We Are Inevitable by Gayle Forman (read aloud txt) 📕

“My what?” she asks.

“It’s a book reference,” Garry replies.

“Oh,” Penny says. “I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

The room goes quiet, so the only sound is of Penny’s pen as she takes possession of the store.

And like that, it’s done.

Stone Soup

It’s quiet. Too quiet. It shouldn’t be this quiet right now. It feels wrong.

I walk through the empty space, my footsteps echoing off the barren shelves: the mahogany one that broke Ike’s heart looks, if not new again, old in the right way. The other shelves are all reinforced, restained, and empty. Lady Gaga glimmers in the morning light.

Sandy’s record bins, the ones he painstakingly built in that fury of foresight, or fear, or whatever it was that drove him, yawn open, their locks removed, the records gone.

I call Chad. “You’re coming, right?”

“Dawg, chill. I said I’d be there and I’ll be there.”

“It’s just we’re running up the clock.”

Chad guffaws. “Running down the clock. Stick to book metaphors, son.”

“Whatever,” I snap back. “Clock’s ticking.”

“I’ll be there,” Chad replies. “We’ll all be there.”

Ten minutes later Ira walks in. “Sorry,” he says breathlessly. “Tai chi ran long.”

“It’s okay,” I say. “Where’s Bev?”

“Picking some things up. She’ll be by later.” He looks around the empty room, his face a mix of emotions I can’t quite read. “The end of an era.”

“We had a good run, didn’t we?”

“We did.” Ira clasps me on the shoulder as the sputter of Ike’s pickup truck nears. “Ready to do this?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

But neither of us move. We just look around the empty space, which until three months ago had been Joe Heath’s scrap shop. It’s bigger than our bookstore was. Wide-open, accessible, with room for all the shelves we have, plus several more that Ike’s built. It looks so different from how it did when we took possession a few weeks ago. It doesn’t seem possible for things to change so quickly, but sometimes they do. Just ask the dinosaurs.

Ike barges in, spitting tobacco into his Diet Peach Snapple bottle. “You two gonna just stand there all day? These boxes ain’t gonna unpack themselves.”

Within the hour, everyone’s here: Ike, Garry, and Richie, Garry’s girlfriend, Amanda. The now-inseparable troika of Beana, Bev, and Angela. Lou’s there. And Jax. And of course Chad. He’s christened himself “project director” for the day, because of his mobility challenges, he claims, but we all know that’s a ruse. The new space is wide-open by design, so it can be used for Knit and Lits, Books and Brews, support groups, tai chi classes, yoga, open-mic nights, or whatever else they come up with.

There are plenty of low shelves for Chad to stock. But he likes playing God. “If you consult my very clear blueprints,” Chad is now bellowing, “you will see that the boxes are all numbered and color-coded to match the appropriate shelves so you don’t have to think, just unpack. I measured and everything should fit to the inch.”

“Seriously,” Jax says. “He has like literally measured every book even though I told him a perfect fit is kind of a Sisyphean task, given that the inventory is always going to be shifting.”

“And I know what Sisyphean means.” Chad grins proudly. “I figure if I’m a co-owner of a bookstore, I oughta understand the literary references.”

“It’s not really literary,” I say. “So much as Greek mythology.”

“Ugh. Are you always gonna be like this?” Chad asks.

“Yep!”

“Well, you’re just one of the common paying folk now, so I don’t have to listen to you.”

“Like you ever did.”

“Who’s ready for another espresso drink?” Ike booms from behind Lady Gaga. “I got cappuccinos, lattes, mochas, macchiatos, espressos, Americanos . . . hot or iced. Cow milk, soy milk, or oat milk.” Ike gives Gaga a loving wipe-down. “We got a lot of work to do before the party, so I’m here to power you with caffeine.”

“Where do you want the records?” Lou asks as he and Garry begin to cart in the special crates that Lou insisted we store the vinyl in to keep it from getting warped.

“Don’t ask me,” I reply. “I’m not the boss. Chad, where do you want the records?”

“Where do I want the records?” Chad asks, exasperated. “Check the blueprint. In the record bins. Back by the café.”

“Cool. Like in a department store,” Lou says, nodding, heading toward Sandy’s bins. Ike proclaimed the workmanship solid and the pine standard grade, and therefore the bins did not need to be upgraded. I suspect that Ike would have preferred to rebuild the bins with nicer wood but out of respect to Sandy chose not to.

“I can’t wait to get these records on display,” Lou says. “It’s about time we honored this vinyl.”

Lou unpacks Sandy’s vast collection, the music he loved more than anything, which he left to me. Which led me to the Outhouse, and to Chad. And the Lumberjacks. And even to Hannah.

Maybe Ira was right. The records are my legacy.

We finish the setup by four o’clock. Which gives everyone about an hour to run home, shower, change, and come right back again in time for the party. There’s not really time for speeches or dallying, but when Ira clears his throat and asks everyone to come outside for a huddle, no one objects. Richie and Garry clamber up two ladders alongside the flat, rampless entrance to the store. Ike nods at Ira.

“Some of you were around when we first opened Bluebird Books more than twenty-five years ago.” Ira looks at Ike. “The store’s been through a lot. The town’s been through a lot. We’ve all been through a lot.” He looks at me. “But here we are.”

“Here we are!” shouts Chad.

Ira gestures for Ike and Chad to join him under the railing, and then for me too. But I stay behind. The store’s not mine anymore. But somehow, giving it up, I gained more than I ever could have imagined.

Ike