Chapter One: Blueberries and Bookstores

“Shit,” I muttered fiercely into the pillow and hoped they didn’t hear me. It wouldn’t do to have them repeating that in class. My twin little brothers Caden and Ethan—or the chicolitos, as I like to call them—hopped on top of my back in time with my alarm clock. I already pressed snooze once or maybe twice and I had to get them to school in forty five minutes.

I sat up and fought a smile as they tumbled to my ankles. “Cad, go start your shower in my old room and Ethan, you go to the one downstairs. I’ll start breakfast and pick out your outfits.”

“Ailey, can’t we have waffles today,” Caden asked, in the doorway. Ailey is he and Ethan’s alternative to my actual name—seven year olds have trouble pronouncing Ainsley. They were in the middle of a growth spurt. He was two inches taller than the height measurements I took last month. I could hear Ethan, already bounding down the hallway and down the winding staircase. “With the…blueberries?”

“If we have time—I’m not making any promises. But if we don’t, we can have breakfast for dinner. Is that okay, buddy,” I asked him. I slid off the bed, walked to the doorway, tousled his pale hair and grinned even though my eyes were still only just adjusting to the light. He nodded and scuttled off the bed.

Once he left, for my old suite across the hall, I pulled on one of my more ratty pairs of jeans — I hadn’t bought any since Laura, my grandmother, passed away. She was the only reason I bought them anyway; Laura hated for her money to go to waste and there wasn’t anything else I bought with the ridiculous allowance she allowed besides books.

I threw on a sports bra and an old Cross Country t-shirt from high school, or last year actually. It looked well worn out, like I, a girl taking care of two seven year olds, could have it from her glory years. No, that was only because I wear it almost once every two weeks or probably every time I took a long run. On days when I didn’t have to work, or buy groceries, or do other things for Ethan and Caden, I run a five mile loop around the neighborhood.

I checked the schedule taped to the back of my door. Today was not one of those days. I pulled out two outfits off the cubbies in the shelving in the boys’ room—non-matching, they hated that. I dropped them one on each bed next to their underwear and socks.

I only had to defrost the old batter from earlier this week, but one glance at the clock confirmed that we wouldn’t have enough time before they had to get to school. I placed a box of Toaster Strudels on the granite counter. I smiled absently as I glided my hand across the clean sharp lines of the counters. This was Gran’s, or as she preferred, Laura’s baby. She loved this kitchen.

This house, all ready new, was all redone. Interior design was Gran’s little hobby; she was amazing at it. Every room looked like something out of a Pottery Barn catalog. Our house was even featured in the Chicago Tribune alongside her obituary. Laura’s lawyer handled all of that. I’d been hardly coherent, only pausing to plead my case to the judge—the judge who chose whether my brothers went into foster care or I got custody.

The deal was only sealed once my mother declined to show up at any of the hearings. I turned around to the sound of shuffling. The climbed up—it was a comical sight, believe me, watching them clutch at the seats that were definitely too tall—and batted at each other for the box.

I chuckled. “I’ve still got to toast them, guys.”

I always walk them into the building in the mornings, killing time. Their first grade teacher was waiting for me in the doorway—she’d been my teacher too, God know how many years ago. “Hey, Ms. Gruel,” she was cursed with a terrible last name. “How are you?”

She gave Ethan and Caden warm smiles before her bright grey eyes met mine. “Ainsley, how are things? You’re taking care of everything okay? I saw Mr. Parch this morning…is someone else picking Caden and Ethan today?”

“Mrs. Baker is going to pick them up,” I reassured her. “I’ve got to pick up a few things from the store after I get off today.” I paused, watching Caden and Ethan skate by us and into the classroom. The raced for the door—Caden won today. “They’re really excited today. They spent half the night explaining the concept of paper mache to me.”

