The days blur after Jamie leaves. The bookstore feels empty—too quiet, too big without him moving around upstairs or sweeping the aisles. I thought kicking him out would clear my head, make things easier, but it didn’t. It’s worse. And now Morgan’s making it hell. I’m behind the counter, sorting receipts, when the first blow hits—a guy in a cheap suit shows up, clipboard in hand. “Health inspection,” he says, not even looking at me. “Council’s orders.”
I frown, setting the receipts down. “Health inspection? For a bookstore? We don’t serve food.”
He shrugs, already poking at the shelves. “Got a complaint—dust, mold, something. Just doing my job.” He starts scribbling notes, checking corners, tapping the walls like he’s hunting for trouble. I watch him, my gut twisting. This isn’t random. Morgan’s name doesn’t come up, but I feel him behind it—his way of tightening the screws. That failed deal years back—he wanted this place for some big project, and I said no. He’s never let it go, and now he’s coming for me hard.
The guy’s here an hour, poking around, making me move boxes so he can check the floors. He finds nothing big—just some dust, a cracked window upstairs—but he still slaps me with a notice. “Fix this by next week, or we shut you down,” he says, handing me a paper full of rules I don’t understand. I take it, my hands cold, and he’s gone. I stare at the list—cleaning, repairs, stuff I can’t afford right now. The store’s barely scraping by, and this? It’s a punch I didn’t need.
It doesn’t stop there. Two days later, a letter comes—legal stuff, thick with words I have to read twice. Morgan’s pushing a claim—says I owe him money from that old deal, some contract I never signed. It’s fake, I know it, but it’s got his lawyer’s name on it, all official. “Pay up or face court,” it says, with a number that makes my head spin—thousands I don’t have. I sit at the counter, staring at it, my chest tight. He’s drowning me—inspections, threats, piling it on until I break. I’ve seen him do this to others in town—squeeze until they sell or fold. Now it’s my turn.
I try to keep going—open the store, stack books, ring up the few customers who still come in. But it’s hard. My hands shake when I count change, and my head’s foggy, like I can’t think straight. Sleep’s gone too—I lie awake, the quiet pressing in, and Jamie’s face keeps popping up. I see him begging, tears on his cheeks, saying he didn’t do it. I wanted to believe him—still do, deep down—but the evidence keeps screaming louder. Emails, money, exam answers—how do I fight that? I kicked him out because I couldn’t take it, couldn’t look at him without doubting everything. But now he’s gone, and it’s not better. It’s empty.
The stress piles up fast. I spend a day scrubbing the store, trying to fix that inspection list. Dust chokes the air, and I’m coughing, sweating, hauling trash out back. A customer comes in, asks about a book, but I snap at her—short, sharp, not meaning to. She leaves quick, and I slump against the counter, rubbing my face. I’m losing it—Morgan’s winning, and I can’t stop him. The legal threat hangs over me, heavy and dark. I don’t have the cash to fight it, don’t even know where to start. I picture him smirking, sitting in his fancy office, knowing he’s got me pinned.
Jamie’s on my mind all the time now. I keep seeing him—little things, like how he’d stack books too high or leave coffee cups everywhere. I miss it, miss him, and it hurts. Was I wrong? Did I push him out too fast? I wanted to protect myself, keep my head clear, but it’s a mess anyway. The evidence—it’s everywhere, solid, but Casey’s words stick too. She came by a few days ago, mad, saying Riley’s behind it. I brushed her off, but now I wonder. Riley’s been around more, all soft and helpful, and it’s weird. What if Jamie’s telling the truth? What if I threw him away for nothing?
Night comes, and I’m alone in the store. It’s late—past midnight, the town dead quiet. I lock the front door, turn off the lights, and sit in the dark, just me and the shelves. My head’s pounding, stress eating at me, and I can’t shake Jamie. I kicked him out—told him to go, watched him pack—and now I’m stuck here, drowning in Morgan’s games. I rub my eyes, tired, sore, and pull my phone from my pocket. The screen glows, harsh in the shadows, and I open a text to Jamie. My fingers hover, shaking a little. I type slow: “Hey, you okay?” It’s simple, dumb, but it’s something. I stare at it, my heart thumping. Maybe he’ll answer, maybe we can talk, maybe I can fix this.
But then I stop. What if he doesn’t reply? What if he hates me now? Or worse—what if he did it, and I’m just a fool? The evidence flashes back—cops, college, all pointing at him. I see his face again, pleading, but it blurs with doubt. My thumb hovers over “send,” then slides to delete. I tap it, and the words vanish, leaving the screen blank. I drop the phone on the counter, my hands in my hair, pulling tight. I can’t do it—can’t reach out, can’t face him. Not yet.