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park ranger — i fucking hate tuesdays. you’re no longer fresh from the weekend, friday is so far away, everyone is miserable
patron saint of well-read lesbians — unpopular opinion: i love tuesdays
park ranger — there’s something wrong with you, you know that?
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Trinity’s world hinges on Tuesdays.
The Shop Around the Corner is open six days a week, and its operating hours are typically from ten-ish to seven-ish. Trinity’s never been able to strictly adhere to the schedule posted on the door — she’s a terminal night owl with a penchant for turning off alarms in her sleep, leading to more than one slightly-delayed opening after a harried dash from her apartment to the store. She’s equally reluctant to shake loyal customers loose from the cocoon of the bookshelves when closing time hits, letting teenagers and older folks alike linger in the stacks as she putters around. The store is reluctantly closed on Mondays as a nod to the concept of time off, but Trinity often finds herself turning her key in the lock at 10 o’clock sharp anyway. Or 10:04. 10:17, whatever, she’s there.
The point is — Mondays are for waiting. For turning around an empty store, hands on her hips, feeling like something’s lost until she remembers that what she misses is people. Tuesdays welcome her with open arms, the bell on the door a familiar soundtrack when her regulars start to trickle in midmorning. It’s the only day she opens by herself — there’s at least one other bookseller scheduled to start every other day of the week, two on weekends.
Today is Wednesday, and Victoria Javadi is as punctual as ever, a polite rap of her knuckles on the door announcing her arrival at 9:45. Her entrance, however, is not quite so restrained.
“Book Heaven!” is the first thing that tumbles out of her mouth, tinged with urgency and dismay. She follows it with a gasping intake of breath, like she’d been holding those two words in for the entirety of the time it had taken for Trinity to emerge from behind the counter and open the door. When this sort of thing happens, Trinity knows it’s best to let her work through it on her own – a quirk of her eyebrow is more than enough to show she’s listening. Sure enough, Victoria continues on a moment later. “They’re opening one. Here. Soon.” She sounds more distressed by the second, a telltale waver in her voice that makes Trinity instinctively reach out to put a hand on her shoulder.
Finally, she gestures to the window of the store: one more syllable, one final nail in the coffin. “Look,” she insists, and Trinity dutifully ducks her head below the Pride display to take in the sight of the city street before them.
Like a nightmare come to life, a Book Heaven poster gleams across the street, wheatpasted onto the wall between a café and Robby’s deli. Trinity’s stomach drops out through her ass.
Pittsburgh will be on cloud 9 with Book Heaven — coming September 2025, just around the corner!
It’s June.
“I’m sure it’s fine,” Victoria says, sounding for all the world like she’s delivering a terminal diagnosis. “Don’t panic.”
Trinity panics.
By the time Whitaker slumps in around noon, looking glum as ever, she’s nearly worked herself into a full-on anxiety attack.
A palpable sense of dread has been hanging over her head since she got the news, and both of her employees have the sense to give her a wide berth well past lunchtime. Whitaker only braves her office door to drop off a Tupperware of food a couple of hours into his shift, the same nervous look on his face that could mean almost anything – he has a tendency to look concerned regardless of his mental status. Trinity has a long-held theory that it has something to do with the mousiness of his features. A pre-ingrained prey response, or whatever. He just has that vibe about him.
“Pot pie,” he says by way of greeting, setting the container down on the edge of her desk. “Homemade. Two minutes in the microwave, okay? Victoria said…” he trails off, real nerves flickering within the status-quo anxiety of his resting expression. Trinity sighs.
“What did that traitor say to you?”
“That you weren’t taking the news well. That maybe you could use some comfort food.” Whitaker winces at his own confession. Trinity’s always tried to soften herself around the two of them, but her sharp tongue perpetually resists the change.
“She’s being dramatic. I’m fine,” she says, like she hasn’t been one deep-breathing exercise away from hyperventilating for the past four hours. “I’m fine. Go make yourself useful.” He takes that for the dismissal it is, vanishing from the doorway as she lets her head fall against the desk.
The thing is, Trinity Santos is definitively not fine.
A new Book Heaven location is any indie bookstore’s worst nightmare, sure, but what her employees are tiptoeing around is something much more personal: Claudia Santos, president and CEO, is also her mother.
Once upon a time, Trinity had been raised with the expectation that she’d take over for her mother one day — continuing the dynasty of Santos women at the reins of the company. What else could my family be but patron saints of modern literature? her mother used to joke at the annual holiday party, a play on their last name. The board members politely laughed every time, but as soon as she was old enough to grasp the way their company ran, Trinity thoroughly disagreed.
There was no real passion behind Claudia Santos’s leadership of Book Heaven — unless you count the desire for as many zeros as possible tacked onto the end of her bank account balance. No true patron saint of literature would prioritize the New York Times Best Seller list over smaller, more interesting authors, or forgo the Booker Prize longlist entirely in favor of ordering fifty more pallets of James Patterson’s latest title. No true patron saint of literature would consider it her goal to wring as much profit out of her stores with little consideration for what she’s promoting, or for the people who work there. Trinity’s always considered it to be a much more noble thing to put books in the hands of people who need them the most — the young, the elderly, the lonely, the disadvantaged — but there’s a reason she left, after all.
Trinity had always been a voracious reader — call it a product of her environment — but she only really expanded her worldview in college, once she began visiting her local library and indie bookstores instead of raiding the Book Heaven warehouse for her next read.
It was there that she discovered a love for queer literature, and a love for the queer part of herself. There had been a nameless longing in her chest for years, smothered by unhealthy amounts of repression and a sickly hope that maybe she’d snap out of it, that these feelings would go away. She learned to coax the feelings out instead, to fan the flames of her own desire without dousing them in the old, familiar shame. She realized that lesbian wasn’t a dirty word after all, and, in fact, it fit her like a glove.
It was there that she found The Shop Around the Corner for the first time, and where she met Ronnie. The concept of a butch lesbian alone was enough to blow Trinity’s former-Catholic-school-student mind, much less the idea of one who ran a bookstore specializing in queer literature.
As a freshman, she started going to the store weekly, spending hours perusing the shelves, often setting up camp on the floor to tear through something new. Sometimes she’d get so absorbed that Ronnie would close up the store without her noticing, her cheeks burning as she said goodnight and asked for the door to be unlocked. Ronnie would give her a hard time that they both knew was entirely feigned, but it’d become a routine.
As a sophomore, she badgered Ronnie for a job, campaigning for weeks until she’d finally relented and allowed Trinity to fill in gaps in the schedule. She’d taken to it like a duck to water, and pushed her employee discount to its absolute limit.
As a junior, she went from a business major to a double major – adding literature to her roster, reluctantly contenting herself with a gender & sexuality studies minor. She’d wanted to abandon the business degree entirely, but Ronnie had talked her off that ledge.
As a senior, she finally came clean to her parents all in one fell swoop: her sexuality, her secret second major, and, worst of all, her intention to continue working at The Shop Around the Corner after graduation.
She lost her family and her inheritance on the same night, but something about the fresh start felt liberating. Trinity spent the next few years memorizing every nook and cranny of the store at Ronnie’s side, expanding on everything she’d learned as a collegiate bookseller in preparation for taking over the store one day. It’s been a few years now since Ronnie retired, handing over her mantle as owner and leaving the store in her care, and she’s never regretted her choice. Not for a second.
This store has seen her at her best, and at her worst. It’s shaped her life for over a decade now, and she’s not the only one — some of their customers have been coming here since before Trinity was even born, and the thought of losing that sense of a long-held queer community makes her feel sick.
This store has survived the AIDS crisis, seen the legalization of gay marriage in the US, and welcomed queer and trans folks from all walks of life through every decade of their struggles and joys. She’ll be damned if she lets it fall in the face of something as inconsequential as Book Heaven.
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patron saint of well-read lesbians — i’ve been sitting on bad news all morning and my friends have been tiptoeing around me for hours. feel like playing armchair therapist?
park ranger — i’m hardly qualified for that, but i have been told i have healing hands. does a massage therapist count?
patron saint of well-read lesbians — i can’t tell you how disappointed i am that i know for a fact that you aren’t actually a massage therapist. i would do bad, bad things to have a lesbian massage therapist dispel the tension in my neck right now
park ranger —
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It’s been a week since the Book Heaven news dropped, and Trinity’s thrown herself into Pride celebrations as a way of coping. Maybe if she pretends the new location doesn’t exist, it’ll disappear into the ether before it ever even opens. Victoria has already tried to tell her once that repression is not a healthy coping mechanism, and she’s promptly rewarded for her advice with an overly defensive deflection that it’s a byproduct of being raised Catholic.
So. Yeah. She’s not at her best, but also the store has never seen so many Pride decorations in its life, which has been her coping mechanism of choice lately (not repression. Take that, Victoria). So it’s all a wash, really.
She’s put herself on cash this morning, which might be a mistake. If she’s liable to snap in the face of Victoria’s gigantic doe eyes, she’s liable to snap at anything, which isn’t always the best in a customer-facing profession. But she’d rather be here than in the stacks, making conversation and recommendations. Until a hot lesbian comes along, she’s not interested.
“Did you find everything okay?” Trinity asks as she unwraps a new stack of bookmarks, the question pure reflex as she senses someone’s presence in front of her at the cash register. The store is buzzing today, customers spilling in from the street on their way to and from the city’s variety of Pride events. Trinity herself is decked out head to toe – pink and orange glitter on her cheekbones courtesy of Victoria, a collection of pins meandering down the lapel of her denim jacket that seems to grow every time Whitaker stops by the counter, and a shirt with the words TR(EAT) YOUR GIRL RIGHT emblazoned proudly across her chest to top it all off.
“I was actually hoping for a recommendation. This is my first time here, and I’ve heard you’re the go-to person.”
“Well, I am the owner, so you’ve come to the right place,” she says, a smile on her face until the moment she looks up and finds herself confronted with the most gorgeous woman she’s ever seen. She gives off the self-assured air of someone who could probably get Trinity to do whatever she wanted with a crook of her finger, and isn’t that a vision. It’s kind of intimidating. And hot. Trinity would very much like her to do something indecent with that kind of discipline — and the slight curve of her bicep framed by the sleeve of her t-shirt doesn’t escape her notice, either. Her dark brown skin is glowing; it gives Trinity the urge to pick up some ridiculous 15-step skincare routine that she almost certainly couldn’t follow, much less afford, just to look like that. It’s probably natural, though, which is even worse.
Trinity is this close to reaching out and tracing her jawline with her finger. She feels like she deserves some kind of award for controlling herself.
The woman smiles, her head tilted ever so slightly, and the sight is so arresting that Trinity briefly rethinks her entire position on religion. There must be some kind of god-like being out there who shaped this woman specifically for the purpose of fucking with her. Or fucking her, if she’s lucky. Trinity sends a quick prayer out into the void, just in case.
She starts analyzing the situation, calculating her chances. The woman is in a queer bookstore — on the afternoon of the Pride parade, of all days — good sign.
“I’m looking to pick something up for a friend.” Hm. Neutral sign. Not looking for herself — could be bad. But she has queer friends — could be good. Cancels out, overall.
“Non-fiction? Fiction? Any specific genres you’re looking for, or just a roundup of the Trinity-approved-queer-classics?”
“Trinity,” the woman echoes, stretching the syllables out, Trin-i-ty, like she’s savoring the taste of her name. “That’s your name?” Holy shit. Chills. Cancel the analysis — this is a bona-fide, USDA-certified lesbian if she’s ever seen one. And considering the fact that she runs a queer bookstore, Trinity feels pretty qualified to make that assumption. She’s seen a lesbian or two in her day.