After we said our goodbyes, I jumped back in the car and switched off the radio Disney that I played for them. They hate it, but I’m all for wholesome upbringings considering what a farce mine had been. See, I’d be guilty if anything bad happened to my brothers, but my mother didn’t have that issue. For the ten years she raised me, there was only about six months that I think she was sober.

I drove home, fingers tapping mercilessly on the steering wheel of my Prius until I pulled back into the driveway. I showered quickly, rung my long plain brown hair out in a towel, and changed into my “Parchment’s Paper Books” t-shirt and jeans.

I brushed my hair into a low ponytail at the back of my neck and blinked at the reflection in my bathroom mirror. Perfect—normal. I’ve come to this conclusion; I know I’ll never be stop-and-stare beautiful. And I’m over it, too. Tawny too wide set eyes and long brown—not chestnut, or light brown, just brown—hair. I was boring, with skin that held no color, unless I was blushing scarlet, and almost no life whatsoever. It really is a sad existence.

But a life of self-sacrifice is noble, right? Yes, I am sad, ladies and gentleman.

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The other night I started going through the back of my…Laura’s closet. I bypass her old Chanel and Dolce & Gabbana suits and collection of old bottles of Chanel No. 5 (I don’t even want to know) and went for the boxes.

The first thing I pulled out of box number one was this thick red photo album with the name Annabelle inscribed in gold across the front. I’d always seen my mom as drugged out with half-hooded eyes and tangled greasy hair or as I saw her in the one photo Laura kept up. It was a graduation picture—blonde, blue eyed and perfect. Something I could never be…

And maybe, just maybe that was the reason she couldn’t keep herself up for me. She hadn’t known Ethan and Caden for a year before Gran took that fateful visit and found her stash. And found me in the farthest corner of our shack-like home praying Jared wouldn’t show up today, feeding her nastiest habit.

There was a lock of fine blonde hair on the first page and an ultrasound. It was the color that my hair only stayed for about two weeks after I was born. They were perfect, Laura, Mom, and Grandpa Joseph. I didn’t know Gran even knew what scrapbooking was but there was a whole section where the border of the page was Girl Scout pins.

It was even organized, with tabs to show the different periods of her childhood. I skipped straight to high school. How, was all I wanted to know, did it all happen? And who was the boy in every single dance photo? He had dark long curly hair and warm eyes—I couldn’t tell the color but…

I glanced at the caption under the last professional photo. Prom and she was wearing a blue-grey dress, with a satin bodice and full tulle skirt. I squinted at Laura’s delicate calligraphy: Lucas & Anabelle Senior Prom.

Oh, my breath caught. My mother told me one thing about my father: “Lucas Lighten, I loved him; he died three days after you were born, in a car accident and one day before our wedding.”

I slammed the book shut and threw it back under the customized IKEA shelving. I stumbled out of the closet and glanced at the clock. I heaved a sigh and snatched the ponytail holder off my wrist. It was time to pick up Ethan and Caden from Taekwondo anyway.

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Parchment’s is a like a privately owned Borders. It’s in the main square of our little upper-middle class town, across the street from the local privately owned grocer. I’ve been working here, with Mr. P and Samantha Niche, since I turned fifteen. Sam had since left for college, NYU film school and I had been promoted to assistant manager. Mr. Parch hardly came in anymore, as long as I had Terri with me.

Terri had just finally—she seems to have been waiting since birth—got her work permit and Mr. Parch was eager to hire her after we lost Sam. He pretends it’s unfair that I’m still here, not at Cornell, this year but sometimes, when I catch this certain satisfied smile on his face before I heard out to check our balances and make deposits at the bank, I know he’s glad. He wouldn’t have to train anyone and learn how to trust someone as much as he trusts me.

I mean, Terri’s a great worker. Efficient, smart, and a definite people person, but she’s not decisive. We’re the perfect team. Terri’s the ultimate salesperson—with a bubbly personality, bright ginger hair, and warm hazel eyes—while I handle business and keep records of everything. Everything at Parchments just works, except Terri has school now during the day, so Mr. P took someone else onboard.

