Three kisses and a quarrel

2

It was a lazy afternoon at Pickwick Papers, the family bookstore we owned, also where I worked at. It was unusually quiet, which meant I could stroll past the third shelf from the counter without having my dad shrill out my name for help. And every time he did, the store threatened to fall apart because the building felt prehistoric. Although it was a musty old one with it's bricks falling out screaming to get renovated, we took pride in owning it. Not only was this bookstore legendary with it's unending rows of amusement and knowledge, it also held quite the history. My great grandmother started this bookstore in the 19th century when women doing something other than embroidery was considered an act of shame but she had worded it better - valour. It all began when her mother ran an illegal business of circulating books among the women of the town. That woman was known to be notorious for her rebellion, a quality that she generously shared through the generations. And that's how we didn't need to be exceptional to run the store, because this bookstore ran itself.

Summer that year was hotter. That's what everyone said every year. It is just that nobody ever was ready for the summer heat, well, for that matter, neither are they ready for the winter cold. People liked bonding more over displeasure than pleasure. It somehow made them feel valid when they complained about things along with someone. So on a day like that, wearing my khaki jumpsuit was a bad idea. What's worse was wearing it so it matches my boots. My brain was working in reverse that day. I decided to change my footwear, so at least my feet could breathe. Rummaging through the store room, I found a pair of hand-me-down birkenstocks from my cousin who lived in the city. Slipping them on, I heard the bell at the door jingle indicating the arrival of a customer.

Back in our teenage years, Riley and I used to guess the genre a customer would buy by the outfit they wore. Sometimes we got it right and other times, we talked the customers into buying books from the genre we guessed wrong. The genes from my great-grandmother were in the spotlight back then. It had only been 5 years since my teenagehood, but I already felt like I was losing my marbles.

Rushing back to the front of the store I worked on my welcoming smile, only for it to turn into a grimace when I saw who had come in.

"Reed." I uttered , trying my best to conceal the distaste in my tone.

"Bailey! I baked you apple turnovers." she said rather enthusiastically, extending her arms that held a bamboo basket covered with a frilly cloth.

"Why?" I asked flatly, pushing past her.

"To win you over." Reed giggled. Eww. And this time I didn't even try hiding the distaste. I was not sure if she realised that landing her sloppy pick-up lines on a 24 year old woman like me would be of no help to her. And I failed to understand teenagers.

"Come on Bailey. I came here for an honest review. I'm preparing for my entry level test for baking school."

Four absolutely divine apple turnovers down my throat, I came to hate her less.

"Hold back a little on the egg wash. It's too much. Otherwise it's nice." I casually reviewed and went to sit behind the counter. Where did Dad go?

"Just nice? That's it?" she protested. Well, my fears came in the way of genuinely complimenting her. She is the kind of idiot who would mistake my compliments about her dessert for some profession of love or something. I absolutely can't have that. I sighed deeply.

"Thank you for the delicious apple turnovers. They taste good. Neither the cinnamon nor the apple sauce are overpowering. It is almost a perfect puff pastry. "

"Really? Oh thank you Bailey! I love you!" she shouted delightfully and launched herself on me.

There you go. Not losing any opportunity of physical contact. I carefully detached myself from the hug and patted her on the head.