The newly-appointed lesbian leans her forearms on the counter, the angle bringing her face a few inches closer to Trinity’s. She briefly considers taking her own pulse to make sure she’s still alive.
“A friend of mine was recently dumped, and has even more recently come out as bisexual. I’m not looking for anything too intense for him — if you have anything titled ‘Stop Going After My Bisexual Friends, Fucking Them Does Not “Cancel Out” Your Bisexuality To Make You Straight Again’ or maybe ‘I Am Not Your Lesbian Guru’, that should probably do the trick.”
Lesbian guru. Trinity fucking called it. God, she’s good.
“Woof.” Trinity laughs, emerging from behind the counter and gesturing for the woman to follow. “I can’t say I have either of those titles in stock at the moment, but I’ll look into them for next time.” She weaves through the stacks until she reaches the nonfiction section, scanning the shelves until she finds the book she’s looking for. Trinity pulls it out, tilting the cover so the woman can see: there’s a stylized Venn diagram on the cover, blue and pink circles meeting in the center to form a purple crossover, a cartoon-bubble-lettered BI sitting proudly in the middle. “This one’s pretty approachable. Maybe start him off here, get him acquainted with his identity? If nothing else, hopefully it’ll keep him occupied for a while and give you a break,” she jokes. “Depending on how he likes it — and if you like him enough to get him another book — you could come back and I could give you some more refined suggestions.”
The woman accepts the book with a grateful nod, flipping idly through the pages.
“Oh, god, no, I’m already spending more money on him right now than I’d like to spend in a year,” she says, wrinkling her nose at the thought, and Trinity’s heart sinks. So much for seeing her again. Maybe she should just die instead. “But maybe I’ll come back sometime for myself. Pick up a few of those Trinity-approved queer classics I’ve heard so much about.” She smiles to punctuate the statement, slow and devastating, and Trinity feels it all the way down to her toes. She’s so fucking back.
“I’m holding you to that,” she says, and if it sounds flirtatious, so be it.
“I’d expect nothing less.”
She sends the woman off with an extra Shop Around the Corner bookmark in hopes that it’ll remind her to visit the store again. If you want to get railed by a beautiful stranger, set her free, or however the saying goes.
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patron saint of well-read lesbians — do you ever have days where you feel incredibly Lesbian? like, you’re just minding your business and all of a sudden you look up at the most beautiful woman that you’ve ever seen in your entire fucking life and you’re like, holy shit, i was put on this earth to admire beautiful women in their natural habitat?
park ranger — i had that feeling earlier today, actually
patron saint of well-read lesbians — are you kicking yourself like i am for not getting her number?
park ranger — like you wouldn’t believe.
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Unfortunately, multiple Tuesdays come and go, and her beautiful stranger has yet to return to the store.
Trinity spends her time brainstorming ways to combat the impending arrival of Book Heaven, an eclectic range of ideas that span from paying an Etsy witch to curse the new storefront to, as Whitaker puts it, putting on the best damn show this town’s ever seen. Trinity reminds him that they live in the real world, not a Disney Channel original movie, but he adds it to the board in her office anyway.
On the bright side, her beautiful stranger just walked into the lesbian bar she’s currently in, so maybe things are looking up after all.
“—and so I said to her, I think this book really suits you. I was showing her Natural Beauty, obviously—”
“Do you see that woman? Over there?” Trinity interrupts, gesturing in what she hopes is a subtle fashion across the bar. She’ll start being more interested in Victoria’s bookstore flirting escapades when she actually figures out how to escalate things beyond shyly alluding to her feelings through book titles. Six months of the same tactic dulls its conversational appeal. “Tall, Black, has locs, gorgeous, looks like she’s probably about to scold you for something?”
Victoria cranes her neck, unsubtle as ever, then pauses to blink her big doe eyes a few times as she processes that. “You want somebody who looks like they’d be mean to you?” Trinity fixes her with a look.
“You and I process our mommy issues in very different ways. We’ve been over this.”
“I don’t have mommy issues,” Victoria mutters under her breath, taking a sip of her drink. “Whatever. Why am I looking at her?”
“She came into the store the other day looking for a recommendation. I think she was flirting with me.”
“This is sounding a lot like the exact thing you’re always teasing me about.”
“It’s completely different,” Trinity lies. “For one thing, I actually have a chance with her.”
“She could be into younger women!” Victoria protests. “You just don’t get it! She knows my name. She says thank you, Victoria every time I ring her up.”
Trinity puts a hand on her shoulder and squeezes sympathetically. “Whatever you say, kiddo.”
“Oh, fuck off.”
“Anyway.” Trinity tilts her head to keep the beautiful stranger in view, admiring her shamelessly. “I’m gonna go talk to her.”
“Good luck with that.”
Before she can lose her nerve, Trinity pushes off from where she’s been leaning against the bar, taking a bracing gulp of her drink to quell her nerves. She doesn’t get very far before she’s stopped — this time by Samira, on her way over to join them.
“On the prowl?”
“Trying to be,” Trinity replies, straining her neck to catch a glimpse around Samira’s glorious array of curls, let down in a rare moment of abandon. “If you don’t mind.” Samira, not one to play coy, cranes her own neck in the direction Trinity’s looking.
“Point her out to me.”
Trinity sighs and relents, gesturing in her direction with her drink. “By the bar, dark tank top, stupidly hot, locs?” After a heart-pounding moment of hoping that neither woman turns and catches the two of them staring, Samira turns back to her with an eyebrow raised.
“Are you feeling okay?” Samira looks at her over the rim of her glass, her expression a picture of innocence as she takes a sip of her drink. Trinity frowns, confused, and raises an eyebrow of her own in question.
“I’m… fine?”
“I was just wondering what would compel you to speak to Parker Ellis, of all people.”
Trinity steals a traitorous glance across the bar, catching another glimpse of Parker’s back through the throng of people. It’s all she can do to suppress the dreamy little sigh that threatens to escape her mouth — the last thing she needs right now is to give any of her friends ammunition. But when she meets Samira’s eyes again, she knows she’s been caught, and her cheeks warm.
“Oh, you know her?” she asks lightly, trying to play it off.
“I’m surprised you don’t, considering the fact that she’s your mother’s right-hand woman.”
Trinity’s head snaps over so fast that she feels — and hears — her neck crack. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“That woman,” Samira gestures across the room with her glass, where Trinity can see Parker tipping her head back into a laugh, “works for Book Heaven. She’s quite high up, from what I understand. She’s personally overseeing the opening of that new location in your neighborhood.”
There’s a roar in her ears as loud as the ocean. This can’t be happening. Trinity feels like all her blood is draining from her face, or maybe her brain is melting out through her ears; she’s distraught, and her body doesn’t feel right anymore.
“How did you find that out?” she asks, her own voice sounding like it’s coming from another person’s body.
Samira gives her a pitying look. “It wouldn’t kill you to read up on industry news sometimes. In fact, it would probably be good for you.”
Trinity scoffs. She tries to be a cool, level-headed adult about this for all of thirty seconds, taking a gulp of her drink like that’ll douse the rising heat of her temper. But then again—
She’s not eighteen anymore, stifled and suffocating under her mother’s thumb, unable to raise her voice or question the things that push against her boundaries. She’s twenty-nine. She has a one-bedroom apartment all to herself, bills that she pays all on her own, and a flourishing social life (if you squint, and also if you count Whitaker and Victoria as friends instead of employees). She’s an adult, and a business owner, and maybe her health insurance isn’t the best but she has it, which is a mark of real success in her book.
Trinity Santos has built a life entirely apart from her former self, and she won’t have Parker Ellis coming in and fucking everything up.
Fueled by blind rage and one too many gulps of her whiskey sour, Trinity finds herself marching up to Parker before she can think twice. It’s generous to say that she had a plan before beyond be gay in public, but that level of preparation certainly outstripped the pure instinctual fury that she’s operating under now.
When she approaches, Parker is talking to a pale, dark-haired woman seated at the bar, but Trinity shamelessly inserts herself in the middle of their conversation.
“Do you think it’s funny to harass local business owners?” she demands, and receives a blink in return.
“Harass?” Parker replies slowly. “Is that a new term for having a pleasant conversation with someone who purchased a book from your store?”
“Don’t act like it was all so innocent. You had ulterior motives. I bet your sad bisexual friend is completely made up.”
“Believe me, I wish John was made up. It’d make my life a whole lot easier.” She smiles wryly, as if they’re both in on this joke, and all Trinity can do is stare at her in disbelief. “Okay, look. You move, what, a few hundred thousand dollars of stock every year—”
“How do you know that?”
Parker levels her with a look. “I’m in the book business.”
“I’m in the book business!” she protests. “You’re in the—the theft business!” The look gets worse. Trinity feels herself starting to turn red, though she’s not sure whether it’s in embarrassment or anger. Perhaps a bit of both.
“Theft business?” Parker echoes gingerly, like she thinks Trinity is this close to a meltdown. Maybe she is. Or maybe she’s just passionate about her livelihood, goddamn it.
“Okay, fine, you’re a fucking spy! I’m a bookstore owner, not an author! Jesus!”
“A spy?” Parker laughs, the sound loud and harsh even amidst the cacophony of the bar. “Oh, yes, of course. I noticed a tiny indie bookstore in the neighborhood, got your sales figures fresh off the presses, and rushed right over to wring my hands about whether you’d put me out of business. A spy.” She laughs again, shaking her head before taking a sip of her drink, clearly unaffected.
“Don’t pretend you had no idea we were there before moving in. Your ad says ‘just around the corner’! My store is literally called The Shop Around the Corner! I’m not an idiot, I know that was targeted. I can see the poster from inside my store, for fuck’s sake.”
“There must be a misunderstanding here. If you think your store has any impact on our business, you’re sorely mistaken. I’m sure Book Heaven can make a very generous offer to buy your stock when you go out of business, though, so my advice would be to consider the resale value next time you place an order.”
Trinity’s hand tightens around her glass, her jaw clenched nearly as hard. This woman came into her store, knowing full well that her own employer will spend the last quarter of the year doing everything possible to demolish Trinity’s business. She came in with a smile on her face and hatred in her heart. It’s sneaky and underhanded, not to mention just plain disrespectful. Trinity expects nothing less from her mother, and it seems her right-hand woman has adapted the Claudia Santos handbook play by fucking play.
A misunderstanding.
Her mother loves the word misunderstanding. Trinity can hear it in her syrupy, fake voice like she’s in the bar with them, can picture Claudia’s expression full of feigned concern like she’s in an HR meeting instead of having a conversation with her daughter. She always raised her eyebrows just so, a pitying look in her eyes, as if to say how silly of you to think that way. Trinity feels like she’s watching in slow motion as Parker’s eyebrows lift, a perfect imitation of Claudia Santos, as if she’s studied the look beat for beat. She probably has.
Before she realizes what she’s doing, Trinity’s arm moves of its own free will. The drink in her hand splashes all over Parker’s stupidly gorgeous face, dripping down her neck, and a rush of adrenaline surges through her once her brain catches up to what she’s done. For a wonderful, fleeting moment, it feels incredible; the world is muted, her problems are small and inconsequential, and she relishes the satisfaction that comes with doing something she probably shouldn’t have. But the outside world never stays away long, and it always feels heavier when it returns.
Trinity is tired of carrying this weight. She’s tired of people adding to it.
“Go fuck yourself,” she says, and tries not to think about the fact that her throat is tightening with the threat of impending tears. She will not cry in front of Parker Ellis.