Nick Betel beat me to work and I was a half an hour early, which was weird, because he didn’t seem to be the earlier bird type. At first thought he looked high actually. Nick had the kind of dark hair, so dark and not black that you’d call him a brunette. I’ve always wanted to be a brunette only, when people describe me they say, “Ainsley’s got brown hair” not “She’s a brunette”. Brunette seems much more functional to me...but that’s probably just me.

I took a quick glance around—Mr. P was M.I.A. I slid past the counter and stole a Twizzler from the bag I bought yesterday on break. “Hi, you’re Nick, I’m guessing?” I extended my hand toward him and waited. He blinked at it twice before shaking my hand.

“Yes, I’m starting today...you’re the assistant manager right? I can’t remember the name he told me: Allie, Amy,” he paused, squinting through his smooth hood of dark hair. “I’m wrong aren’t I?”

“It’s Ainsley,” I held out the Twizzlers to him. “Welcome to Parchment.”

It turns out Nick’s a family friend of Mr. P and recently got in a bit of trouble. He’s been deterred from college for a year and is forced to work here as his punishment. Mr. Parch did his training early this morning when he picked him up. All I had to do was set him up at register two. All else aside, Nick Betel thought life sucked.

“I don’t even like books,” he claimed, motioning at the display I was setting up. It was bunch of bestsellers set around John Grisham’s newest.

“You don’t know that,” I pointed out, stalking back to my station. “You haven’t read every book ever published, or written for that matter. Maybe you’ve just hated all the books you’ve had to read so far. That doesn’t mean you hate books.”

“You know what Ainsley,” he said, just as the bell on the door rang, “if you find me a book that I can get through without making myself...I’ll pay you half of my salary for three months.”

“How long do I have to find it,” I asked. I was confident, though I had to remember, not many people view books the way I do. “How about by New Years? I have to get to know you before I can find a book to fit you. And I want to have more than one try.”

“You can have three tries,” Nick said. He flicked his too-long hair away from his face as a woman—Ms. Preston, my neighbor from across the street—approached his counter. She carried four self-help books and if I wasn’t mistaken, one was titled, “How to Find Your Youth: Be Sexy Again”.

“And, Nick, I don’t want your paycheck,” I called before pushing the swinging door to the back rooms. Ms. Preston leaned toward him and color started creeping into his neck as she casually pinched his cheek. Samantha’s always called her the cougar.

There were still boxes everywhere from the shipment we got last week. I dragged the one labeled “young adult” and met Mr. Parch surrounded by books and wielding a labeler.

I picked up the one next to him and sat down on the bench across from him. Mr. Parch is...well, you wouldn’t expect him to own a bookstore. The first thing Samantha and I did when we got hired was dig through the old yearbooks in our school library. He was gorgeous, but age suited him too. His dark curly hair was shot through with gray—premature too; he was only about thirty two—and his kind green eyes always seemed attentive.

It took me a long time to get over my crush and I think it took Samantha even more. “There’s a list, Hunter,” Mr. Parch is about the only person who calls me Hunter, my middle name. “For the prices of each book.”

“So, Nick is nice,” I set the labeler on 9.99 and pulled ten paperbacks from the box, while simultaneously running down the list in my head. I’d be setting a few of these aside to take home once my shift ended. “He hates books.”

Mr. Parch chuckled. “If anyone can teach Nick the value of a great book, it’s you Hunter. Nick needs some responsibility; I told his mother about you. She’s happy you’ll be working together; actually, if she doesn’t stop by today, she will later this week.”

“Where did he go to high school,” I asked. We should have graduated in the same year, according to what Nick said, but I’m sure I’ve never seen him before. My high school is small too—I knew everyone.

“He went to Purchase, up north; Nick’s a musician—viola, guitar, and cello. He’s very talented, he just doesn’t care to be,” he told me. Nick sure did seem like he didn’t care. “That’s where his problems started, mostly. He’d probably tell you about it if you asked. But if I know you, Ainsley Hunter, I know you won’t ask.”

