11. Evie

11

EVIE

T he bookstore feels alive today, buzzing with an energy that always fills me up when I step inside. It’s a quiet hum, a kind of electricity that crackles in the air when I prepare for poetry night. As I flick on the lights, the warm glow spreads through the space, illuminating rows of books and the small stage in the corner. It isn’t much—just a wooden platform with a mic stand—but it’s the heart of this place, where voices find their wings.

I start rearranging the chairs, each one holding its own story. Some are old, wobbly things my grandmother had picked up years ago at a yard sale; others are new and sturdy, but still feel like they belong. I line them up neatly, knowing that by the end of the night they’d be scattered and moved around in the happy chaos of people finding their place.

As I adjust the mic stand, the bell above the door jingles, and I turn to see Mrs. Landry sweeping in with her usual flair. She is a sight in a bright purple dress, a chunky necklace, and those gold bangles that clink with every step. Mrs. Landry has been coming here since before I was born, and her presence feels like a link to every past version of this bookstore.

“Morning, Evie!” she calls, her smile as big as ever. “Look at you, all busy and important. You getting ready for tonight?”

I laugh, giving her a quick hug. “Always. You know me, Mrs. Landry. I’ve got to make sure everything’s just right. You coming tonight?”

She nods, her eyes sparkling. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. I remember when your grandmother used to have these nights. They were packed to the brim with people spilling out onto the sidewalk. You’ve got the same touch, Evie. This place feels just as magical as it did back then.”

I smile, feeling the warmth of her words settle in my chest. “Thanks. I’m just trying to keep the tradition going. She really knew how to make people feel at home.”

“She’d be so proud of you,” Mrs. Landry says, giving my arm a gentle squeeze. “You’re doing something special here, you know that?”

I nod, my throat tightening with gratitude. Mrs. Landry wanders off to her usual corner of the store, flipping through the new arrivals, and I take a moment to soak in the familiarity of it all. This is what I love most about the bookstore—not just the books, but the people who fill it, each of them bringing their own stories, their own energy.

I go back to setting up the event, making sure the chairs are spaced just right and the stage looks welcoming. As I straighten the last row, the door jingles again, and I look up to see Malik, one of my regulars, slipping in with his ever-present notebook clutched to his chest.

“Hey, Malik,” I call, waving him over. “You ready for tonight?”

He shuffles his feet, giving me a shy smile. Malik is one of those poets whose words burned brighter than he ever let on. Quiet and unassuming, but once he is on that stage, it’s like watching a match strike in the dark.

“Yeah, I think so,” he mumbles, glancing around nervously. “I’ve got something new, but...I don’t know. It’s different. I’m not sure if people will get it.”

I hand him a stack of chairs to set up, knowing that keeping his hands busy would help settle his nerves. “Malik, people love hearing you read. It doesn’t have to be perfect; it just has to be yours. That’s what makes it special.”

He nods, still looking unsure, but I see the flicker of a smile. “Thanks, Evie. You always know what to say.”

As he moves off to set up the chairs, I feel a little burst of pride. Watching Malik grow as a poet, seeing him find his voice in this space, is one of my favorite parts of these nights.

I keep moving, arranging books on display and setting up the refreshments table with coffee, tea, and a few bottles of wine tucked discreetly at the back. I can already picture the room filled with people, the low murmur of conversations, the nervous excitement of those waiting to perform. I want tonight to feel special, and I can’t help but hope that Sasha might walk through the door, bringing that spark she always seemed to carry with her.

Lost in my thoughts, I don’t hear the door open again until I look up and see Mr. Dupree, a local musician, striding in with his guitar slung over his shoulder. He’s a regular fixture at these events, always ready with a new song or a story that can make the whole room laugh.

“Evie!” he calls, setting his guitar case on the counter. “What’s the word? We all set for tonight?”

“Hey, Mr. Dupree. Just about. I’m glad you’re playing. I heard you’ve got something new.”

He grins like a kid with a secret. “I’ve been working on something a little different. Thought I’d shake things up. You think I should go with a love song or keep it upbeat?”

I lean against the counter, pretending to think it over. “You know, I think we’ve had enough love songs lately. Give us something with a beat, make people want to move.”

Mr. Dupree laughs, strumming a few chords on his guitar. “Your grandmother always said the same thing. ‘Make them dance, Mr. Dupree. Make them feel alive.’ That woman knew how to throw a party.”

I nod, a pang of longing tugging at my heart. “She really did. I’m just trying to keep the tradition alive, you know?”

“You’re doing a damn fine job of it,” he says, giving me a warm smile. “And hey, save me a dance tonight, alright?”

“Always,” I promise, watching him head to his usual spot by the stage.

For a moment, I let myself drift back, thinking of the nights when my grandmother was at the helm, directing everyone with her infectious energy. She’d always been larger than life, someone who could light up a room just by walking into it. When she passed, I’d felt the weight of the bookstore shift onto my shoulders, heavy with the responsibility of keeping it all going. But days like this made it all worth it.