So she does the only thing she can: she sets her empty glass down on the bar, keeps her head held high, and gets the hell out of dodge.
✧✧✧
park ranger — i just let my temper get the better of me and i feel like shit. hope your night is going better than mine
patron saint of well-read lesbians — i got my ass handed to me by a mega hottie, which was extremely embarrassing. wish i had the ability to pull out something really devastating when it counts, but i just freeze up
patron saint of well-read lesbians — so unless you count tipsily crying and eating pizza in front of your 21 year old employee to be a good night… unfortunately notpark ranger — that’s dark.
✧✧✧
It’s Tuesday again, and for once, Trinity Santos wishes she could be anywhere but here.
She unlocks the door of The Shop Around the Corner at 10:17, much to the chagrin of Myrna, an older lesbian of indeterminate age who seemingly has nothing better to do than bitch at her.
“You’re lucky I’m here at all,” she mutters under her breath as she lets both of them inside, watching as Myrna makes a beeline toward her favorite section — erotica, naturally. “You’ll like the one with the green cover, second shelf from the bottom!” she calls after her, unable to help herself. “Just got it in over the weekend!”
Myrna lifts a hand in thanks, disappearing from view as she turns the corner. Trinity lets out a long breath, bracing herself against the counter for a minute as she collects herself. Despite a bout of self-care yesterday (consisting mainly of a bath with a bruise-purple tinge to the water — courtesy of a battered-looking bath bomb she’d dug out of the back of a cabinet — and DoorDashed Taco Bell eaten in said bath, which was not her finest moment), she still feels the fate of her store hanging like a Damoclean sword over her head.
So, like anyone else her age, when she doesn’t know what to do, she turns to the internet. Or, rather, her internet friend.
The sight of a little green dot next to the name park ranger brings her an instant shot of relief, and Trinity tries not to think too hard about how much she’s come to rely on someone whose name, if she’s gauging by the display name, is probably Yosemite or Yellowstone. paging my armchair therapist, one two three, she sends, and sets her phone down on the counter to wait.
A notification comes through almost immediately. Trinity smiles.
reporting for duty, the message reads. A follow-up comes a moment later, a single emoji: the nerd, glasses and buck teeth smiling up at her from her phone screen. Trinity’s smile widens.
patron saint of well-read lesbians — is that supposed to be you?
park ranger — stolen valor. i have perfect vision and never needed braces as a kid.
patron saint of well-read lesbians — you’re kind of a terrible therapist, you know that? i come to you in distress and all you do is tell me how naturally perfect and gorgeous you are. i get it! you’re god’s favorite! no need to rub it in
park ranger — i never said i was gorgeous. just that i have straight teeth
patron saint of well-read lesbians — i know in my beautiful lesbian heart that you’re a solid 10. it radiates off of you. it’s actually extremely distressing at times to know that any hot lesbian i pass on the street could be you. i have to carry that knowledge every day
park ranger — and who says i’m not carrying the same burden?
Trinity’s heart stops. This has been happening more and more lately — Trinity’s always been quick to flirt, but recently, the energy’s changed. It’s charged. Just when she starts to get comfortable, she’ll get a message like this that completely throws her off her game. Lifting her head briefly to make sure Myrna is still occupied in the erotica section, Trinity finds only a quiet store in front of her. An impeccable one, at that, left neat as a pin from Victoria’s usual closing shift on Sunday night. She has, quite literally, nothing to do but respond.
patron saint of well-read lesbians — and who says you could handle me?
park ranger — i could handle you.
patron saint of well-read lesbians — do you always go above and beyond like this for your clients?
park ranger — i guess you’ll have to stick around to find out
The sound of the bell on top of the door interrupts her mid-reply, and Trinity reluctantly sets her phone down as a delivery person walks in with a package. By the time she signs for it and rings Myrna up for the book she recommended (amongst a few others), she has another notification waiting for her.
park ranger — i didn’t mean to distract from your therapy session
park ranger — do you still want to talk about it?patron saint of well-read lesbians — it’s probably stupid. do you remember when i said i was crying in front of a 21 year old?
park ranger — do i need to put a hit out? i will
patron saint of well-read lesbians — omg no. she is INNOCENT
patron saint of well-read lesbians — i think my business is in trouble. not yet, but like. imminentlypark ranger — new offer: do you want me to put a hit out, commiserate with you, or give you advice? this is your therapy session, you make the choice
patron saint of well-read lesbians — is a winning lottery ticket an option :(
park ranger — might take me a while but i’ll work on it. in the meantime… ?
patron saint of well-read lesbians — in the meantime i would actually genuinely love some advice on how to make my business not fold under the pressure of the corporate overlords
park ranger — you need to remember it’s not personal, it’s business. if you make it personal, you as an individual won’t be able to focus on the business if this other company is way bigger than you are or has more people. take it up to their level and keep it there
patron saint of well-read lesbians — it sounds like you’re telling me to go big or go home
park ranger — in a way, yeah
The advice is on her mind for the rest of the day, even when things start to pick up around lunchtime. She knows that her emotional overinvestment is part of her problem when it comes to this whole affair — for her, it’s impossible for Book Heaven’s intrusion not to feel personal. How can she maintain a neutral attitude about her mother once again invading something that’s become a safe place for her? Why should she be expected to approach the issue with a degree of objectivity that she knows, intrinsically, she could never actually commit to?
That’s part of the store’s magic. Things are personal, because that’s the nature of cultivating a community, especially one as vulnerable as the queer community. Trinity can’t make herself see them as numbers, because they aren’t — they’re people. Her people. Even Myrna, for all her bitching and moaning, is a vital part of what makes The Shop Around the Corner more than just a bookstore. It’s a haven for everyone — from struggling college students who are too broke to fund their reading habits to elder lesbians with too much free time and a penchant for monsterfucker smut. Trinity found her place here just like Myrna did, and they’re far from the only ones.
She can’t lose that. But maybe she can call on the people who feel the same way she does. What else is a community for?
✧✧✧
“Emery Walsh is a lot nicer than I thought she’d be.” Samira’s voice has that dreamy quality it usually only gets when she talks about New York Magazine columns. Or antique typewriters.
“Who?” Trinity asks, and she receives a glare in return.
“Remember when I told you it wouldn’t kill you to keep up with industry news? She’s a big editor at the Times. Hugely respected in the field.” Trinity maintains the same blank expression. Samira name-dropping an incredibly specific person and expecting her to be familiar with their life’s work is something that happens on a near-daily basis. Yesterday, she’d almost had an aneurysm when Trinity admitted that she was unfamiliar with the work of Nellie Bly. Claiming ignorance two days in a row certainly isn’t going to do her any favors, judging by the look on Samira’s face. “I’m going to start assigning you reading,” she says, a displeased twist to her mouth, and Trinity laughs.
“You were saying?” she prompts, and that brings Samira’s smile right back.
“The other night at the bar, when you were… having difficulties…” Samira’s tone is diplomatic, enough so that Trinity knows that this isn’t the time. She mentally slams the door on the memory of Parker’s mouth forming the word misunderstanding. “She was there, with… she was there. Doesn’t matter who she came with.” Trinity sighs. So much for avoiding the Parker in the room.
“You can say her name.” Samira makes a face at her. “Parker. See? I said it first. I give you permission.”
“Fine. She was there with Parker. While the two of you were having your spat, Emery and I got to talking, and she said she read my article that came out last month — the one about the book written from the point of view of a hummingbird mid-migration?” Samira makes an uncharacteristically exuberant noise, a high-pitched little ah that squeaks out of her mouth. It makes Trinity feel like she’s back in middle school again, watching her friend treat a Seventeen quiz like it’s an oracle of Delphi. That sound is the exact one they’d make when it turned out their crush was, indeed, their soulmate — if you believed that prophets spoke through neon bubble letters on page 43. “Can you believe that? My writing, perceived by the likes of Emery Walsh?”
“Again, not familiar with her work, but I’ll take your word for it.”
“She wants me to pitch my next article to her. She gave me her card.” It seems that a business card is the modern-day version of a marriage proposal, judging by Samira’s gushing.
“Can you write an exposé on Book Heaven or something?” Trinity jokes, but the moment the words sink in, both of them freeze, eyes locked. “Wait. Can you?” Samira’s gaze starts to get a little unfocused, slowly starting to mouth something under her breath, and that’s when she knows she’s got her.
“Local focus. The importance of community. An attack on our marginalized neighbors is an attack on all of us.” Samira’s fingers start twitching, like she’s searching for a pen. “Historical significance — your store first opened during the AIDS crisis, right?” Trinity nods, not daring to speak, to interrupt her process. “I have to go. I need to write. Keep your phone on, okay? I’ll text with questions, we’ll have a proper sit-down interview later.”
Hook, line, and sinker.
✧✧✧
patron saint of well-read lesbians — i took your advice
park ranger — you’ll have to be more specific. i give great advice freely and often
patron saint of well-read lesbians — i’m making shit personal
park ranger — ?
park ranger — i definitely said to do the exact opposite of thatpatron saint of well-read lesbians — okay, so maybe when i said “i took your advice”, i meant that i took it, twisted it to suit my own agenda, and applied it liberally
park ranger — well, i’m still rooting for you.
✧✧✧
The article is beautiful.
Trinity’s first thought, when she reads it, is I want to frame this. It’s a love letter to the store in slightly-smeared newspaper ink, a beautiful ode to the place that’s become her home over the past decade. Her second thought is wait, isn’t there that little picture framer’s shop down the street, and before she knows it, she’s halfway down the block with one of her ten physical copies clutched in her hand.
An hour later, she’s fifty bucks poorer and one picture frame richer. She props the framed article in a place of honor behind the registers when she pops back into the store, jumping into the fray of a Sunday afternoon rush with an unflappable grin on her face. She spends the rest of the day making conversation about the piece with customer after customer, her hope for the future buoyed by their smiles and well-wishes.
“Is it just me, or has today been way crazier than usual?” Victoria says, and Trinity knows there must be something magical about today if she’s smiling like that. Usually, she only gets that look on her face when the MILF down the street comes in and pulls her aside for a round of curated recommendations (it is unbelievably typical of Victoria to fumble at flirtation through book titles alone, but that’s neither here nor there).
“Definitely crazier,” Whitaker chimes in, setting another stack of new stock on a cart with a grunt. “I’ve had to restock titles on the new releases shelf multiple times today. Usually Sundays get quieter as the day goes on, not busier.”
“It’s the article,” Trinity says, turning back toward the frame behind the register with a smile. She drifts toward it, running a fingertip gently down the wood as the words catch her eye yet again.
The Shop Around the Corner, a local bookstore with a specialization in queer titles, is coming up on its 40th anniversary later this year. This local gem opened its doors in 1985, in the midst of the AIDS crisis — it was founded by Ronnie Gardner, a born and raised Pittsburgh native, as a space for fellow LGBTQ+ folks to find their community. The name is purposefully ambiguous; a shop featuring queer texts wasn’t always viewed with the friendliest of lenses.
She skims down the words she must’ve read fifty times by now, marveling at how perfectly Samira captured the spirit of the shop in her writing. This is exactly what they need: a call to their community, a reminder of what they’ve done for so many years, and what they hope to continue to do for many years more.
The Shop Around the Corner is so much more than just that: it’s more than a store, more than just a building down the block. They’re our neighbors. They celebrate birthdays and anniversaries, open their doors to the downtrodden, and provide both joyful queer escapism as well as important remembrances of how far we as a community have come.
