Tangled

16 Ava: Settling In (II)

Thunk.

That’s it. That’s the last book, tossed onto a pile of mystery novels. Fifteen boxes are now empty, and while it might appear that my apartment is little more than a haphazard pile of empty boxes and organized book piles, my heart breathes with the room I’ve created by tackling the monster that is everything Mrs. Elkins stored in this apartment for the last who knows how long.

The couch is soft and springy as I flop onto it, taking a well–deserved break. Selene’s ears perk up at my sudden display of enthusiasm, but she doesn’t move, content to rest by the front door, which happens to be one of the few places in the living room not covered in something.

“We did it, Selene! We’ve tackled the monster and unpacked it all!”

Well, everything that was in the living room. The kitchen still has a few boxes, and let’s not even talk about the bedroom. But the living room? The living

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16 Ava: Settling in (11)

room is done, and that’s what matters.

I survey the piles of books scattered around the room, separated by genre. There’s a stack of classics, a pile of contemporary fiction, a few biographies, and even a small collection of poetry. The biggest pile by far, though, is near and dear to my heart. Romance. Tantalizing little bodice–rippers with bare male chests whispering to me, enticing me to flip them open and be drawn into a world of magical, mystical, perfect

men.

I used to read them whenever I had a chance. The

White Peak library was full of them, and I was desperate for any happy ever after I could get my hands on.

They’re a lot less appealing these days.

I rub my chest, frustrated by the ache that likes to poke its head out in my weak moments, and snap a quick photo of the piles to send to Mrs. Elkins.

[AVA: What should I do with all these books?]

Selene seems to realize that I’m done moving for a while and slinks over on her silent paws, jumping beside me. She circles once, twice, then settles down,

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16 Ava: Sottling In (1)

her head resting on my thigh. I scratch behind her soft ears as I wait for Mrs. Elkins‘ response.

My phone buzzes.

They’ve already been up there for a

had never occurred to me. In the Blackwood Pack, books were a luxury. Books were unnecessary, and Mom and Dad weren’t interested in feeding my addiction to fantasy worlds and lives

by the musty scent

doesn’t seem so

my hand, and I realize I’ve stopped petting her. “What do you think, Selene? Should we keep

option to get rid of them. Who throws

out a contented sigh, which I

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Ava Settling in

Some are smooth, others ridged, a few even cracked with age. Each one holds a story, a world waiting to be

read, mine to cherish,

But where?

ignoring Selene’s huff of displeasure at being disturbed, and survey the living room with a critical eye. The walls are bare, save for a few generic

hold my new

the couch could fit a tall bookcase, perfect for the hardcovers. The smaller paperbacks could go on a lower shelf, maybe under the window. And the romance novels? They

could work.

in not the atort

inat

14

had a

Ava: Settling In (II)

and waiting to be read. And maybe, just maybe, I could squeeze a small shelf into the bathroom. For those long soaks in the tub, when I want nothing more than to escape into a good story.

shelves. But I’m determined. These books have waited long

couch, her blue eyes curious. “What do you think, girl? Should we go shopping for bookshelves tomorrow?”

considering, then lets out a soft

bark.

bookshelves and the colorful book spines that would enliven them

color. It would be impractical, yes, but

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Settling In (1)

they stop with a jerk and a dip in my belly as reality sets in. Bookshelves cost money. Money that I don’t have in abundance, not with

gone, and regular Ava

comfort.

and saving

once I’m settled in classes,

in piles on the

better life. People turning old crates into rustic shelves, repurposing ladders into quirky bookcases, even building shelves, from scratch with nothing but a few planks of

to access chapters

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Ava: Settling

do that.” I sit up again, staring at my walls. It can’t be that hard,

at the excitement in my voice.