As I move through the store, I find myself lingering by the poetry section, running my fingers along the spines of books that hold memories I can never quite put into words. It’s here in these aisles that my grandmother had taught me about the power of stories, the way a single line of poetry could cut straight to the heart.

But as much as this place is tied to my grandmother, there are also memories of my mother woven into the shelves. My mom was a wild spirit, never content to stay in one place. She’d drifted in and out of my life like a wayward breeze, always chasing something beyond my reach. I remember the few times she’d swept into the bookstore, full of grand ideas and big promises, only to disappear again before the ink on those promises was dry.

Her death had been sudden, jarring in its finality. I’d been just a teenager, trying to navigate the messy reality of losing someone who had never really been there in the first place. It was my grandmother who’d stepped up, filling the gaps my mom had left behind, teaching me to love the bookstore, to find solace in the rhythm of the community she’d built.

“Evie?” Kenneth’s voice breaks through my thoughts, and I turn to see him standing with a box of new books, watching me with his usual gentle concern. “You okay?”

I blink, pulling myself back to the present. “Yeah, sorry. Just thinking about everything, I guess.”

He sets the box down and leans against the counter. “This place means a lot to you and to everyone who comes through that door. It’s a big thing, what you’re doing.”

I nod, feeling the weight of his words settle around me. “Sometimes it feels like I’m just holding on, you know? Like I’m trying to keep all the pieces together.”

Kenneth smiles, the kind that reaches his eyes. “You’re doing more than that. You’re building something. And you’re damn good at it.”

I smile back, grateful for his steady presence. Kenneth is more than just an employee; he’s a friend, someone who understands the unspoken layers of this place.

As the day wears on, the bookstore transforms piece by piece, taking on the look and feel of a space ready for something magical. I finish arranging the last few chairs and step back, taking it all in. The room is ready, waiting to be filled with voices and stories, with laughter and nerves and the kind of moments that kept me coming back, night after night.

I wander to the counter and pick up one of my grandmother’s old poetry books, thumbing through the pages. I find a passage I love, one she used to read to me when I was young, and I let the words wash over me, grounding me in the memory of her voice.

The bell above the door chimes again, and I look up, half-hoping it might be Sasha. But it’s just the wind this time, a gentle reminder that not everything comes when you want it to. I tuck the book under my arm and glance around the empty bookstore, feeling the quiet anticipation that fills the space. It’s a different kind of stillness, one that isn’t empty but expectant, like the bookstore itself is holding its breath, waiting for the night to begin.

I find myself standing by the front door, watching the sun dip lower outside, casting long shadows across the street. In just a few hours, this place will be full again, buzzing with life and voices echoing off the walls. And though I love the noise, people, and stories they bring, it’s these quiet moments I cherish most. The calm before the crowd, the stillness before the first poem is read.

I turn my attention back to the poetry book in my hands, tracing the faded gold lettering on the cover. It was my grandmother’s favorite, a collection of poems about love, loss, and the unbreakable ties of family. She used to read from it at every open mic night, her voice strong and clear, filling the room with a warmth that never failed to make people feel seen.

I miss her terribly at times like this, miss the way she could make everything seem so effortless. I miss my mother, too, in a different way—miss the idea of what we could have been. But standing here, in the place that has been my sanctuary and my inheritance, I feel their presence woven into every corner of this bookstore.

I put the book back on the shelf behind the counter and take a deep breath, letting the familiar smells of paper and ink settle my nerves. Tonight will be like every other night—different faces, new poems, the same electric energy that makes this place come alive. And yet, it will also be new, filled with possibilities I can’t quite see yet.

My wanders to Sasha, of her laughter that morning, of the way she fit so naturally into the bookstore, like she’d always belonged. I find myself hoping she’ll show up tonight, that she’ll walk through the door and take her place among the other voices. I want her to be a part of this, to see what makes this place so special, to understand why it matters so much to me.

As the sun dips lower and the light outside turns soft and golden, I close my eyes and let myself imagine it—Sasha in the audience, a smile tugging at her lips as she listens to the words of strangers, finding her own place in the rhythm of the night.

The bookstore is ready. The chairs are set, the lights dim just enough to make the space feel cozy, and the refreshments are laid out on the table. It’s Saturday night, the biggest night of the week, the night when the bookstore truly comes alive.

Saturday nights have always been special. They are different from the quieter midweek events—bigger, louder, with a little more energy in the air. People don’t just come to read or listen; they come to connect, to let loose a bit, to celebrate the week’s end with poetry, music, and each other. It’s a night of possibility and new beginnings, and I always feel a certain thrill in the air as the hour approaches.