While the widespread pursuit of reading is always welcome, we can’t forget what’s important: supporting our local businesses, particularly those owned by marginalized members of our own neighborhood. Visit your local grocer, your local café, and in particular, your local bookseller. When you go to The Shop Around the Corner, ask for Trinity. Tell her Samira sent you.
✧✧✧
Riding on the high of two weeks’ worth of boosted sales, Trinity impulsively sends a message before she can think better of it: we should meet up. She stares at her phone for the longest thirty seconds of her life, willing a park ranger is typing… box to pop up on her screen. When that, impossibly, still hasn’t happened by the minute mark, she forces herself to put her phone down, screen facedown on the counter.
It isn’t until almost a half hour later that she finally gets a reply, her heart leaping as she reads the single word: when?
✧✧✧
Parker Ellis is nervous.
This is not a typical experience for her, but then again, neither is meeting a complete stranger from the internet. Well — not a stranger, exactly. She actually knows this person far better than everyone she’s ever met off of a dating app, but somehow it feels different.
When she meets those people, she has access to certain qualities about them: their name, age, a range of two to six photos of them (of varying quality), and either their “biography” (usually an overused quote, a group of emojis, or a thinly-veiled offer for sex) or their responses to whatever hellish prompts the app spits out as conversation starters.
She doesn’t have any of these things now. She doesn’t know this person’s name or age, has never seen a photo of her, and certainly has no idea what her “biography” would be — or if she even uses dating apps. And yet she feels like she knows her. It’s been so easy to fall into conversation with her, even with keeping details of their daily lives vague. That part had been her suggestion, not Parker’s — one that she’d found odd at first, but has come to enjoy. It’s been frustrating and utterly refreshing in equal measure. And after months on end of near-daily conversation, she’ll finally get the last missing pieces. At this point, all she can do is hope for the best.
“Are you sure you don’t want to share your location with me? What if this person’s a murderer?”
John Shen is the general manager of the newest Book Heaven location, a pain in her ass, and, unfortunately, her friend. The last one is mostly against her will, but she’s had worse company. Still, there’s lines even she won’t cross.
“I’d rather get killed by a lesbian than allow you to track me.”
He scoffs, then stops in his tracks. “Wait. Are you serious?”
Parker keeps walking, knowing he’ll move eventually if he doesn’t want to be left behind. Predictably, she hears shoes hitting the pavement after a few seconds, a light jog that has him catching up to her soon enough. “As a heart attack,” she says. “I’m not interested in even imagining what you’d do with access to my whereabouts at any given time. Pass.”
“You’re no fun,” he mutters. She doesn’t dignify that with a response.
After another few blocks, Parker finally sees it: the cocktail lounge they’d agreed upon for their first meeting, some place selling eighteen dollar confections in coupe glasses. She hardly cares about the location — it’s far more important to her that it’s happening at all.
“I can’t look,” she says without thinking, only realizing after the words are out of her mouth that Shen is now the one who’s a few steps ahead. He tilts his head, questioning. “I just need a minute. Can you see through those windows? See if there’s anyone in there that looks like a huge dyke.” This time, Shen’s eyebrows communicate his query, edging toward his hairline. “Her words, not mine. She’s supposed to have a book with a blue cover, if that helps narrow it down.”
He nods, moving toward the entrance to the cocktail lounge, and Parker finds herself grateful for his easy acceptance. She closes her eyes and indulges in a single deep breath in a last-ditch effort to settle her nerves.
“Oh, no way.”
Parker’s eyes fly open. “What? What is it?”
Shen starts laughing, clutching his chest as he backs away from the windows. “You’re gonna want to see this one for yourself.”
“Tell me.”
“Well, you’re very familiar with their family,” he says, his tone overly indulgent, like he’s speaking to a child. Bad sign: he’s enjoying this too much. “You tell me if you think that looks like Trinity Santos or not.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.” Parker moves into the space Shen’s recently vacated, peering carefully through the window until she catches sight of a dark-haired, gorgeous, blue-covered-book-holding huge dyke. She is so fucked. “I am so fucked,” she groans, rubbing a hand over her face. Shen, of course, is still laughing.
“Good luck with that!” he singsongs, backing away from Parker and her rapidly-expanding list of problems. “Can’t wait to hear all about it!”
“I hate you!” she calls back, staring at the door like it’ll lead her to her death. Maybe she should’ve shared her location with Shen after all.
For a fleeting moment, when Trinity lifts her gaze to see who’s coming through the door, Parker entertains the notion that this might not go as horribly as she expects. Her eyes are bright, in contrast to the dark lashes surrounding them; her shirt matches the color of her irises in a soft, fetching green. Her expression is open. Eager. Hopeful.
It only takes a single syllable to shatter that thought.
“No,” Trinity says instinctively, both a plea and a rebuke. Parker is undeterred, continuing to approach her table with an expectant look on her face. “Can you not? I’m waiting for someone.” Despite the fact that she hasn’t been invited to — and, in fact, is actively being discouraged from doing so — Parker pulls out the chair across from her and sits down. At this point, the only way out is through. She doesn’t really expect to salvage the situation, but this is a person she’s spent so much time with – she knows it’s possible for them to get along. She knows exactly how much they have in common. Maybe, just maybe, there could be something here — if she can get Trinity to give her a chance.
“I’ll get up when they arrive, then,” she replies easily, plucking a cocktail menu from where it’s tucked between a decorative vase and the wall. “You don’t mind if I order first, do you?”
“I do, actually,” Trinity protests, watching in dismay as Parker flags down the waitress anyway. “Seriously, she’ll be here any minute. I need you to get lost.”
“She?” Parker asks with interest, one eyebrow raised as she glances back at her. “Are you waiting for a date? Maybe I can help you make her jealous.”
“The only thing that will help me is your lack of presence.”
Parker tuts softly, shaking her head. “Don’t discount my ideas so quickly. If you’d just give me a chance, I bet I could really help you.”
“Fuck off.” The vehemence in Trinity’s voice briefly startles her into silence. She stares at the menu for another moment to collect herself, hoping it comes off like she’s just really pondering the selection.
“Look, I—”
“No. I don’t want to hear anything you have to say. Quite frankly, anyone who works for my mother is starting off as total piece of shit in my mind, and has to prove their way out from there. I don’t really have any interest in being the fodder for your redemption arc, so please, please, just leave me the fuck alone. Please.”
There isn’t much else she can do with that. Especially not when she hears the ever-so-slight wobble in Trinity’s voice on the last syllable, like she’s only just managed to hold back her real emotions. So she gets up, puts her jacket back on, and walks away without another word.
✧✧✧
park ranger — i’m so sorry i couldn’t make it tonight.
✧✧✧
Parker Ellis, contrary to what some people might believe, is not a monster.
This distinction isn’t usually something that bothers her — she doesn’t make a habit of giving a shit about what other people think — but the look on Trinity Santos’s face just before she’d thrown her drink all over her has played in her head over the past few weeks more times than she’d care to admit. The look on her face just before she’d left the cocktail lounge tonight was even worse.
When she’d first visited the store, Parker genuinely hadn’t realized who she was – she’d started working at Book Heaven a few years ago, but that had been well after the Santos heir had fucked right off to god-knows-where.
Well, she does know, now. She’d fucked right off to The Shop Around the Corner, apparently.
Claudia never talks about her, though. It’s as if Trinity doesn’t exist anymore, like she’s been wiped off the face of the planet — there’s no hint of a daughter amidst the sparse, carefully curated picture frames hanging around her office, and her phone background is a bland iPhone preset. She mentions her husband in the same tone one would use to refer to a barely tolerated scamp of a puppy, and speaks of her actual dog like he’s a messy toddler to be handed off to the nanny. They both seem more like accessories than family members, and Parker can only imagine how quickly Claudia could have cleared out any reminder of Trinity after she left.
It was probably easy for her. Like sweeping leftovers into the trash. Parker feels a rush of sympathy for Trinity and quickly tamps it down.
She’s not in this job for the morality of it, or even because she particularly likes it. It’s a decent position, but she works to live, not the other way around. The paycheck is hefty, and she’s good at what she does. For fuck’s sake, she works for a national bookstore chain. It’s no Northrop Grumman. She’s far from a Sackler.
And yet.
Parker is uncomfortably aware of mom-and-pop bookstores in a way she’s never been before. She’s been scrolling the indie bestseller lists with a near-unhealthy obsession for the past few weeks, imagining Trinity in her office, submitting numbers alongside a thousand other booksellers just like her. She thinks of all of them, ones with families to support and lights to keep on, just as much as the ones who are keeping this dream alive for themselves alone. People like Trinity Santos.
The point is: she hadn’t known.
When she’d gone to the store, she’d flirted generously and genuinely, and paid sorely for it later at the bar. The ice-cold shock of bottom-shelf whiskey and sour mix hitting her face has nothing on the way she feels now. She can feel it seeping down all the way to her toes, every step leaden as she trudges her way back to her apartment.
It isn’t until later that night, when she’s lying awake in bed after tossing and turning for hours, that she realizes what the feeling is: regret.
✧✧✧
It’s Saturday. Trinity Santos is hungover.
After finally taking the leap to meet up in person, her park ranger never showed up. All she’s gotten for her trouble is a single, lackluster line of an apology — no explanation, no offer to reschedule. Trinity hasn’t bothered to reply yet, for fear that she’ll say something she regrets. She’s all too familiar with her own propensity for lashing out while she’s upset, and even though it would certainly be justified in this case, she doesn’t want to fuck this up. She still has the tender, naive hope that something can come of this.
She needs something to hope for, these days.
She’d spent most of last night trying to drown her thoughts in beautiful, overpriced cocktails, with little success. Instead of curing herself of the desire to message back, all she’s done is give herself a splitting headache and a sick, unsettled feeling in her stomach. Trinity isn’t sure if that one’s due to the hangover or the overthinking. She’s in such a beastly mood that she nearly scares Whitaker off for good in a record-breaking six minutes, guilt seeping in when he gives her a wounded look after she snaps at him for something inconsequential.
“I’m sorry,” she mutters, rubbing her temples. “It’s not you; I had a rough night last night.”
Whitaker softens, sympathy in his watery blue eyes, and she only feels worse. “Is there anything I can do? Make you a coffee, or something?”
“Do you mind starting off on cash this morning? I don’t think I’m fit for customers just yet. One too many requests for Fourth Wing might push me into doing something that’ll get me on the news.”
He laughs, and the sound unknots a tiny piece of the dark, tangled feelings swirling in her chest. Trinity doesn’t like to think too hard about how grateful she is that he isn’t as easily deterred as he seems. “You got it, boss.”
She lets her head fall to the desk as soon as the door to her office closes behind him, a soft thump that she regrets the second it reverberates through her skull. Once it’s ebbed to a dull throb instead of a sharp pain, she tentatively lifts the edge of her phone, one eye peeking out to catch whatever notifications she can see from this angle. Trinity refuses to admit to herself that the sinking feeling in her chest is from the complete lack of new messages. She refuses further to admit that she’s looking for something from one person in particular.
Setting her phone back down with a groan, Trinity lifts her head from her desk, reluctantly signing into her computer to submit their files for the indie bestsellers list.
She doesn’t know what she expects. It isn’t like she’d replied last night — between the humiliation of being stood up, and Parker Ellis of all people witnessing her humiliation, she hardly wanted to invite more suffering into her night. It’d been easier to drown her sorrows in brightly-colored, floral-garnished liquor.
