Life at Sunset
Chapter 1
The thick musk of leather and aging words rose into my head, creating the sort of high only a bibliophile
can truly appreciate. That same high that I would have sworn to you up until that moment was
innocuous. I blame the leather. Whether it’s wrapped around a pair of intoxicating hips or the cover of
a forgotten love story, leather always has that same sensual perfume, and it makes me weak every time.
The moment I walked through the door of Sunset Books I was enchanted. I felt like Belle in Beauty and
the Beast walking between shelves of books, mostly antiquated and out of print, wanting to touch each
soft cover, drink in each story, and fall in love with each character. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply,
getting my first taste of the rich scents around me. Somehow I knew I was where I was meant to be,
and I didn’t know how I would insinuate myself in the texture of the space, but somehow I knew I had
to.
Through the haze of my newfound high a throat cleared, startling me back to reality enough to realize I
wasn’t alone. I blushed and whipped my head to the source of the sound. He sat behind a solid cherry
desk elaborately carved with flourishes and fleur-de-lys. Anywhere else and it would have looked
ostentatious, but here it seemed to fit. The “he” behind the desk could have been tall, but it was hard
to tell with the largesse of his surroundings. He could have been twenty-five, or he could have been
forty, it was hard to tell. His eyes, however, were much older, as if imbued with knowledge far beyond
their time. They seemed to glow and deepen behind his black metal framed glasses in a wise but playful
way. Something about the way his deliberately messy chestnut hair fell around his face gave him a look
of freedom and unpredictability. I was intrigued.
“Apologies,” he chuckled as he quickly rose from his seat. Oh my, he was tall. “I didn’t mean to startle
you. I’m just not accustomed to anyone walking in this time of day and thought maybe you needed
some help, or maybe some directions to a much more interesting location..” He grinned as if I’d caught
him in some mischievous act and pushed away an ancient looking typewriter on the desk. It was
glistening, emerald green, and glorious.
“Oh, no,” I responded quickly, pulling my eyes from the typewriter. “I’m just new to the area, and I was
intrigued by your store the other day when I walked by, so I decided to pop in. I’m sorry if I needed to
make an appointment or something.” I blushed, suddenly embarrassed without knowing why. I don’t
blush.
“Not at all! We just have a very specific clientele with very specific hours. Pardon my words, but I don’t
usually see people so, um, young in my store. Antique books aren’t especially hip these days.”
I laughed. “Well,” I admitted, “I’ve never been accused of being particularly hip.”
“Oh, come now.” He winked at me, and I suddenly realized he was moving closer and possibly had been
for the entirety of our conversation. “You’re at least the ‘hippest’ person I’ve met all day, and I am
honoured to have you grace us with your presence.” At the word “us” he spread his arms and motioned
to the books around him.
I blushed for the second time in thirty seconds and glanced around, unsure whether I was more
interested in looking at this enchanting man or his fascinating store. As if reading my mind he held out
his hand in polite greeting. “My name is Xavier,” he offered warmly. “I’ll keep you from your curiosity
no longer, but I do hope you’ll stop in again. We’re always glad to have such a friendly face.”
“I’m Amelia,” I offered in return, “and I look forward to it.” I felt everything within me wince as my brain
admonished me for being dull. That was the best you could come up with? “I look forward to it”?
I reached forward and took his hand in mine. It was warm and soft with a firm, confident grip. A curious
rush of electricity travelled up my arm to the top of my head. I smiled in surprise, wondering if he had
noticed. We shook hands for just a second too long, and I sensed a hint of hesitation as I released my
grip and his hand slipped from mine. Then he returned to his desk and I turned to face a towering shelf
of beautifully nonjudgmental books before my slight smile became an outright silly grin, and I realized
just how much trouble I could get myself into with this man if he’d let me.
That, of course, was what had brought me to San Francisco in the first place, Trouble. I had left Vegas
with the intention of turning my life around not following the same bad habits and dead-end roads I had
left behind, but here I was practically licking my chops at the presence of a complete stranger.
Steady Amelia, I told myself. Focus all this energy on the books. And that is exactly what I did. I ran my
hands over elaborately coloured and carved leather covers. I read enticing titles and poured over Tables
of Contents until I felt a gentle hand resting on my shoulder.
“I hate to tear you from your exploration here,” he said softly, obviously trying not to startle me, “but
it’s getting dark outside, and I have an early appointment in the morning. I’m afraid I’m going to have to
lock up here soon.” He seemed apologetic, and I was instantly ashamed that this man felt guilty for
interrupting the hours I had spent treating his business like a library.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” I sputtered immediately. “I didn’t realize I’d been here so long, and you
probably have important things to do, and here I am taking up valuable time in your-“
His beaming smile immediately brought my rambling to a stop, rendering me speechless as he held out a
hand and helped me off the floor I had nearly taken root in. I said a silent prayer of thanks for the
assistance as I realized my feet had fallen asleep tucked beneath me.”Really, it’s alright,” he assured me
patiently. “I enjoyed having someone else in the store, and it’s good to know we’re still appreciated.”
Again, he motioned to the shelves around him as if speaking on behalf of a community.
We chatted lightly as I gathered my belongings and he began the process of putting the store to rest for
the night. Each lamp and light had its own switch or cord, and making the rounds to turn them all off
seemed both methodical and intimate as he seemed to approach each one as one would bid goodnight
to a group of friends one at a time. I was touched by his apparent appreciation for everything around
him, and as he locked up the store and we parted ways I found myself feeling far less alone than I had in
a long time.
