldn’t handle it? “More experience? Certified?” I stood up on shaking legs. Not only had I been editing here for seven years, Patrick knew I was a freelance editor too. Experienced? “I’m certified. You know I am.” Although I’d come into the job with an English degree, I’d gotten into the editing program at the Graham School at the University of Chicago and worked my ass off after hours to get certified. “This guy is twenty-five. I’ve been doing this job for ten years, and they want to make this barely-out-of-college kid my boss?”

  “Evie, lower your voice,” Patrick scolded.

  I struggled to calm down. “Is this a joke?”

  He shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”

  “And you.” I curled my lip in utter disappointment. “Did you even fight for me on this?”

  Patrick sighed. “Of course I did. I told them you had enough experience, but they want someone who’s been editing.”

  “I’ve been editing. I’ve been editing work you were supposed to edit for the last seven years. But I guess that doesn’t matter because I lack the one appendage that apparently makes a person more qualified—I don’t have a dick!”

  My boss blanched. “Evie.”

  I didn’t care if I was losing it. There were five editors at Reel Films—none of them were women. There was only one female critic. And you only needed one guess to know what kind of movies she was asked to review.

  I was done, I realized.

  “I quit.”

  “Evie.” Patrick pushed back his chair. “I know you’re upset, but don’t do anything hasty.”

  “Hasty?” I guffawed and turned to throw open his door. “I’ve done this job for ten goddamn years and this is the thanks I get? No.”

  Feeling my colleagues’ burning stares, I ignored them as I swiped all of my belongings into my big slouchy purse.

  “Evie, will you stop?” Patrick sidled up to me.

  I closed my bulging purse and turned to glare at him. We were eye level. “I hope this stuck-in-the-nineteen-fifties publication goes down the toilet, Patrick. As for you . . . thanks for ten years of nothing.” On that note, I stormed out of the office, not looking at anyone, focused entirely on getting the hell out of there.

  As the elevator stopped on the ground floor, my legs began to tremble so badly, I thought they might just take me out. Splatter me right across the marble floor. It would be the perfect end to the grotesqueness of the last twenty-four hours.

  Yet, somehow, I walked out of there.

  I just kept walking.

  Walking and walking.

  My mind whirled as I attempted to figure out what I would do with my life. How had I ended up here—with no promising prospects for my future?

  When I thought my despair couldn’t get any worse, my cell rang. I pulled it out and saw it was my stepfather calling. I loved Phil, but his call was bad timing. Considering he rarely called me when he knew (or thought) I’d be at work, however, I felt compelled to answer.

  “Evie, sweetheart, I just called your office and they told me you quit.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “It was . . . kind of a recent decision.” I stared around, realizing I was in Millennium Park, next to the Jay Pritzker Pavilion. A woman with a six-pack ran past me in workout gear, while a guy spilled his latte down the front of his shirt and started cursing profusely.

  I couldn’t even remember walking here.

  I was losing it.

  “. . . so I thought I better call you right away,” Phil said.

  What?

  “Sorry, Phil, what?”

  “Your mother,” he repeated patiently. “I just got off the phone with her. I’m picking her up from rehab this Saturday and she wants me to take her to see you.”

  Feeling my stomach lurch, I staggered toward the nearest bench and slumped down onto it.

  I loved my mom.

  But this was shitty news on top of a shitty day.

  I couldn’t take any more disappointment from my mother.

  “Phil, I can’t talk about this right now. I need to go.” I hung up, feeling bad about it because Phil was great. However, I couldn’t concentrate on the guilt.

  Instead, all I could think about was the need to escape.

  I thought of the money sitting in several savings accounts. Life insurance money left to me when my dad died. I’d used a bit for tuition, but with interest my savings were substantial. I’d been holding on to the money to buy a house, for that day when I finally met Prince Fucking Charming and settled down.

  Since that seemed like a dream that would never come true, I pulled up the search engine on my phone and typed in “vacation escapes in England.” It was moronic considering I no longer had a full-time job and should probably be concentrating on finding another in Chicago. Besides, I doubted Patrick would give me a reference, so that was going to be a much harder feat than usual.

  However, in that moment, nothing else mattered but getting away from my life.

  As a fan of all things classic literature—Jane Austen, Charles Dickens, Geoffrey Chaucer, Charlotte Brontë—England was on the top of my bucket list.

  I scrolled somewhat frantically through the vacation listings until my eyes caught on a link.

  MUCH ADO ABOUT BOOKS—A BOOKSHOP HOLIDAY!

  The nod to Shakespeare made me click on the link.

  The advertising copy made my hands shake with excitement.

  Much Ado About Books was a small bookshop in the quaint fishing village of Alnster in Northumberland. I googled it and that was northern England, near the border with Scotland. At Much Ado About Books, not only did you rent the apartment above the bookstore, but the owner let you run her bookshop.

  It was a booklover’s dream vacation getaway.

  I could do that.

  I could totally run away from my life and manage a bookstore in a little village in England, where none of my troubles or worries could get to me. And come on, someone named the bookstore after a Shakespearean play. It was fate.

  It had to be.

  No more men who made me doubt myself.

  No more job that made me feel like a failure.

  In fact, no more entire life circumstances that mad
e me feel like a failure.

  And I wasn’t just going to England for a two-week break either.

  No way.

  Hands shaking, I dialed the number on the ad after checking the country code for the UK. It rang five times before a woman with a wonderful English accent answered.

  “Much Ado About Books, how can I help?”

  “Uh, yes, hello, I’d like to speak to someone about booking a stay at the bookshop.”

  “Oh . . . okay. Well, I’m the owner, Penny Peterson.”

  Butterflies fluttered to life in my belly. “Hi, Penny, my name is Evie Starling, and I’d like to book the store for a whole month. Starting Monday. Please tell me that’s doable?”

  Three

  Alnster, Northumberland

  If it weren’t for the slightly darker shade of gray in the line of the horizon, it would have been almost impossible to see where the sky met the sea on my first day in England.

  Yet, I’d never seen anything more beautiful than the harbor village I now found myself in. The harbor itself was small, a semicircle carved into the coastline with stone arms curving out to almost meet. There was just enough space in the gap for the small fishing boats to escape out into the sea.

  A small rocky beach led up to a pathway, and beyond that pathway to the left was a low stone wall that demarcated where row upon row of individual gardens began.

  The gray of the day was broken up by a riot of colorful flowers and plants that blossomed in gardens. In each garden was a wrought-iron gate that led onto the harbor at one end and the street on the other. I gathered the gardens belonged to the terraced houses across the street behind me because small notices on the gates stated they were private.

  Looking down at an older couple sitting in a garden that was decked and covered in flowerpots, staring out at the water, I thought how lovely it must be to own one. A place to sit and enjoy the harbor without tourists venturing into their sanctuary.

  My eyes moved back to the water as I swayed a little against the large suitcase sitting by my side. As soon as the cab drove past the quaint English cottages and turned with the bend in the road, the water appeared on the horizon before me . . . and I knew.