There aren’t elaborate cocktails to occupy her now, though, and something about being raised Catholic has made her a little bit masochistic. She wants to trick herself into thinking there’s something to atone for; she wants to be absolved of this hideous feeling with a set of Hail Marys. She spent so much of her youth reaching into the void to search for a reason she’s always felt wrong, or different — so the practice is almost a comfort, these days. It’s like pulling an old, forgotten sweatshirt out from the chest at the foot of her bed. Maybe it’s a little stale, a little small — but it’s familiar, and it’s easier to sink into the small comforts it brings instead of venturing out into the world for something new.
why didn’t you show? she types, hitting send before she can fully process the action. If she thinks about it for too long, she won’t do it.
i’m sorry, is the immediate response, popping up so quickly she’s convinced it must’ve already been typed out on the other end. Trinity lets out a puff of air, frustrated already. It’s too late to put her phone down — she’s in this, now, and there’s a pinched feeling in her chest that needs to be soothed by an explanation.
patron saint of well-read lesbians — yes. you said that.
park ranger — just wanted to say it again. i really am sorry.
patron saint of well-read lesbians — if you’re so sorry, why weren’t you there?
park ranger — something came up and i wasn’t able to make it last night. i should’ve messaged you earlier, and believe me when i say if i’d been able to, i would have
park ranger — is it presumptuous of me to ask you to trust me when i say i’ll explain someday?patron saint of well-read lesbians — i do trust you.
Trinity feels like a fool sending it, but it’s true. She doesn’t even know her name, but she trusts her. That’s why it hurt so much last night. Why it hurts right now, not knowing.
park ranger — i’ll even let you stand me up next time, just to make us even.
park ranger — then we can meet for real. third time’s the charm.patron saint of well-read lesbians — fine. i’ll let it slide this time.
park ranger — you really are a saint.
And damn if she doesn’t catch herself smiling at her stupid fucking phone. Idiot.
Spirits buoyed, Trinity brews herself a bracing cup of coffee, breathing in the steam over the ancient Keurig in her office. After a few gulps that are just this side of too hot, she ventures out into the store. She still feels like death warmed over, but now that same old hope is creeping in again, springing eternal.
✧✧✧
It’s Sunday. Her “opening up” playlist is on. The sun is shining through the front window displays. Just when Trinity thinks her mood can’t get better, Samira walks in. She makes an aborted move to walk around the counter and greet her, only to stop when she realizes Samira is already mid-sentence — and speaking to Emery Walsh, of all people.
Parker Ellis walks in after them. Her mood instantly deflates.
It isn’t as if she can avoid them, considering the fact that this is her store — and before she can even think of escaping to the back office, Parker’s head turns toward her, as if seeking her out. The idea feels absurd, but Trinity can’t think of any other explanation for it.
“Hey, Mira. I didn’t realize you were coming by today,” she greets, pointedly singling her out, widening her eyes for the briefest of moments to convey what the fuck as subtly as she can. Samira does not rise to the bait.
“Emery wanted to see the subject of my article! We’ve been meaning to come ever since it got published, but I’ve been so busy, what with all the media inquiries.” She lays a hand on Emery’s arm, and Trinity’s eyes what the fuck widen all over again, against her will this time. “Parker stopped by just before we left, so she decided to join.”
Parker, infuriatingly, smiles at her. It’s just as gorgeous as she remembers, which only makes it worse. Trinity forces a smile of her own in return, the expression dropping from her face after the millisecond required to maintain a flimsy facade of politeness in her place of business.
“I’m just going to show Emery around — you opened by yourself today, right?” Samira asks, and it’s all she can do to nod, silently projecting don’t leave me here alone with her. Unfortunately, Trinity is 0 for 3. Samira ignores her unspoken plea, slipping her arm fully through Emery’s and leading her away through the stacks. To her dismay, Parker does not follow them. To her further dismay, she attempts to strike up a conversation.
“My friend’s liking your book so far. No word yet on whether it’ll make him less annoying, but it does make him shut up for stretches of at least ten minutes at a time, so it’s made a profound impact on my mental wellbeing, if not his.”
Trinity gives her a flat look. No more performing for Samira, no fake smile this time. “Having a personalized recommendation from a local lesbian bookseller will do that for you.” Parker’s expression falters, and for a second, guilt softens her heart. She physically turns herself away, taking her sweet time to straighten out a stack of stickers on the counter in an effort to distance herself from the feeling. Parker has no business being here, and Trinity has even less of a reason to have sympathy for the person trying to steal her livelihood out from under her nose.
“I’m a lesbian,” Parker says gently, which makes it so much worse.
“Sure,” Trinity agrees gamely, feeling the last remains of her good mood disappear. “But you’re not local. And I don’t get the impression that you’re a bookseller. You sell books, but you’re not a bookseller. You’re just a suit, like my mother. Instead of a brain, a cash register; instead of a heart, a bottom line. I wouldn’t trust you if you said the sky was blue, much less whatever you’d recommend for me to read.” Parker stares at her, stunned speechless. Trinity’s guilt, never quite dormant, flares hot once again. She opens her mouth to say something, to — she doesn’t know what — not apologize, but soften it, maybe – but Parker holds up a hand before she can eke out a single syllable.
“I understand where I’m not wanted,” she says, voice low. Trinity feels every word tumble down her spine. “I’ll see myself out.”
She looks down at the stickers still in her hands in favor of watching Parker leave. A sick feeling simmers low in her stomach, despite the way she feels about everything associated with her mother’s company. This is why she can’t be part of a company like that, why she can’t take advice to keep things strictly business: it’s always personal. She doesn’t know how to not make it personal. Trinity has succumbed to the affliction of caring too much over and over again, but she has yet to learn her lesson.
The thing is: she knows what it’s like, not to be wanted.
Trinity doesn’t even like her mother. She’s the one who chose to leave, to reject her inheritance and strike out on her own. Her place in her mother’s life had always been conditional, anyway — if she’d stayed, it would’ve been with an unspoken agreement to keep her true self under wraps. She wouldn’t have been allowed the freedom that she has now, and even if she’d been permitted to disclose her sexuality, she’s all too aware that it only would’ve happened after the idea had been put through multiple rounds of focus groups, marketing strategies, and countless PR meetings. Her queerness would’ve been packaged as something sterile and palatable for the masses. Her thoughts and feelings would’ve been branded, scripted, and aligned with Book Heaven messaging.
But on her bad days, she still feels the sting of Claudia’s rejection keenly. She hasn’t received a single birthday card, phone call, or text in years, and it gets to her, sometimes.
Trinity is only human, and it distresses her to be reminded that Parker is, too.
✧✧✧
patron saint of well-read lesbians — do you remember when i said i always freeze up when it counts?
park ranger — i do
patron saint of well-read lesbians — i get what you said now. i finally said exactly what i wanted to, at the exact moment i wanted to. a fucking perfect zinger. it was beautiful.
patron saint of well-read lesbians — but i just feel awful now.park ranger — for what it’s worth, whoever it was probably deserved it.
✧✧✧
It’s Monday — in particular, it’s one of those Mondays where Trinity finds herself instinctively walking up to the store at 10 AM, a creature of habit despite the fact that it’s her day off.
What she doesn’t expect is the sight of Parker Ellis standing in front of the door, one coffee in each hand, peering into the darkness beyond the windows.
“Hi,” she says, the word lifting at the end, a halfhearted question. Parker startles, turning and relaxing at the sight of her. “We’re closed on Mondays.”
“And yet you’re here,” Parker points out, gesturing to her with one of the coffees.
“Habit,” she offers by way of explanation. “Is one of those supposed to be for me?” Parker holds one of the cups out to her with a tentative smile, like she’s half afraid this’ll be another drink that ends up in her face. “I won’t throw it on you,” she reassures her, voicing the thought aloud without thinking. “Promise. But only ‘cause you actually bought this one for me, so that’d be a step too far.”
That earns her a laugh, a flash of white teeth and a tiny, unfairly cute scrunch of her nose. Trinity remembers, all in a rush, exactly how attractive she’d found Parker the first time she’d walked into her store. She turns away, leaning over to unlock the door to the store in an attempt to collect herself.
“You might as well come in.” Trinity holds the door open behind her, flicking the light switch as they both cross the threshold. Instinctively, she takes a sip of the iced coffee in her hand, and it isn’t until a moment later that she realizes it’s her usual.
“I asked Emery to ask Samira for your order,” Parker admits, offering up the truth without prompting. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind,” Trinity says, and is surprised to find that she means it.
When she comes in on Mondays like this, she usually finds odd jobs to amuse herself with — things that slip through the cracks during usual business hours. Today, she’s decided to tackle some of the old, outdated stock tucked in the back corners of their storage space. Damaged shipments, titles that didn’t sell well, even things that predate her time at the store — total mysteries, waiting for her to discover what’s inside. Parker is still lingering behind her, coffee in hand, so she decides to put her to work.
“This is what I have planned for today.” She gestures vaguely to the stacks of boxes, some in better shape than others. “If you’re going to stick around, I wouldn’t mind an extra set of hands.”
Parker nods once, putting her cup down on top of a card table tucked into the corner and setting her hands on her hips. Trinity pointedly does not let her gaze linger on those hands. She doesn’t need to invite trouble. “What’ve we got here?”
“That’s what I’d like to find out.” She gestures to one area of the storage space, a newer-looking set of boxes that haven’t collected quite as much dust. “This area is a little more familiar to me. Damaged or unsold stock from my time working here that I haven’t gotten around to offloading or saving.” She turns toward the older section, sweeping an arm over the area. “This area is more of a mixed bag — from the old owner, Ronnie. I haven’t had much spare time to catalog what’s left behind — this place has been open for almost forty years, so there could be valuable or interesting stuff in there.”
Parker gives the space an assessing look, then turns that same assessing gaze on Trinity. She tries not to feel so exposed, but it only partly works. “I’ve got a good grip on what you could probably save from the new stuff,” Parker says. “I can set aside the salvageable, marketable things, and leave you a pile that I don’t think could make it in the store? You can have final say, obviously.”
“Obviously,” Trinity agrees. Parker smiles. “Alright. You’ve got a deal.”
And so they get to work. It’s far too easy to fall into a sense of camaraderie as the minutes tick by, mostly quiet with the occasional burst of conversation when one of them finds something interesting. Trinity is honestly, genuinely surprised by how much Parker seems to know about the books they’re looking through, particularly the queer titles. Not just a suit, after all.
Eventually, Trinity slows to a stop, surveying their progress with her hands on her hips. “We can probably finish here for now. You definitely can, if nothing else. I’m sure you didn’t expect a coffee drop-off to take—” She glances down at her phone, noting the time. “—three hours.”
“I had fun, actually,” Parker says, and judging by the look on her face, she’s as startled as Trinity is by this admission.
“Me, too,” Trinity replies, surprising them both all over again. Parker grins, and she finds herself smiling back before she can think better of it. “I’ll probably do this again next Monday… if you find yourself in the neighborhood…”
“Maybe I’ll drop by.”
The biggest surprise of them all: she hopes Parker will.
✧✧✧
patron saint of well-read lesbians — do you ever get the feeling that maybe you got someone all wrong?
park ranger — definitely
park ranger — are you asking this because you think i’m judgemental, or because it’s happening to you?patron saint of well-read lesbians — both, obviously
park ranger — i’ve been there. recently, actually
patron saint of well-read lesbians — have you fixed things up with that person?
park ranger — i’m working on it. maybe we can work on it together.
✧✧✧
It becomes a habit.
On Monday mornings, Trinity shows up like she usually does, and a little thrill goes through her every time she finds Parker there waiting for her. They’ve nearly made it through the entirety of her mystery stacks, and she’s pleased by their progress. It’s easier to focus on that part of things than the fact that she’s now spent the past three Mondays peacefully coexisting with Parker Ellis — more than that, even. They’ve been getting along. Horror of horrors.
