21. Josie

TWENTY-ONE

Josie

I stared blankly at the tablet’s screen, the harsh blue light illuminating the darkened space of the Bookish Cat, where I’d come back before sunrise in the hopes of having a little bit of divine inspiration.

But even running my fingers over the cover of the journal had no effect. I’d been shaking since Mr. Anderson showed up at my door yesterday and couldn’t sleep a wink. Every moment was dedicated to deciphering the complex labyrinth of US tax laws, reminding me just how much I didn’t know before I made those orders from England.

How could I have made such an awful mistake?

Spread across my screen were the intricate details of import taxes, paragraphs filled with dense legalese that threatened to drown me in a sea of confusion. Each sentence, each word seemed to be a carefully coded riddle, a cipher I couldn’t crack. No wonder no other bookstores around were working with these foreign booksellers, because the sheer wall of confusing text was enough to make me cry .

I specifically went into the world of books and not accounting to avoid moments like this.

My temples throbbed, the incessant headache a result of too much caffeine and too little sleep. I was no closer to a solution than I was when I began.

“Come on!” I slammed my hands down on the counter in an uncharacteristic temper tantrum. The cats jumped at the sudden noise, scattering in different directions, though Heathcliff shot me an accusing glare before making himself scarce. I watched them flee with a twinge of envy. Their lives were simple, despite their ability to seemingly move through walls.

The more I wrestled with the intricate language of US tax laws, the more I was entangled in an administrative spider’s web that threatened to eat the Bookish Cat whole.

I heaved a sigh, massaging my temples as I tried to make sense of the dense paragraphs on my screen.

“‘The Harmonized System…’ Ugh,” I read out loud, my voice a frustrated grumble. “‘The Harmonized System, also known as the HS Code, is a multipurpose, international product-naming system used around the globe. Import duties and taxes are calculated based on the HS which is uniform across all countries in the WCO’—ugh, another acronym to look up—‘determining the basic category of the product.’”

As I recited the next line, “‘Different countries can assign specific numbers to classify goods in more detail for their own use,’” a sudden warmth spread across my shoulders. Startled, I jumped, my words trailing off into silence as I turned to see Barb’s concerned face right behind me.

“Josie, you look terrible,” she said, her voice carrying a worried lilt as she looked over my shoulder at the screen.

“I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I don’t think you’re hearing much of anything—you look halfway to zombie, and I’d like to keep my brains intact, thanks. Have you been working on this tax issue all night? How long have you been here?”

The glow of the tablet illuminated her worried face. “I have to figure this out, Barb,” I responded, my voice resolute, if exhausted. “I have to save the Bookish Cat.”

Barb shook her head, her stern gaze softening as she crossed her arms. “You’re working yourself to the bone. You’ll make yourself sick.”

I blinked up at her, my throat tight. “Then let me be sick,” I declared, my tone leaving no room for argument. “Because I have no choice. This is my life’s work. Everything I ever wanted is between these four walls.”

Except Caleb. Even that depressing thought couldn’t make this shitstorm any worse.

“Poor thing.” Barb wrapped her arms around me, but I couldn’t tell if it was because of the tax situation or because she thought it was sad that the Bookish Cat was the only thing with meaning in my life.

After releasing me, and with a sigh, Barb crossed her arms over her chest. “Josie,” she started, her tone surprisingly firm. “Why haven’t you done the most logical thing yet?”

I bristled at her words, my anxiety morphing into irritation. “And what would that be?” I snapped, my tone sharper than I intended.

Barb raised an eyebrow at me, peering over the rim of her glasses. “Do I need to remind you that your family runs one of the most prestigious accounting firms in the state?”

A bitter laugh escaped my lips before I could stop it. “No, Barb, not possible,” I retorted, my tone laced with acerbic humor .

“Josie…” Her tone lowered, giving me her best motherly voice. “You’ve got to consider?—”

“I said no .”

She let out a tense sigh, but after a moment, her expression softened, and she patted me resolutely on the shoulder. “You keep at it then. I’ll take care of the shop today.”

“But I can only pay you for the half shift.”

She waved her hand dismissively. “I’m volunteering. Let’s save this Cat.”

As she said it, Matilda, Gatsby, and Heathcliff sauntered back in, taking up napping places around me.

“Thank you. Thank you, all,” I added for the cats in a whisper.

Regret filled my chest as I thought of my parents. But there was no way I could go to them now, not after everything. I couldn’t bear the thought of looking like a dog with its tail between its legs, begging for help. I had to figure this out on my own. The very idea of them knowing about my struggle, of them holding this over my head for the rest of my life, was unthinkable.

