The checkered tiling extends into the kitchen with beautiful black stained
cabinets and marble countertops. A massive island sits in the middle with black barstools lining one side. Grandpa and I used to sit there and watch Nana cook,
enjoying her humming to herself as she whipped up delicious meals.
Shaking away the memories, I rush over to a tall lamp by the rocking chair and
flick on the light. I release a sigh of relief when a buttery soft glow emits from the
bulb.
A few days ago, I had called to get the utilities turned on in my name, but
you can never be too sure when dealing with an old house.
Then I walk over to the thermostat, the number causing another shiver to wrack
my body.
Sixty-two goddamn degrees.
I press my thumb into the up arrow and don't stop until the temperature is set
to seventy-four. I don't mind cooler temperatures, but I'd prefer it if my nipples
didn't cut through all of my clothing.
I turn back around and face a home that's both old and new—a home that's
housed my heart since I could remember, even if my body left for a little while.
And then I smile, basking in the gothic glory of Parsons Manor.
It's how my great-grandparents decorated the house, and the taste has passed down through
the generations.
Nana used to say that she liked it best when she was the brightest
thing in the room. Despite that, she still had old people's taste.
I mean, really, why do those white throw pillows have a border of lace around
them and a weird, embroidered bouquet of flowers in the middle? That's not cute.
That's ugly.
I sigh.
"Well, Nana, I came back. Just like you wanted," I whisper to the dead air.
"Are you ready?" my personal assistant asks from beside me. I glance over at
Marietta, noting how she's absently holding out the mic to me, her attention
ensnared on the people still filtering into the small building.
This local bookstore
wasn't built for a large number of people, but somehow, they're making it work
anyway. Hordes of people are piling into the cramped space, converging in a uniform
line, and waiting for the signing to start. My eyes rove over the crowd, silently
counting in my head.
I lose count after thirty.
"Yep," I say. I grab the mic, and after catching everyone's attention, the
murmurs fade to silence. Dozens of eyeballs bore into me, creating a flush all the
way to my cheeks. It makes my skin crawl, but I love my readers, so I power
through it.
"Before we start, I just wanted to take a quick second to thank you all for
coming. I appreciate each and every one of you, and I'm incredibly excited to
meet you all. Everyone ready?!" I ask, forcing excitement into my tone.
It's not that I'm not excited, I just tend to get incredibly awkward during book
signings. I'm not a natural when it comes to social interactions. I'm the type to
stare dead into your face with a frozen smile after being asked a question while
my brain processes the fact that I didn't even hear the question. It's usually
because my heart is thumping too loud in my ears.
I settle down in my chair and ready my sharpie. Marietta runs off to handle
other matters, shooting me a quick good luck. She's witnessed my mishaps with readers and has the tendency to get secondhand embarrassment with me. Guess
it's one of the downfalls of representing a social pariah.
Come back, Marietta. It's so much more fun when I'm not the only one getting
embarrassed.
The first reader approaches me, my book The Wanderer, in her hands with a
beaming smile on her freckled face.
"Oh my god, it's so awesome to meet you!" she exclaims, nearly shoving the
book in my face. Totally a me move.
I smile wide and gently take the book.
"It's awesome to meet you, too," I return. "And hey, Team Freckles," I tack on,
waving my forefinger between her face and mine.
She gives a bit of an awkward
laugh, her fingers drifting over her cheeks. "What's your name?" I rush out,
before we get stuck on a weird conversation about skin conditions.
Geez, Addie, what if she hates her freckles? Dumbass.
"Megan," she replies, and then spells the name out for me. My hand trembles
as I carefully write out her name and a quick appreciation note. My signature is
sloppy, but that pretty much represents the entirety of my existence.
I hand the book back and thank her with a genuine smile.
As the next reader approaches, pressure settles on my face. Someone is staring
at me. But that's a fucking stupid thought because everyone is staring at me.
I try to ignore it, and give the next reader a big ass smile, but the feeling only
intensifies until it feels like bees are buzzing beneath the surface of my skin while
a torch is being held to my flesh.
It's… it's unlike anything I've felt before. The
hairs on the back of my neck rise, and I feel the apples of my cheeks heating to a
bright red.
Half of my attention is on the book I'm signing and the gushing reader, while
the other half is on the crowd.
My eyes subtly sweep the expanse of the
bookstore, attempting to scope out the source of my discomfort without making it
obvious.
My gaze hooks on a lone person standing in the very back. A man.