Trinity finds it hard to reconcile this Parker with the one that works alongside her mother. This Parker — she’s had to physically coach herself to refer to her as such, instead of the instinctual her Parker — has a good head on her shoulders, which isn’t actually that surprising, and is very funny, which is surprising. She has that same self-assuredness that Trinity had noticed the first day she’d come to the store, but she’s discovered that it stops sensibly short of veering into stubbornness. She’s generous with her money and her time, making monetary and literary donations to a local youth center where she spent school nights and summers in her youth. She reads books to children. It’s so fucking hard to keep being mad at her, and Trinity is tired of trying.
But she works for Book Heaven. The same Book Heaven that’s opening a month from now.
After a relatively peaceful hour of their new routine, Trinity can’t take it anymore. “Why are you here?” she demands, stacking her latest round of keep books with a little extra gusto.
“With you?” Parker ventures, looking confused. “Or… in Pittsburgh?”
“Either,” she replies, biting out the word like it’s personally offended her.
“Are you actually looking for a real answer to that question, or is something else going on? You seemed fine earlier, so if I did something, I’m sorry.”
Trinity sets down another book hard enough that a small cloud of dust puffs out from beneath the cover. “Haven’t you figured out who my mother is by now? You’re not stupid. I know you’re not, you’ve spent weeks telling me about all these old books we’ve got buried back here, and for all my mother’s faults, tolerating incompetence is not something she would do. So here’s what I don’t understand: what is the point of you being here?”
Parker sets down her own box with a sigh. “Alright. If you want to get into this—”
“I do.”
Parker gives her a look. Trinity shuts up.
“Yes, I did realize who you were — but not until a few weeks ago, when you were talking about Claudia and referred to her as your mother. I’d kind of suspected there was something personal going on before then, but that’s what finally made it click for me. I really did come here because I wanted to extend an olive branch, and I stayed because I’m fascinated by what you’re doing here.” She pauses, idly thumbing the corner of an old, battered book about Stonewall. “It’s not often that I get to be involved in day-to-day stuff like this anymore. Books in my hands, digging around in storage, actually doing something instead of counting down the minutes in conference rooms while other people talk in circles. I’ve missed it.”
Trinity blinks in surprise. “You missed it? As in — what, you used to be a bookseller?”
“At White Whale, believe it or not.”
“Over on Liberty?”
“The very same.”
“I had no idea.”
Parker shrugs, straightening the pile of books once more. It doesn’t really need to be fixed, but this is something else Trinity’s noticed about her in the past few weeks — she likes to have something to do with her hands. “I worked there part-time in college. I always loved bookstores, grew up spending hours sitting on the floor of the White Whale reading more books than I could ever hope to buy with my allowance.”
Trinity sees their lives in parallel: the two of them hawking books in between papers and exams, both dreaming of a future in the literary world. It strikes her as funny, really, that Parker ended up with what could have been her job. In another life, Trinity is the one opening this location of Book Heaven.
It’s then that she realizes what else she’d said: she grew up going to White Whale. “So you’re local, too.”
Parker lifts her gaze to meet Trinity’s. “Guilty.”
“Why didn’t you say something?” she cries. “I accused you of being some literary grifter who wasn’t even from here! None of that is true!”
Parker laughs. “I don’t know, you were really on a roll! I didn’t want to discourage you.” Trinity groans and buries her face in her hands, trying to hide what she’s sure is an outrageous blush. “Aw, c’mon, it’s okay,” she says, fading threads of laughter still coloring her tone. “You don’t need to be embarrassed. Your heart was in the right place.”
A laugh of her own bubbles out of Trinity’s mouth, and she risks peeking out through her fingers to gauge Parker’s expression. She has an amused half-smile playing at the corners of her lips, which is as distracting as it is reassuring. “I can assure you it was not.”
“Well, in that case, go fuck yourself.” Parker’s smile only widens, showing Trinity exactly how seriously she takes that statement.
“Let me make it up to you with dinner?” The words are out of her mouth before she can stop herself, but it’s too late to snatch them back. Parker’s smile doesn’t waver, and she feels any remaining anxiety lift like a physical weight off her chest.
“I’d like that.”
She orders Thai food from the place a couple of blocks away, and they walk together in silent camaraderie to pick it up and bring it back to the store. They eschew the pair of raggedy chairs in Trinity’s office for a blanket spread across the floor of the main area, a picnic of shared dishes spread out before them. Parker bickers playfully with her over which one is the best, knocking Trinity’s fork with her own in an attempt to snag a particularly delicious-looking piece of chicken. They talk with little regard for how much time is passing in the world outside, concerned only with their party of two.
This feels like a date, Trinity thinks. She leans into it.
When she gets up to refill her water, she sits down a little closer, her legs stretched out across the blanket in a way that makes her knee brush Parker’s. When Parker makes a joke, she laughs a little harder than she usually would, touching her arm. When Parker lets the silence linger, she does, too.
When Parker leans in, she doesn’t pull away.
There have been plenty of firsts in her lifetime, some more important than others. Trinity had her first kiss at eleven, a fleeting peck at a sleepover to the soundtrack of a dozen girls giggling. She had her first kiss with her first real girlfriend at nineteen, fumbling and furtive in a dark corner of someone’s college apartment. She had her first time with that very same girl a few weeks later, and her first breakup six months after that.
Trinity’s always loved firsts — the precipice, the tipping point, and the rush of the fall.
Kissing Parker Ellis is like all those firsts in one. All those moments and days and years fade into this pinprick of a second, everything else melting away until there’s nothing but the two of them.
She’s hyper aware of every cell in her body, every nerve ending flaring to life underneath Parker’s touch: her hands in Trinity’s hair, Parker’s mouth parting under hers. She’s warm and yielding as Trinity slides into her lap, knees pressing lightly into the picnic blanket where they bracket her thighs. She makes a soft, wanting sound when she feels the muscles of Parker’s legs flexing underneath her, Parker’s fingers tightening ever so slightly in her hair.
“Please,” she murmurs thoughtlessly, needfully; her eyes are half lidded as Parker pulls back slightly, one hand sliding from Trinity’s hair down to her waist. That same damn half-smile plays on her lips as she tilts her head slightly, questioningly.
“Please what?” Parker asks, amused, as if her thumb dipping underneath the hem of Trinity’s shirt and rubbing circles on her skin isn’t the most distracting fucking thing in the world.
“Um,” she replies eloquently, tongue darting out to wet her lips as she tries to remember where she’d been going with this. She finds more than a bit of satisfaction in the way Parker’s eyes dart down to her mouth. “Are you sure that’s what I said?”
“Positive.”
“Hmm.” Trinity experimentally tips her hips against Parker’s, studies the way her eyes darken. “Maybe I want you to figure it out.”
“I’m getting the impression that you want me to defile you right in the middle of your store.”
Trinity pretends to think it over, as if that isn’t the most appealing thing she hasn’t heard all week. All month, even. She leans in to kiss Parker again, long and slow and sweet like honey. When she pulls away, she presses an open-mouthed kiss to the corner of her smile, trailing her way across her cheek until she reaches her ear.
“Touch me, then,” she murmurs.
Parker does.
✧✧✧
Trinity has always maintained a steadfast devotion for Tuesdays. This much is common knowledge. But today’s Tuesday is on another level.
She feels like a Disney princess, humming nonsense to herself as she circles around the store, shelving new stock and blushing when she walks across the spot. The spot from last night. The spot where Parker had done unspeakable things to her on the floor of her bookstore. Right in front of their bestsellers table. Trinity feels crazy, but she can’t stop thinking about it, biting her lip when she remembers how Parker had slid her hand up her thigh, the way she’d touched her when she—
“Are you going to ring me up or not?”
Trinity startles at the sight of Myrna standing in front of her, two books clutched in her hands and a magnificent frown on her face.
“Of course! Sorry, sorry. Here, let me see those,” she says, taking the books and murmuring her usual appreciative noises about her selections. She fumbles with them for a minute, failing to scan one and nearly dropping the other as she puts them into Myrna’s usual tote bag. When she finally looks up, she sees that her frown has only deepened.
“Fucked stupid, were you?”
Trinity’s jaw drops. “Myrna!”
Myrna rolls her eyes. “I’m old, not an idiot. You’ve got a hickey on your neck and you’ve been wandering around like a moron all morning. Whoever they are, keep it to nights before your day off, capische? If I wanted someone to ignore me or fumble all over themselves, I’d find a man. But God made me a lesbian, didn’t she?”
Trinity hesitates. “Yes?” she guesses.
“Yes. Very good.” Myrna snaps her fingers in Trinity’s face. “Now wake up! You’ve got a business to run.” She turns and makes her slow way out of the store, muttering to herself the whole way out about young people. All in all, not the worst she’s ever gotten out of a Myrna interaction.
Now that she’s gotten Myrna’s morning visit out of the way, Trinity can safely pull out her phone to enjoy the weekday morning lull. if i tell you i made a potentially bad decision, she types, will you support me?
The reply doesn’t come for fifteen minutes or so: what makes you think it was a bad decision?
patron saint of well-read lesbians — isn’t hooking up in your place of work kind of universally considered a bad decision?
park ranger — holy shit.
park ranger — you hooked up with someone? at work?
park ranger — i can’t believe i didn’t get an invite
Trinity bites her lip. Does she want her to be jealous? She isn’t sure how she feels about Parker, but she isn’t sure how she feels about this person, either. It feels greedy to want them both; she knows it’s a recipe for disaster no matter which way she slices it.
Parker works for the enemy. Her friend stood her up the last time she tried to take things further. Even if those two things weren’t true, she’s not exactly equipped to wrangle both of these people into one relationship right now. Hell, she doesn’t even know if that’s what she wants.
Here’s what she does know: Parker is incredibly good in bed, and she has hidden depths that have been slowly revealing themselves to Trinity over the past few weeks. There are limitations to this other friendship she’s built, but she can feel the way they’d get along if they ever met up in person. That’s why she’d tried — there’s this unspoken energy between them even now, but she doesn’t know what to do with it. She’s in an inconvenient limbo with two hot lesbians — she doesn’t need to see a picture, she just knows in her soul that her online friend is hot — which sounds like a dream, but is actually kind of stressful. Trinity finds herself wishing for another stress-relieving orgasm right about now, and eyes the space in front of the bestsellers table mournfully. taking notes that you’re into threesomes, she sends.
park ranger — the only thing better than two lesbians is three lesbians. fucking duh
patron saint of well-read lesbians — alright, noted. i’ll drop you a line next time
patron saint of well-read lesbians — now i know what it takes to get you out of the housepark ranger — if i don’t show up when i receive a lesbian threesome invite, i’m definitely dead
Well. At least they can joke about it now.
patron saint of well-read lesbians — i’ll honor your memory with lesbian sex, don’t worry
park ranger — i’d expect nothing less
When Parker walks through the door fifteen minutes later, it feels like a sign. Trinity isn’t sure how she knew that she’s all hot and bothered about her, but she’s not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.
“Whitaker will be here any minute. I could take my lunch break…” she trails off, giving Parker a significant look.
As if summoned by the sound of his name, Whitaker appears a moment later, stopping dead in the entryway as soon as he looks up and takes in the sight of the two of them. She can only imagine the kind of energy she’s giving off right now, much less Parker, who’s lounging like a cat against the counter.
“I’m off to lunch,” she greets him, tossing him the office keys and smiling when he fumbles them. “I’ll be back in an hour. Don’t call me if you have any problems.”
