“Ah. My day off. I knew I shouldn’t have buried myself in my fourth rewatch of Ted Lasso,” she complained to no one. “Anyway, I’m Sloane.” She juggled novels in order to hold out a hand.
I shook it tentatively, not wanting to dislodge the twenty pounds of literature she still held. “Naomi.”
“Welcome to Knockemout, Naomi. Your niece is a godsend.”
It was nice hearing good things about the Witt family around here for a change.
“Thank you. We’re, uh, just getting to know each other, but she seems smart and independent.”
Annnnd hopefully not too damaged.
“Wanna see her in action?” Sloane offered.
“I want it even more than a visit to your coffee bar.”
Sloane’s ruby red lips curved. “Follow me.”
I followed Sloane up the open staircase to the second floor, which housed even more book stacks, more seating, more plants, and a few private rooms off to one side.
In the back was another long, low desk under a hanging sign that said Community. Waylay sat on a stool behind the desk, frowning at an electronic device. The device’s owner, an elderly Black man in a crisp button-down and trousers, leaned on the counter.
“That’s Hinkel McCord. He’s 101 years old and reads two books a week. He keeps messing with the settings on his e-reader,” Sloane explained.
“I swear it’s the damn great-grandkids. Those sticky-fingered little punks see an electronic device and they go after it like kids went after sticks and candy in my day,” Hinkel complained.
“She started coming in here a couple times a week after she and your sister moved here. One afternoon some virus software update was giving the entire system shit, and Waylay got tired of listening to me yell at the computer. She popped behind the desk and voilà.” Sloane wiggled her fingers in the air. “Fixed the whole damn thing in less than five minutes. So I asked her if she minded helping out a few other folks. I pay her in snacks and letting her check out double the number of books everyone else is allowed. She’s a great kid.”
I suddenly just wanted to sit down and cry. Apparently my face telegraphed just that.
“Uh-oh. You okay?” Sloane asked, looking concerned.
I nodded, willing away the damp from my eyes. “I’m just so happy,” I managed to choke out.
“Oh, boy. How about a nice box of tissues and an espresso?” she suggested, guiding me away from a group of senior citizens settled around a table. “Belinda, I have the latest Kennedy Ryan novel you were asking for.”
A woman with a puff of white hair and a large crucifix nearly buried in her impressive cleavage clapped her hands. “Sloane, you are my favorite human being.”
“That’s what they all say,” she said with a wink.
“Did you say espresso?” I whimpered.
Sloane nodded. “We have really good coffee here,” she promised.
“Will you marry me?”
She grinned, and her nose stud sparkled. “I’m mostly into men these days. There was that one time in college.”
She guided me into an annex with four computers and a U-shaped counter. There was a sink, dishwasher, and a small refrigerator with a sign that said FREE WATER. Coffee mugs hung from cute hooks.
Sloane headed directly for the coffee maker and got to work. “You look like at least a double,” she observed.
“I wouldn’t say no to a triple.”
“I knew I liked you. Have a seat.”
I planted myself at one of the computers and tried to compose myself. “I’ve never seen a library like this,” I said, desperate to make small talk that wouldn’t render me an emotional lump of feelings.
Sloane flashed a smile at me. “That’s what I like to hear. When I was a kid, the local library was my sanctuary. It wasn’t until I got older that I realized that it still wasn’t accessible to everyone. So I went to school for library science and public administration, and here we are.”
She set a cup in front of me and returned to the machine. “It’s all about community. We’ve got free classes on everything from sex education and budgeting to meditation and meal-prepping. We don’t have a huge homeless population here, but we’ve got locker rooms and a small laundry facility in the basement. I’m working on free after-school programs to help families who can’t swing the cost of daycare. And of course there’s the books.”
Her face went soft and dreamy.
“Wow.” I picked up my coffee, sipped, then said wow again.
A soft chime sounded over the music.
“That’s the Bat Signal. Gotta go,” she said. “Enjoy your coffee, and good luck with your feelings.”
* * *
Naomi Witt Checking Account Balance: Overdrawn. Suspected fraud.
* * *
Dear Mom & Dad,
I’m alive, safe, and completely sane. I swear. I’m so sorry I left like that. I know it was uncharacteristic. Things just weren’t working out with Warner and…I’ll explain some other time when you’re not sailing off to paradise.
In the meantime, have a wonderful time and I forbid you from worrying about me. I stopped in a charming little town in Virginia and am enjoying the volume the humidity gives my hair.
Soak up some sun and send me proof of life pictures every day.
Love,
Naomi
P.S. I almost forgot. There was a teensy accident with my phone and unfortunately it didn’t survive. Email is the best way to communicate for now! Love you lots! Don’t worry about me!
* * *
Dear Stef,
I know. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please don’t hate me! We need to talk soon. But not on my phone since I ran over it at a rest stop in Pennsylvania.