There’s a tradition I’ve kept going since my grandmother’s time: opening the night with a poem. It’s my way of setting the tone and inviting everyone into the space, and it’s something I look forward to each week. But tonight, the choice feels more important, more significant somehow. Maybe it’s because of the memories that have surfaced throughout the day or the hope that Sasha might walk through the door. Whatever it is, I want to choose something that captures the spirit of the night—the joy, the energy, and the subtle undercurrent of something new, something exciting.

I move through the shelves, my fingers trailing over the spines of the books I know so well. My mind sifts through the possibilities, recalling lines and verses that have stayed with me over the years. I want something upbeat, something that will make people smile, but also something that hints at the spark of new love, at the thrill of connection that is so palpable in the air tonight.

As I scan the titles, a familiar name catches my eye: Langston Hughes. I pull the slim volume from the shelf and flip through the pages, pausing when I find the poem I’m looking for. It’s perfect—light, rhythmic, and filled with that sense of hope and joy that I want to share with everyone here tonight.

The poem I chose is "Juke Box Love Song" by Langston Hughes. It has that easy, musical quality that fits a Saturday night, and the verses speak to the simple, pure joy of love, of being swept up in a moment with someone new. It’s a poem that captures the essence of the night, the spirit of the bookstore, and the unspoken anticipation that hums beneath the surface.

I take the book with me to the small stage, placing it on the stand as people began to filter in. The familiar faces of regulars mix with newcomers, all of them settling into their seats with the casual ease that comes from knowing they are in a place where they belong. Mr. Dupree is already tuning his guitar, his fingers moving deftly over the strings, filling the space with soft, warm notes.

As I step up to the mic, the room quiets, the murmurs fading into an expectant hush. I look out at the faces in front of me, feeling a swell of affection for each and every one of them. These are my people, my community, and it’s moments like this that makes every long day worth it.

“Good evening, everyone,” I begin, my voice steady and warm. “Thank you all for being here tonight. As always, it’s a pleasure to see so many familiar faces—and to welcome those of you who are new. Tonight’s going to be special. I can feel it.”

There’s a ripple of agreement and a few soft laughs, and I smile, letting the energy of the room lift me up. “To start us off, I’d like to share a poem that’s always felt like a celebration to me. It’s about love, music, and the simple joy of being with someone who makes your heart dance. This is 'Juke Box Love Song' by Langston Hughes.”

I open the book, the familiar words flowing through me as I begin to read:

"I could take the Harlem night

and wrap around you,

Take the neon lights and make a crown,

Take the Lenox Avenue busses,

Taxis, subways,

And for your love song tone their rumble down.

I could take the Harlem night

and wrap it round you,

Take the neon lights and make a crown."

The words hang in the air, filling the space with their rhythm, their music. I feel the connection in the room deepen, a shared appreciation for the simple beauty of the poem, for the way it captures that feeling of new love, of excitement, of something just beginning.

As I finish, there is a soft, appreciative murmur from the crowd, and I close the book with a contented smile. The night has begun, and with it, the promise of something more—more stories, more voices, more moments of connection.

But then my eyes drift to the back of the room, where the shelves are a little more organized than they’d been this morning. I don’t even notice the door open, don’t hear the bell’s soft chime in the midst of my reading. But there she is, leaning casually against the very shelves where we’d tangled ourselves up the night before, where books had fallen around us like confetti.

Sasha.

She watches me with a look that’s a half-smile, half something deeper—something that makes my heart skip and my breath catch. She stands there, almost like she’s meant to be part of the bookstore’s rhythm, fitting seamlessly into the scene. She is so effortlessly attractive, I almost can’t bear it. Her eyes meet mine, and in that instant, the noise of the crowd fades, and it feels like it’s just the two of us, connected by the invisible thread of last night and whatever is building between us.

The moment hangs there, suspended in the soft light, as she gives me that crooked, teasing smile I’ve come to love. It’s the kind of smile that says a thousand things at once— I’m here. I’m with you. Let’s see where this goes.

I can’t help but smile back, the unexpected thrill of seeing her standing there, in this place that meant everything to me, sending a rush of warmth through my veins. It’s a small, quiet moment in a room full of people, but to me, it feels like the start of something big, something that can grow into whatever we are brave enough to let it be.

As I step off the stage and the next performer takes their place, Sasha stays by the shelves, her gaze never leaving mine. I make my way through the crowd, weaving between the chairs, laughter, and buzz of conversation rising around us. When I reach her, she leans in, her hand reaches for my cheek and I feel the cool touch of her fingers, her voice stays low, just for me.

“That was beautiful.” Her words are like a soft note against the music still playing in the background. “But I think you already knew that.”

I laugh, feeling that familiar, easy connection between us. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Sasha’s smile widens, her eyes sparkling with mischief and something gentler. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

Her hand casually drops, lingering just a second as the pad of her index finger flicks over my lips.

And just like that, the night feels a little brighter and the bookstore a little warmer with her standing beside me.