Trinity drags Parker out by the front of her shirt. Subtlety’s never been her strong point, anyway.
✧✧✧
Book Heaven officially opens its doors on a sweltering September morning, the last gasps of summer breathing a cloud of heat that settles unpleasantly over the city. Trinity knows there’s a joke in there about her mother and hell, but she’s too hot to make the connection right now. Instead, she wilts over the cash register, tying her hair up and off of her neck in a damp ponytail.
“I’m melting,” Victoria whines, morosely winding her way through the shelves. Trinity knows her attitude is only half because of the heat — she’s been acting like this ever since she found out her favorite MILF came in yesterday on her day off.
“Since it’s so hot, maybe everyone will stay home and the Book Heaven opening will suck,” Trinity says hopefully, fanning herself with a slim paperback. Victoria, perpetually unable to hide what she’s thinking, immediately has a guilty look on her face. It’s the exact expression she always gets when she thinks Trinity won’t like what she has to say. “What?” Trinity prompts, preemptively deflating.
“They’re having an ice cream truck—”
“Oh, great—”
“—and a free Book Heaven-branded water gun with the first 100 purchases—”
“How did they even get that?”
“—and a water balloon toss,” Victoria finishes, taking her customary gulp of air now that she’s spilled her guts. Trinity can only imagine how long she’s been holding this news in.
“That doesn’t even make sense! It’s a bookstore! People won’t be able to go inside if they’re all wet.”
“I think they get a gift card if they win the toss,” Victoria replies, preemptively wincing. Trinity drags a hand down her face in frustration, then immediately regrets it when she feels her own sweat.
“You sure know a lot about this for someone who works at a competing bookstore.”
“My mom wanted to go,” she mutters. “I told her not to! I told her they’re trying to put us out of business! She just said something about capitalism and healthy competition and I tuned out after that.”
Trinity has no desire to touch that one. She already knows far too much about Victoria’s mommy issues. Instead, she slumps back down over the cash register, trying not to think about how she hasn’t heard from Parker in days.
She fiddles with her phone, toying with the idea of messaging her friend in an effort to stave off the urge to text Parker. She already feels guilty enough for hooking up — multiple times — with her direct competitor. All those Monday morning visits softened her to the idea of Parker, and it’s only gotten harder for Trinity to remember that she isn’t supposed to let her in. She can’t let her in.
With that resolution in mind, she commits to her message, sending an open-ended hope you’re staying cool and setting her phone down on the counter.
Not for the first time, she lets herself wonder who the real person is on the other end of her phone. She knows exactly two defining facts about her: she lives in Pittsburgh, and whatever she does for work is something involving books. Trinity isn’t quite sure if that means publishing, bookselling, writing, or something else — she’s always been too scared to ask, and had forbidden that exact kind of probing question early on in their friendship.
Trinity first met her in an online book club — something she’d looked into on a whim, catching sight of a flyer for a group of Pittsburg locals reading queer literature and feeling immediately drawn to the idea. She’d quickly realized that the group was incredibly cis, incredibly white, and incredibly uninterested in reading anything other than contemporary romances that slotted neatly into those two incredible identifiers that matched their own demographic.
She loves a good contemporary romance as much as the next lesbian, but god forbid she want to read about a South Asian lead every once in a while. Or, like, a butch. She can only imagine what the book club would’ve thought about that.
Thankfully, she’d found a kindred spirit — she hadn’t known much about her at the time, other than the fact that she was a lesbian and wasn’t white. After the third book club pick in a row featuring two cis, white gay men falling in love, Trinity had raised her concerns in the group thread, trying her best to advocate for something different for their next read.
She wasn’t successful. But she was successful in joining forces with someone in pursuit of the same goal, and the two of them had unceremoniously left the group to break out on their own.
In one of their first conversations on their own, her new friend had mentioned working in the book industry. Trinity, knowing full well exactly how prolific her own family’s presence was in that world, proposed that they keep details of their personal lives a secret. Names, places of work, anything identifying — off the table. She’d made up some bullshit on the spot that she barely remembers now, but the novelty of it had turned out to be refreshing, in a way. For once, she found herself freed of expectations, and their friendship had blossomed as a result.
Nearly a year and one missed connection later, though, she finds it so much harder to deny her curiosity. She wonders if her friend has been in her store before — if she’s even heard of The Shop Around the Corner — or if they’ve managed to live two completely separate lives in this city, never crossing paths. Doomed to stay digital.
Trinity hopes that isn’t true.
i’m dying. The message pops up on her screen, as if the idea of never taking things beyond their phones is equally distressing to her. Trinity is genuinely concerned for a moment that something’s legitimately wrong, then recalls the message she’d sent about the heat. Duh.
patron saint of well-read lesbians — who amongst us isn’t?
park ranger — i’ve been in and out all day and i would rather die than step foot outside one more time. i’m being held at gunpoint, though, so i guess here i go
patron saint of well-read lesbians — ??????
park ranger — WATER GUN. water gunpoint. by a six year old.
patron saint of well-read lesbians — you could’ve led with that!!!
park ranger — with all due respect, if i was actually being held at gunpoint, do you think they’d be like “yeah sure message whoever you want! take your time no worries”
patron saint of well-read lesbians — okay next time i’m worried about you, i’ll just turn my phone off instead and let you die
park ranger — once again, not in danger
patron saint of well-read lesbians — um, i beg to differ. six year olds are terrifying
The things Trinity could say about some of the first graders that come to their story circles… she shudders at the thought. She doesn’t receive another message for a good twenty minutes, but once the notification comes in, the delay makes sense.
park ranger — i’ve been shot.
patron saint of well-read lesbians — will you be mad at me if i say you deserved it? i don’t know what you did, but i feel that truth in my heart
park ranger — have you ever been told you’re extremely fucking rude?
patron saint of well-read lesbians — yeah. by a six year old.
Pleased with herself for the quip, Trinity feels her mood lift for the first time all day. She might not be able to escape thinking about the heat, but she doesn’t think about her languishing text messages with Parker, and she certainly doesn’t think about Book Heaven.
Most of all, she doesn’t think about how the last two things are a complete and utter lie.
✧✧✧
It’s the third Saturday in September — three full weeks since Book Heaven opened just around the corner — and Trinity knows she’s in trouble.
She’s submitting her usual numbers for the indie bestsellers list, and even in this short of a time, she can tell that the decline is bleak. They’re surviving — the store has a strong following, after being part of the community for so long — but their sales have been noticeably affected, and it won’t do her any favors to ignore it. If she waits until the last second to do something about it, it’ll already be too late. She needs to start making plans, and she needs to do it now.
Trinity looks over at her board, the same list of ideas she’s been staring at for months now. Her eyes catch on put on the best damn show this town’s ever seen, written in Whitaker’s chicken scratch, and for the first time she wonders if there might be some kind of genius buried deep within that mousy little hick.
It’s a slow day — she tries not to think about that, considering the fact that Saturdays are usually their busiest — so she takes advantage of the free time, holing up in her office to brainstorm and make some calls. Over the years, she’s built a little network with the other business owners in her area, from Robby and his deli across the street to Dana and her family’s sub shop around the corner, and plenty of others in between. The lot of them have helped each other out before, and she hopes they can leverage that same loyalty now. Finally, she recruits Samira — she’s always been good at digging up new leads and getting the word out.
She spends the rest of the weekend in a haze, only emerging from her office to sleep, grab the closest portable meal she can find, and use the bathroom. Once she feels like she really has a grasp on her vision, she calls Samira again to make her proposal.
“You want to throw a block party.”
From the first sentence, she can already tell she’s got her. There’s that thoughtful, considering tone to her words, like she can see the pieces falling into place right in front of her. Trinity bites her lip to hold back the overflow of words that threaten to spill from her mouth, to give Samira a chance to fully process the idea.
“Running slogan is shopping local is sweeter than heaven. Robby — from the deli — he’s already on board as a food vendor, and he said he has a buddy with a food truck that’d be interested. Dana’s up for food, too, said she’d put me in touch with a great band. She also said they’d perform for free if it’s for a fundraiser.”
“You know what? This could work.” Trinity hears the sound of paper rustling from Samira’s side of the call, a pause as she starts writing things down. “I’ll see if I can get another column out to spread the word — let me know once you’ve got a date and time nailed down and I can get that ball rolling.” She hesitates, and Trinity braces herself for whatever’s coming next. “You know… Parker actually reached out to me. I had Emery help me make some calls to gauge interest, and you know how the two of them are friends…”
“Oh.” She can’t summon more than a single syllable.
“She wants to help.”
Trinity makes a face. “She wants to help her direct competitor raise money to stay open? Forgive me if I have a hard time believing that.”
“You barely accept help from me, Trinity.” There’s no malice or accusation in her voice — as usual, Samira knows the most effective way to get to her is to express the sad state of affairs in her life in the most matter-of-fact way possible, followed by a pause that’s just long enough to make Trinity squirm. The only way it can get worse is if Samira is physically in front of her — at least today, she’s spared the look of disappointment in her beautiful brown eyes. “Think about it, okay? She could be a really valuable resource. She’s got friends in high places.”
“I’ll think about it,” Trinity parrots obediently, and she knows that Samira’s onto her when she sighs through the phone. “I will! Promise.” Samira can’t see her crossed fingers behind her back. It’s fine.
She learns her lesson when Parker comes strolling through her door the next morning — as usual, Samira has her pinned. She probably called Parker the minute they hung up last night.
“Good morning,” she says indulgently, eyebrows raised in expectation.
“I come in peace,” Parker replies, hands up in a universal gesture of innocence. “Seriously. I want to help.”
“Why? Why should I believe that?”
“Is it presumptuous of me to ask you to trust me?”
Trinity feels her mouth tighten at the old familiar hurt, an echo of another person who’s let her down before. She doesn’t know why she keeps setting herself up like this, over and over again. Even when she gets knocked down, she wants, desperately, to believe.
“Yes,” she answers, and watches Parker’s expression fall. “But I’ll give you a chance anyway. One,” she clarifies, cutting in before she can get too happy about it. “I’m serious, Parker. The first sign of corporate sneakery and I’m cutting you off so fucking fast.”
“I won’t let you down,” Parker promises, and Trinity tries not to think about how earnest she sounds.
The next month is a blur of planning, logistics, and more than one all-nighter as Trinity busts her ass to pull this off. They’re surviving for now, keeping the store afloat, but she’s nearly cut her own salary completely to avoid cutting Victoria and Whitaker’s. She’s intensely grateful for the two of them, both of whom step up admirably to keep the store rolling whenever she has to step out to make a call to a vendor or appeal to a sponsor for donations. She’s equally grateful to Samira, who’s been her champion with the press yet again, writing a follow-up to her first piece about the store and posting flyers wherever she can find a square inch of space.
She’s also, shockingly, grateful for how much Parker has come in to offer a helping hand of her own. She doesn’t see much of her during the day — Parker does have a day job, as much as Trinity would like to forget that fact — but she dutifully shows up multiple nights per week to do whatever she can. The two of them stay up until all hours, budgeting and coordinating permits, making plans to solicit donations and sponsorships from local businesses and larger companies alike. Book Heaven, mercifully, is not brought into the conversation.
They see each other so often that Trinity catches herself reaching for Parker one night, instinctively moving to brush a thumb over the circles that have formed underneath her eyes. Her dark skin hides a lot of it, but Trinity’s spent a certain amount of time experiencing that face up close and personal. She can see the difference.