“I don’t want to be forward. It’s not my place,” I mumbled. The jacket off one of the books slid away from me. Mr. P handed it to me and I was thankful to see that my fingers didn’t burn under his touch; there was only a slight tingle.

“Nothing’s your place, Hunt,” he said with an exaggerated sigh. I slid the labeler across the back left corners of the books with more force. I almost felt him grin. “You try so hard not to get noticed in the wrong way, you can hardly breathe when you’re away from your brothers, and you don’t do anything but read or work when you have time off.”

“I like to read, and besides, it’s not like you’re dating anyone,” I accused. Mr. P, or Jaime, as he insisted, is the closest thing I’ve ever had to a father figure. As much as he knows about my life, I know even more about his.

“I’m writing an epic novel,” he argued lightly. I rolled my eyes and waved a book in my hand at him. “If I’m going to get published by the time I’m thirty five, I’ve got to stay focused.”

“You’ve been writing this epic novel for...how long? When are you going to let anyone but your agent get a peak at it? How many endings have you going through? You promised me that you would send it out to a few publishing houses.”

“I’m tying up the loose ends now, I swear,” he said. “You’re too young to have as boring a life as I do. I know your youth hasn’t been typical, and it never will be, but it’s not fair. It took me three months to convince you to let me take Cad and Ethan to the Field Museum.”

“I’m going to put these up,” I gestured at the box. “I’m setting up a new supernatural-fantasy display in the young adult section. I’ve been waiting for these to come in.” It would be the highlight of my day.

Propped the box up on my hip and held the label machine in the other. I still had a few books to go but I didn’t really feel like having this conversation with him again. It’s not like it’s my fault; I can’t abandon my brothers.

Nick smiled at me from the counter. Ms. Preston had since left and the rest of the store was empty. “She wrote her number on the receipt she signed, paying for the books with her black American Express card. What do you think, should I give her a call?”

“I don’t condone statutory rape and she lives right by me. If I saw you leaving her house in the middle of the night—Mr. Preston, she insists on being called Miss though they’ve been married for thirteen years, takes long business trips—I’d report her,” I said, just before turning down an aisle.

It was a slow day and work passed quickly—from nine to five in seemingly ten long boring minutes. Nick left before me. Mr. Parch was shocked, and he even checked up on it, to see that Nick’s mom let his friend pick him up. Apparently, certain friends that Nick had were the root of his problems. I was starting to add up things, but I wouldn’t want to accuse him of that. And it would change my total view of him if it was true.

But you know what? I told Mr. P he probably didn’t have to worry about the girl driving Nick home. With her cutesy, trying to be grungy clothes—that were in such great shape, I suspected she picked them up in the Macy’s at our local mall earlier once she figured out who she’d be picking up—and black Range Rover, I didn’t expect her to be into anything too hardcore. Though maybe, she could be a hardcore whore, the way she backed out of her parking space with her tongue lodged down his esophagus. But she was that type, the preppy girl who went for the bad boy.

Nick didn’t seem like a bad guy to me, but Parch watched him like he was. And Parch can be pretty lenient—as many times as he let me bring Sam to his ranch house when she got too wasted to be coherent around her Baptist Pastor father. By now, I wasn’t even sure I wanted to know what kind of trouble he got into.

Though, if the girl driving the Range Rover was involved, maybe Nick’s mom exaggerated the whole thing. And that could also be the reason he hated life so much right now.

“I’m going, Mr. Parch,” I called, standing in the doorway with three new books under arm. I heard him, though muffled, yell back “Jaime”.

I’m a list person; I worked on the one for Dunning’s Private Grocer & Butcher all day long. I pulled my car out of Parchment’s parking lot and waited for a large enough break in traffic to drive straight across four lanes of traffic. A Mercedes truck almost clipped the tail end of my tiny Prius, but I made it.