Funny story. You’d think me running out on the wedding was the big news. (You looked great, by the way.) But the bigger whammy is my sister called me out of the blue, robbed me, and left me with a niece I didn’t know existed.
Her name is Waylay. She’s an eleven-year-old tech genius and underneath the bored facade might be a girly girl. I need reassurances that I’m not adding to her trauma.
I’m trying to be the cool yet responsible aunt in this place called Knockemout, where the men are unreasonably attractive and the coffee is excellent.
I’ll be in touch as soon as I get my bearings. There was an incident with my car and my checking account. Oh and my laptop.
I’m still sorry. Please don’t hate me.
Kisses,
N
* * *
Tina,
This is the last email address I have for you. Where the hell are you? How could you leave Waylay? Where’s my freaking car? Get your ass back here. Are you in trouble?
Naomi
* * *
Kinship Guardian To Do List:
- Complete guardianship application, plus background check
- Participate in three face-to-face interviews with applicant
- Provide three character references (experience with children and caretaking)
- Home study
- Dispositional hearing with family court
HAIR CUTS AND PAINS IN THE ASS
Knox
I was in a shit mood after a shit night’s sleep.
Both of which I blamed on Naomi “Flowers in her Fucking Hair” Witt. After spending half the night tossing and turning, I’d woken up for Waylon’s first a.m. bathroom break with a raging hard-on thanks to a dream featuring my new next-door neighbor’s smart mouth sliding down my cock. The kind of noises that men fantasize about coming out of her throat.
It was the second night of sleep she’d ruined for me, and if I didn’t get my head out of my ass, it wouldn’t be the last.
Beside me in the passenger seat, Waylon expressed his own exhaustion with a loud yawn.
“You and me both, bud,” I said, pulling into a parking space and staring at the storefront.
The color scheme—navy with maroon trim—shouldn’t have worked. It had sounded stupid when Jeremiah suggested it. But somehow it classed up the brick and made Whiskey Clipper stand out on the block.
It was wedged between a tattoo parlor that changed hands more often than poker chips and the neon orange awning of Dino’s Pizza and Subs. They didn’t open until eleven, but I could already smell the garlic and pizza sauce.
Until a few years ago, the barbershop had been a crumbling institution in Knockemout. With a little vision from my partner, Jeremiah, and a lot of capital—from me—we’d managed to drag Whiskey Clipper into the twenty-first century and turn it into a small-town goldmine. Now a trendy salon, the shop didn’t just serve old men born and raised here. It attracted a clientele that was willing to brave the NOVA traffic from as far away as downtown D.C. for the service and the vibe.
On a yawn of my own, I helped my dog out of the truck, and we headed for the front door.
The inside was as eye-catching as the outside. The bones of the space were exposed brick, tin ceiling, and stained concrete. We’d added leather and wood and denim. Next to the industrial-looking reception desk was a bar with glass shelves housing nearly a dozen whiskey bottles. We also served coffee and wine. The walls were decorated with framed black-and-white prints, most highlighting Knockemout’s storied history.
Beyond the leather couches in the reception area, there were four hair stations with large round mirrors. Along the back wall were the restroom, the shampoo sinks, and the dryers.
“Mornin’, boss. You’re here early.” Stasia, short for Anastasia, had Browder Klein’s head in one of the sinks.
I grunted and went straight for the coffee pot next to the whiskey. Waylon climbed up on the couch next to a woman enjoying a coffee and Bailey’s.
Stasia’s teenage son, Ricky, swiveled back and forth rhythmically in the reception chair. Between booking appointments and cashing out clients, he played a stupid-looking game on his phone.
Jeremiah, my business partner and long-time friend, looked up from the temple fade he was doing on a client in a suit and $400 shoes.
“You look like shit,” he observed.
Jeremiah wore his thick, dark hair rebelliously long but kept his face clean-shaven. He had a sleeve tattoo and a Rolex. He got a manicure every two weeks and spent his days off tinkering with the dirt bikes he occasionally raced. He dated both men and women—a fact that his parents were fine with, but which his Lebanese grandmother still prayed over every Sunday at mass.
“Thanks, asshole. Nice to see you too.”
“Sit,” he said, pointing with the clippers at the empty station next to him.
“I don’t have time for your judgmental grooming.” I had shit to do. Paperwork to be inconvenienced by. Women to not think about.
“And I don’t have time for you to bring down our vibe looking like you couldn’t even be bothered to run a comb and some balm through that beard.”
Defensively, I stroked a hand over my beard. “No one cares what I look like.”
“We care,” the woman with the Bailey’s and coffee called.
“Amen, Louise,” Stasia called back, shooting me one of her Mom Looks.
Browder got to his feet and clapped a hand on my back. “You look tired. Got some bags under those eyes. Woman trouble?”