Their staunch disapproval of the Bookish Cat, their dismissal of my passion, had inflicted wounds on my spirit that were as deep as they were jagged. Their failure to see the merit in the path I had chosen for myself, the life I had so lovingly crafted, had formed rifts too vast to cross. Even though a touch of a bridge had been built at Nana’s birthday, we were far from anything that resembled a relationship.

Asking them for help now would only reopen those wounds, and there was no guarantee they’d even help.

I’d rather read tax law by myself. Even if it was convoluted, soul-sucking gibberish.

After hours and hours of it, I leaned back in my chair, a heavy sigh escaping my lips as I pinched the bridge of my nose. My eyes were heavy, my body was aching, and my mind was a blur of taxation and legal terms.

That’s when I saw the slip of paper tucked in the mail slot.

Hang in there , it said in a scrawl that rivaled a Shakespearean missive. I don’t want to interrupt your concentration, so just know we’ll figure this out.

I opened the door, looked left and right, but who knows how long ago Caleb dropped off this note. I settled back behind the counter, the note under my fingers, and somehow felt lighter for having it. I traced the letters with my fingertips, the curves soothing, and I fell into a meditative state. Just a short break. The cold, hard surface of the counter was so inviting…

I must have fallen asleep because when I opened my eyes again, it was pitch black outside. The lights of the Bookish Cat were dimmed, the familiar rustling of books and purring of cats silenced. I sat up, rubbing at my sore neck as I glanced around, noticing for the first time that Barb and the cats were gone, the shop locked up for the night.

My heart ached as I slipped out of the store, the reality of my situation pressing down on me like a ton of bricks. Another day passed, and still no answers.

I couldn’t give up, not yet. I would find a way to solve this mess. I made a promise to myself as I locked the door behind me, vowing to figure it out in the morning.

As the humid and crisp air filled the streets of early morning Seattle, the city was buzzing to life with coffee shops, fast- walking folks in suits, and the rhythmic patter of joggers. It was a picture of serenity and promise, which I hoped would set up my day for a breakthrough.

I made my way back to the Bookish Cat, my mind heavy with exhaustion and the unresolved weight of the previous night’s efforts, but with a bit of hope peeking in with the sun.

As I turned the last corner, I yearned to see Caleb’s warm smile, the reassuring sight of him with two coffees in hand.

But as my gaze fell on the bookstore, instead of the familiar figure, my eyes locked on to a stark, yellow notice plastered to the door.

A cold shiver of dread ran down my spine. The door, which I firmly locked last night, was ajar. The ominous yellow notice fluttered in the breeze. A sinking sensation hit my gut, the bitter taste of dread filling my mouth. What fresh hell was this?

With a deep breath, I pushed open the door, steeling myself for the worst. Inside, I found Mr. Anderson standing amidst the stacks of books, his thin lips curled into a sneer.

“You don’t have the right to be in here, Mr. Anderson.”

“Ah, but I do. I suggest you read that notice very carefully, Miss Ray,” he said, his voice echoing unpleasantly through the shop. His eyes flicked to the yellow paper tacked to the door. “You have exactly seven days to fix your tax issues, or I’ll have no choice but to take legal action, closing up your shop in the meantime.”

“But… Mr. Anderson…” A harsh tremor rattled through me, my nerves suddenly feeling as fragile as glass. A clammy chill spread across my skin, a sheen of cold sweat prickling at my temples.

Just then, the door swung open behind me. Caleb and Barb arrived at the same time, stepping into the store. Their expressions fell as they took in the scene: Mr. Anderson’s triumphant smirk, my white-knuckled grip on the counter, the ominous notice on the door.

A sudden realization struck me like a lightning bolt as Mr. Anderson brushed past me to walk out.

“Wait!” My voice echoed in the nearly empty store, an agonizing plea. “Where are the cats?”

He paused, turning to face me with a grimace. “Far away from my sneezing face!” The door jingled as he marched out.

His words hit me like a sledgehammer. My knees buckled, and I found myself collapsing onto the checkout counter, my body shaking with the onslaught of my emotions. The cats, my precious companions, were gone. The Bookish Cat felt hollow without them, as hollow as I felt inside at all this horrible news.

Barb and Caleb were at my side in an instant, their hands on my shoulders, their voices a soothing murmur in my ears. But their words were lost to me. I was drowning in a sea of despair, the tide of my problems pulling me under.

“Please, Josie,” Barb pleaded. “Consider contacting your family.”

I shook my head, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill over. “You don’t get it, Barb,” I managed to choke out, my voice raw with emotion. “They won’t help. They won’t come. I dug my own grave with them a long time ago.”

Even as Caleb and Barb wrapped me in a comforting embrace, I was lost in the storm, adrift in a sea of my own making. All because of a silly dream of sharing books from faraway lands.

The Bookish Cat, my dream, my life’s work, was sinking, and I felt like I was going down with it.