I pulled into one of the angled spots close to those cart...I don’t know what they’re called, maybe stations? Does anybody, minus the employees of stores with these “stations”, know the proper name? But I always try to park in close proximity to one of the “stations” so I don’t have to trek around the lot, looking for someplace to leave my cart.

Anyway, I started straight for the produce section. I usually go to Bisio’s Fresh Market, five minutes away, for fruits and vegetables because Dunning’s has overpriced apples and no matter how much money I’ve inherited from Laura, no one should pay for expensive fruit. It’s just not right to have to pay to be healthy.

Miss Alexandra Flor—she signs her name this way; Laura redesigned her master bath and I deposited all the checks—caught me on my way. I’ve been avoiding her for two weeks. Now, I have a routine—and I’m not an overly paranoid person—but I’m almost dead sure she perched between the produce section and the frozen foods section waiting for me. Did I mention that she’s clutching a two pound package of ground beef?

“Ainsley, dear, I didn’t know you’d be shopping today. I would have thought you’d be with the boys tonight,” she said, smiling prettily.

“They’re with Mrs. Baker tonight until eight. How are you, Miss Flor,” I answered, swinging my cart to avoid a display of Cambell’s cream of mushroom. I absently dropped two cans in the cart. Oddly, Caden and Ethan love mushroom casserole. I’d have to pick up some green beans later.

“You know I prefer Alexandra sweetie. I haven’t gotten a chance to run by Parchments but I was going to call. Have they come in yet,” she asked, with eager blue eyes.

Alexandra is an intense gardener. She had us order this set of books on Japanese gardens—straight from Japan. It took Parch like two months of calls to locate an English translated version. They finally started shipping two weeks ago, hence my avoidance tactics. “No they aren’t in yet, but Jaime—Mr. Parch thinks they should come in within the week.”

Then I looked up, staring into her glassy blue eyes—she gets emotional about flowers, I guess—and gasped. My eyes darted from hers and up to the top of her head. “Your hair—it’s black!”

Miss Flor has, or had this pretty, thick, ash blond hair down to her lower back that she spins into a thick braid or bun daily. And now it was wavy, black, and voluminous. “It took you the longest to notice; Ainsley, you’re so practical, worrying about my books from China.”

I almost corrected her, but I felt like she’d take on the same condescending tone she always had, saying I worry too much about details. But hello, the difference between China and Japan is not a detail. “But why, I loved your hair.”

“I think your boss likes dark hair and the color’s actually called ‘natural black’,” she said. Now I was gaping.

“Hold on what did you just...you’re interested in Mr. Parch,” I almost yelled it, but she only smiled.

“Jaime and I went to school together. I never had the courage then, but he was dating a friend of mine,” she said. I totally got the conundrum; even if high school Mr. Parch expressed direct interest in me, I still wouldn’t have the courage to do anything about it. “I was going to invite him over, to cook dinner for him when I picked up the books. That’s why I have this—steak tartare.”

“He doesn’t eat beef or pork,” I blurted. But why was she coming to me with all of this? I don’t care to hear about her crush on my totally crush-worthy boss. I’m just getting over my crush and how is this even possible? I could have sworn she was only separated from her husband...except I hadn’t seen him around town, and it’s a small one, for a long time.

“Oh,” she sighed and it was a sigh of relief, which confused me even more, but I was just about finished with this conversation. It was too bad though. If I stayed there telling Miss Flor his like and dislikes, I probably wouldn’t have met him. It’s too bad I didn’t see this night getting much worse. But I just had to get those blueberries for Caden’s waffles.

A/N: So this is my NaNoWriMo project. I didn't get to fifty thousand words and even though November isn't over yet, I've decided to post the start of it. I'm going out of town for the next week, so I won't have many oportunities to write--and there's no way I can write thirty thousand words in six days any. I hope you like it and please review! I'll post the next chapter soon.

Ainsley's first meeting with Logan is in the next chapter!