It had been eight years since I left my hometown. I left at eighteen for college and stayed away. I'd often thought of going back, but something kept me away. I missed the narrow streets and the whitewashed storefronts and the sound of the ocean lapping on the pale sand, but there were other things I didn't miss.
I'd traveled far, across the ocean, to England, and I thought I'd stay there forever, but then a lot happened. I lost my job and my partner left me, and I suddenly found myself homeless in a foreign country. Defeated and alone, I booked a flight back to New York and then took a train into that sleepy seaside Connecticut town I used to call home.
Not much had changed. The streets felt familiar – a few new businesses here and there, a few old ones missing, fresh coats of paint on the streetlights, but by and large it was just as I remembered it. It was odd to think that I'd only been gone for eight years – it felt like a lifetime.
I walked from the train station, rolling my only suitcase. Most of my things were locked up in a storage unit in the London suburbs – I wondered if I'd ever be coming back for them.
Reaching the end of the main street, I faced it. A long building, two stories high, made of ruddy red brick with big bay windows and an old-fashioned white door with a little bell over it. A faded sign reading "The Mariner." My family business.
I stepped into the dusty, dimly lit interior. Rows of bookshelves stretched from floor to ceiling, narrow passages weaving between them. On my left was the front desk, unmanned at the moment, but the sound of the bell had alerted someone. I heard the shuffle of feet.
"Brendan!"
My sister Laura appeared out of the labyrinthine shelves and stood awkwardly a few feet away. She was a tall, big-boned woman, five years older than me, with long brown hair and a pretty oval face. Her big dark eyes had a strange elegiac quality to them.
I stepped forward. "Hello, Laura."
I leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek; she patted my forearm with a nervous hand. She looked uncomfortable until I backed away.
"I thought you were coming on the 3:15," she said.
"I caught an earlier train." I tried for a smile, but Laura didn't smile back. She rarely did.
* * *
Our father had died when I was sixteen, and since then my mother and Laura ran the family bookshop together. Last year, my mother had retired and moved in with her sister in California, leaving Laura to manage the place on her own. I hadn't realized how much of a strain it was on her. Laura had lost weight and looked haggard and drawn.
Laura spent the next few days giving me a crash course in what my duties would be. I would be doing much of the day-to-day work involved in running the store, manning the register, doing whatever grunt work was necessary. It was clear that Laura was not ready to trust me with anything higher, and I respected that. It had hurt her, the way I had left for years, and it would take a long time to win back her trust.
So I spent my first week at home getting used to the work – not so different than what I'd been doing in England, where I'd been the assistant manager of a small but successful art gallery. The basic principles of the work were the same, and I found myself getting used to it quickly.
Laura still lived in the old family house, even though it was far too big for her. I don't know whether she had expected me to move in with her, but I made it clear that I'd only be staying until I could find somewhere to stay. By the end of that week, I'd found a small loft in a converted factory on the edge of town, a handsome place with uncovered brick walls and gleaming hardwood floors. The kitchen and bathroom were the size of postage stamps, but it was good enough for me.
I also had the use of my mother's car, an ancient bottle-green Ford Focus, of which I was grateful because the deposit on the apartment had eaten up the very last of my savings. I would be living from paycheck to paycheck for a good while.
I didn't reach out to my old friends. Most of them, Laura told me, had moved away, like I had, and I didn't particularly want to reconnect with my past, anyway. I was looking forwards, not backwards.
* * *
My second Tuesday back home was a terrible day. Laura had gone out of town to look at estate sales, and one of our cashiers had called in sick. It was just me and Cassandra, a timid high-school girl, and the day was unusually busy. I spent the day terribly harried, and the worst came near closing time.
A thin, red-faced man had stood in line for close to fifteen minutes, glaring at his watch, tapping his foot, and when he came to the register, he asked for a book he'd asked someone to put on hold for him. I looked for it, but it wasn't there – somebody must have sold it to someone else by accident. I was about to start placating the man when he exploded.
"This is fucking bullshit! What the hell kind of a business do you think you're running? Who do you think you are?" His voice boomed.
"Sir, we're very sorry, but accidents do happen and we'll be happy to order a new copy for you..." I began, but he cut me off.
"Fuck that! I'll get it somewhere else." He walked out, slamming the door.
Cassandra burst into tears and ran out into the back room. I sighed.
"Next, please," I called – there were still a handful people left in the line.