“You haven’t been sleeping,” she says instead, halfway between an admonishment and an accusation. Even so, Parker is still unbelievably gorgeous — the line of her jaw forever begging to be touched, the darkness of her eyes demanding a longer look, begging her to fall into their depths.
“Have you?” Parker replies, incredulous. “I thought that was the deal. No sleep ‘til block party.”
“No, but I’m the one who actually owns the bookstore in jeopardy,” she says, giving her a significant look. “You’re running yourself ragged for someone who doesn’t employ you — on top of your regular job, no less. I seriously doubt I could afford you even if I wanted to.”
“You can’t think of any other reason I’d do this for you?” Parker says, voice soft. Trinity hesitates, suddenly uncertain. She still works for her mother. This whole time, that’s the only thing that’s been bothering her: that lingering fear of betrayal, that nagging doubt that Parker will ever understand how much it hurts her.
“You don’t—” she cuts herself off with a shake of her head, swallowing thickly. “It’s late. We shouldn’t do this now.”
Parker watches her for another long, drawn-out moment, like she’s waiting for her to change her mind. When Trinity stays silent, a flicker of disappointment flashes across her face before she looks away. “I should probably get going.”
“Yeah, you probably should.” Parker starts gathering her things, tossing her notebook into her bag and pocketing her phone. After a beat, Trinity can’t help herself. “Will you be here tomorrow?”
“Maybe. I’ll text you.”
Despite herself, despite the fact that she’s the one who shut this down, Trinity wills Parker to look at her on her way out the door. To give her any kind of sign that she didn’t just ruin something she isn’t even sure she’s ever had. She watches her the entire way, eyes never leaving her form.
Parker doesn’t look back.
✧✧✧
It’s Saturday. Today is the day.
October in Pittsburgh is a beautiful time, and Trinity couldn’t be more pleased when she wakes up to a clear, crisp fall day. She looks out her window, catching a glimpse of the trees with full autumn watercolors scattered across the leaves, and thinks to herself: it will all work out.
It has been a complete and utter logistical nightmare to pull this whole thing together in only a month, but she knows for a fact that it’ll be exactly what they need. Will it be perfect? Doubtful. Trinity doesn’t even know if she’s capable of perfection anymore, but that isn’t the point.
The point is: there are people who love this store. She has the community she always dreamed of, and they’re showing up for her today in the biggest way possible. Trinity knows if she thinks about it for too long she’ll start to cry, so she decides to get dressed in an attempt to stave off her emotional state.
By the time she gets there, she has all of thirty seconds to breathe before it’s time to start directing traffic.
The banner goes up first, and Trinity can’t stop the grin on her face when she sees the words SHOPPING LOCAL IS SWEETER THAN HEAVEN in gigantic block letters, draped artfully across multiple storefronts. Vendors start trickling in not long after, music and chatter floating across the street as tables are constructed and local products are displayed. She watches in awe as the stage starts to go up at one end of the street, and it really hits her — this shit is real. It’s happening. She did this — with the help of her village — and it’s going to work.
Parker shows up thirty minutes before the block party. Trinity turns to her without thinking, caught in her gravity despite the uncertainty they’ve been floating in for the past few days.
“Hey,” she says, testing the waters.
“Hey yourself,” Parker replies, bumping her shoulder against Trinity’s, and she instantly knows she’s forgiven. She smiles much wider than the simple greeting merits, but she can’t help herself — she knew everything would work out. “Ready to kick some ass?”
“Don’t ask me stupid questions, Ellis,” she chastises, tutting disapprovingly. “I was born ready.”
They walk the perimeter of the block, saying their hellos to various people bustling around with last minute tasks. Trinity points out everything they’d come up with together now that it’s all brought to life, from the band warming up by the stage to the mini bookstore they’d managed to create outside, child-sized and fairytale-themed.
With Parker so close, gratitude wells up in her chest all over again. This time, Trinity can’t help herself.
“Whatever happens today, whether or not we get the money we need… thank you. For everything. You helped shape this into what it’s become, and I can’t tell you how much I…” she trails off, her throat thick with emotion. “It means so much to me. I just want you to know that.”
Parker softens, her dark eyes liquid in the midday sun. “Trinity—”
“It’s time!” Whitaker bellows from across the street, hands cupped around his mouth. He waves exuberantly when Trinity looks over, a big smile on his face. Fucking typical. He’s always had impeccable timing.
“This isn’t over,” Trinity says, giving Parker a serious look. “But he’s right. We’ve got a party to throw.”
It’s so much easier to get lost in the whirlwind of the day than she expected. Though Trinity’s certainly experienced some incredibly busy days at the store, especially when they’re hosting an author signing or another event, today blows them all out of the water.
She can hardly believe the sheer number of people that have shown up — it gets more and more difficult to weave her way through the crowd, and she shares an incredulous look with Victoria when they cross paths a few hours in.
“I can’t believe how many people are here! And the band is amazing!” Victoria shouts to be heard over the music, bopping slightly to the beat.
“Did you notice who’s playing?” Trinity asks innocently, watching as her brow furrows slightly and she turns her head to the stage.
She watches Victoria rapidly go through the five stages of grief upon realizing that her favorite MILF from the bookstore is, in fact, the frontwoman of the band playing at their block party. She really is unfairly hot, and her stage presence only makes it worse.
“Go get ‘er, tiger!” Trinity encourages, slapping her wholeheartedly on the back and giving her a light shove in the direction of the stage. “Don’t come back until you have her number!” she calls after her, and Victoria shoots a panicked look over her shoulder at the mere idea. Judging by the wide, indulgent smile on the woman’s face when Victoria makes it to the front of the crowd, Trinity thinks she’ll do just fine.
She pulls out her phone to make sure there aren’t any fires she needs to put out. Everything should be well contained, considering how many people have volunteered to be here today, but she wants today to go well so badly. She needs it to go well.
A quick skim of her notifications reassures her that nothing is about to collapse, and she’s about to put it back into her pocket when her eyes catch on an all-too-familiar name. She clicks on it, her eyes widening as she reads the messages.
park ranger — there’s a block party in bloomfield today. i never quite figured out what part of the city you’re in, but i’ll be here for the next few hours, so if you’re nearby… i’d love to try again
park ranger — i want to meet you
Hesitantly, she starts to type back, her heart in her throat. we should—
“Hey. I wanted to talk to you.”
Trinity looks up from her phone, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth at the mere sight of Parker standing before her. “Hey yourself,” she says, mirroring their earlier selves. Parker gently touches her elbow, steering her to one side of the street, off where it’s quieter.
“Sorry, I just — we got interrupted earlier.”
“I know. I’m sorry,” she says, then glances around at the bustling crowd. “It turned out well, though, didn’t it? All that hard work paid off.”
“I quit my job.” The words come out in a rush, so fast that Trinity isn’t able to react until a second later, when the meaning hits her. She snaps her head back to face Parker fully, shock written all over her face. For a brief, hysterical moment, she weighs the chances that she hallucinated the words out of sheer hope.
“You what?”
“I don’t work for Book Heaven anymore. I quit.”
“Parker…”
In those two syllables, there’s suddenly an entire world for her to live in: one that’s finally all her own, completely free of the bitter aftertaste of her mother’s rejection. It’s made up of late nights and the smell of old books, nose scrunches and floor picnics in the middle of her shop. When she looks into her dark, beautiful eyes, she sees only hope. Parker’s expression is open and earnest.
Trinity puts her phone back in her pocket. She’s made her choice.
✧✧✧
When she’s lying in Parker’s bed the next morning, thoroughly wrung out, Trinity receives an email. She lazily clicks on the notification, blinking sleepily in the sunlight.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: DONATIONS MATCH — OPEN IMMEDIATELY
Message: You didn’t think I’d let you close on me, did you? I expect to see you on Tuesday morning as usual. I will be the one with the money order. Make sure there are new releases waiting for me, and do not dilly dally with the deposit. I will check. Regards, Myrna
“Parker. Parker!”
“What, what?” Parker comes skidding into the room, nearly smashing into the doorframe on her way in. “What’s wrong?”
“Myrna is matching the money we raised from the block party.” Parker stares at her blankly, confused. “Myrna! The old lesbian who buys all the monsterfucker erotica! She’s bringing me a check to double all our donations!” Understanding finally dawns on Parker’s face, and in the same moment, Trinity bursts into tears.
She’s more than saved. She’s more than comfortable. With this kind of money, she can fix so many things that they’ve patched together over the years. She can pay Victoria and Whitaker like kings — she can hire an accountant, or something, whatever people with disposable incomes do. Shit, with this kind of money, she can probably buy out the rest of the mortgage on the building, cement their place once and for all.
She spent so many years looking for her place to belong, and for the first time, she can give back to the one place she’s always been able to call home.
Trinity lets herself be folded into Parker’s arms. This, too, is a new place to belong.
✧✧✧
It’s Monday, and Trinity has unfinished business.
For once, she doesn’t use her day off to head into the store — it feels wrong, now, to do it without Parker at her side. She’d left her back in bed earlier that morning, after multiple failed attempts to leave and her subsequent effusive promises to come back later that night.
She has something she needs to do first. She has to — pardon the cliché — turn the page, and start her next chapter.
it’s my turn to be sorry, she begins. i left you hanging the other day. She receives a response almost immediately, as if her phone had already been in her hand, open to this thread.
park ranger — don’t be. i did tell you you had every right to stand me up in return, it’s only fair
patron saint of well-read lesbians — i also remember you saying something about the third time being the charm. is that offer still good, too?
park ranger — anytime
patron saint of well-read lesbians — how about now?
She didn’t realize how easy it would be, this time around. Trinity sits on the bench outside The Shop Around the Corner, people watching as she bides her time. The waiting, something that had been so tortuous the first time around, now brings her nothing but peace. She has so many places to belong, so many people to belong to, that she knows she’ll be okay if this person isn’t one of them anymore.
Eventually, she spots a familiar figure weaving her way through the crowd toward her — dark skin she’d kissed every inch of a few hours ago, locs twisted up and off her neck, a t-shirt Trinity had worn just last night when they’d ventured out for pizza.
“Parker?” She tilts her head, half pleased, half confused. “What are you doing here? You know the store is closed.”
Parker stays silent for a long moment, with an expression that Trinity recognizes: open, earnest, full of hope. Slowly, the realization dawns on her. Two worlds suddenly realign into one; two people reconcile into the single, persistent truth of the person standing in front of her.
“All along? Parker! Park ranger. For fuck’s sake.” She laughs, bright and happy, the sound bubbling out of her. “I talked about you to you. So many times! You tried to get me away from you at the block party! Parker.”
Parker has the decency to look embarrassed. “I wanted to see if you would stay… for me. Because I asked you to. Not because you realized I was both people, but because you’d come around and liked me.”
Trinity melts, reaching for her with a sense of security she hasn’t felt in an incredibly long time. Love, she realizes — that’s what she’s feeling. Love, and being loved in return. “Of course I like you,” she murmurs, unbearably fond. “In fact, I love you, Parker Ellis.” She presses a hand to her cheek, brushing her thumb underneath those eyes she loves so much. Parker melts into her touch, smiling wide enough until her nose scrunches slightly. Trinity’s favorite.
“I love you, Trinity Santos.” Parker nudges their noses together, steals a kiss. She pulls another laugh from her, sweet as spun sugar. “And I like you, too. If you were wondering.”
“Can I tell you a secret?” Trinity says softly, trailing a finger down Parker’s jawline, just like she’s envisioned so many times before.
“Anything.”
She leans in, her mouth close to Parker’s ear. They’re in the world of their own making, nestled in the syllables of Parker’s name. This is just for the two of them. “I hoped it was you.”