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.

ELKINS: Keep them, dear. Start your own library. They’ve already been up

were unnecessary, and Mom and Dad weren’t interested in feeding my addiction to fantasy worlds and lives that could take me away from my

now, surrounded by the musty scent of old

idea doesn’t seem so far–fetched.

against my hand, and I realize I’ve stopped petting her. “What do

a silly question. As if it was ever an option to get rid of them. Who throws away books?

lets out a contented sigh, which I choose to interpret as

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<

Ava Settling in (1)

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

to read, mine to cherish, mine to

But where?

disturbed, and survey the living room with a critical eye. The walls are bare, save for a few generic paintings that came with the apartment. They’ll have to

will hold

under the window. And the romance novels? They deserve a special place, perhaps a little nook in the corner where I can curl up and lose

could

in not the

inat

14

had a

Ava: Settling

up every morning and see my beloved books, ready 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

These books have

blue eyes curious. “What do you think,

then lets out

bark.

as my mind races down the rabbithole of shopping, of crisp white bookshelves and

all my books by color. It would be impractical, yes,

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Settling In (1)

through my mind until 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 my barista wages. Not with how much I’ve spent just to establish life here.

onto the couch, my enthusiasm gone. Happy Ava is gone, and regular Ava is back. Selene senses my mood shift and nuzzles my

comfort.

fine. Eating and saving for school is more

bookshelves. Once I have a car, once I’m settled in

the floor is almost painful. They

I’ve watched while dreaming of building a better life. People turning old crates into rustic shelves, repurposing ladders into quirky bookcases, even building shelves, from scratch

website on Gøøglᴇ to access

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Settling in (1)

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

ears perk up at the excitement