The cleaning ladies work around me as I mope my way through the kitchen in my cami and pajama shorts. It’s after lunch by the time I finally get dressed and out the door. I throw a short sundress over my bikini and toss my hair up in a messy bun. I drape Logan’s jacket around my shoulders as I walk.

I don't have a real destination in mind, but I feel myself drawn toward the tattoo shop like a beacon. I’ll just stop in to say hello, give him his jacket back, and offer to pay him back with dinner. Real slick, Sierra.

As I walk down the busy boardwalk, I remember the bookstore I used to go to when I was younger. It used to have bright window displays and a warm dusty ambiance inside—books stacked on the stairs and in piles all over the small space. I hadn’t been the past couple years, mostly because I was too busy pining for a certain elusive tattoo artist.

I have plenty of time today, so I take a quick detour to stop in. There are heavy bells on the door that clang as I let it close behind me. “Good morning,” a small voice calls.

“Good morning,” I answer, although I don’t see the person I’m responding to.

The bookstore hasn’t changed much, except that it’s far dustier and the display window is filled with old books, cleaning supplies, and worn-out signs.

Movement catches my eye when I spot an old woman trying to move a box onto a table. I rush over to get it from her. “I’ve got that,” I say as I lift it for her.

“Thank you, dear.”

After a quick glance at the old woman, I’m shocked to see that it’s the same old owner that I remember from my childhood. She must be over seventy by now. Looking around at the mess of the store, I find it hard to believe that she runs this place by herself.

“Please have a look around,” she says in a sing-song tone. She has a warm smile and unkempt gray curls.

“I remember coming here when I was a kid,” I explain. I don’t know why I feel compelled to tell her that, but it just slips out.

“Oh yeah?” she answers with a smile. “It was much better when my husband was still alive. Now, it’s just me.” She’s dusting the shelves with an old feather duster, but I think she might just be making it worse.

“It’s a lovely store,” I lie. It used to be a lovely store. How she keeps it open I have no idea.

“Thank you, dear.”

Standing between two shelves at the front of the store, I gaze at the window and let myself imagine how I would make it look if I could decorate it. Beach reads. Some color and window decals to draw the eye in. If people came to the beach, they would want a book to take with them. I could even put a little beach chair up there with a few different books and a little fake margarita. Maybe even a cute letter board sign with a funny slogan to draw people in.