The next morning I awoke still thinking about Xavier and his curious store. Could there really be enough
business for him to make a living in such an expensive city? How did one even fall in to such a thing that
he would invest so much time and energy? I needed to know more. I needed to know him more.
My mother had always said the best way to learn about someone was to sit and have tea with him, and
while I had little money or modern luxuries to my name, I had tea. I kept my tea, always loose leaf and
always special blended, in an array of small tins I had collected over the years. Some of them had
always held tea, while others had been used for anything from candy to trinkets. I hadn’t realized until I
was much older that the tins were just as much a part of my taste as the teas. I stored my tea tins in an
old wicker picnic basket that had been my mother’s. When I was a child she would pack the basket and
we would sit in the park just watching people, and sometimes we would make up stories about who
they were or where they were going. At the bottom there would always be a book and a journal. My
mother always had the essentials in case she felt the urge to read or was inspired to write. Quite often
we’d do both. Now that basket held tea, the books and journals packed away in a box in my closet. I
hadn’t yet brought myself to read the journals after her suicide, but maybe I would see if Xavier was
interested in some of the books at some point. I shook the images of my mother and the past from my
head, and a short time later I was headed out the door with the basket, two mugs, and a thermos full of
hot water. I felt like I was on my way to solve a mystery.
“If you’re going to start bringing rations I may have to insist you actually buy something soon,” Xavier
tossed across the store as soon as the door closed behind me.
I laughed off a little apprehension as I approached his desk. “Actually,” I tried to sound confident and
nonchalant, “this is for you.” I motioned to the basket. “I thought we might talk over some tea.”
His smile looked a little impressed as he motioned me to sit in a small folding chair next to his desk. “All
this for tea?”
“Well,” I began as I sat, “you said you don’t get much company, and I felt a little uh, distracted
yesterday, so to make up for the fact that I spent an entire day fondling your goods I thought maybe we
could talk over some tea.” I began to unpack my basket as I spoke, trying not to betray my
overwhelming curiosity about the man before me and the shop he kept.
“This is quite a setup you have here,” he said as he perused the tins I’d laid out on the desk. “You have
very neat handwriting,” he noted as he inspected the labels I’d written on them for easy identification,
each one marked with the name, ingredients, and date of the tea inside the tin it adorned.
“Well, thank you,” I grinned, and our conversation flourished from there.
We spoke mainly of very superficial things. I learned the store’s history, but not much of Xavier’s. I told
him an abridged version of my story and my move to San Francisco, leaving out the uglier bits, and we
discussed our mutual passion for books and our fears that the digital age might be pushing them into
antiquity. We drank tea until my thermos was empty, and I finally understood what it might be like to
make a real friend.
“So, I have to ask,” he spoke up as I was packing up my basket, “what are you doing for work here in the
city. You know, aside from bringing tea to local business owners and fondling their goods.” He winked
as he casually threw words I had used in an attempt to appear calm and casual myself. He sounded
much better at it, and I blushed at the fact that he’d remembered my awkward attempt at playful
banter.
“I’ve picked up a few freelance writing gigs on Craigslist,” I tried my best not to sound pathetic.
“That can’t be paying the bills though, especially not in this neighbourhood.”
“Oh, not at all. I’m looking for something more permanent. I’ve got enough to get by for now, but I’m
hoping I find something stable soon.”
“Well,” he paused, seeming unsure about whether or not he was making the right decision or saying the
right words. “I’ve been considering hiring a personal assistant to help me stay organized, both in my
personal life and here at the store. I have been losing track of myself lately, and it may be time to
consider help. Do you think you’d be interested? We could talk about salary and all that, but think
about it?”
Of all the conversations I had hoped to have with Xavier that day, I had never expected a job proposal. I
needed a job, and I loved the atmosphere of the store, but what would I be doing with my new start? I
had hoped to find a career or some kind of guidance, not work as a personal assistant to a shop owner.
Could I possibly use the opportunity to learn more about something that could very well become a
greater career? Was there much of a career to be had? I had a lot of questions, but before I wasted
Xavier’s time with those questions I had to decide if this was the right move for me.
I promised him I would think about the offer, and I spent the rest of the afternoon weighing my pros and
cons. On one hand, at least I’d be for someone I knew I could get along with. On the other hand, my
fascination with Xavier was only growing stronger, and I worried about crossing professional boundaries.
Would it be fair to either of us to put myself in a position where I knew there would be temptation?
Would there even be temptation on his part? Maybe I was getting ahead of myself.
That night I sat in cool air that floated off the bay, its tender rustling pushing aside my anxious worrying
to let my mind wander. Exhausted by thinking, it was time to let my intuition speak. I closed my eyes
and thought back to the moment I walked through the door. I could still feel the excitement that crept
up from my toes as I inhaled the magnetic scents of aging stories, the intense emotions that had poured
from me and made it hard to breathe for a moment, and the voracity with which I had immersed myself
in the seemingly infinite stacks and shelves. It wasn’t just Xavier who had captured my attention, it was
the store itself and the treasures within.
The answer opened up before me as if I had opened the curtains on the journey ahead of me, and there
was no more doubt. There was a reason I had found the store. There was a reason Xavier and I had
made a connection. There had to be a reason for me to accept the position as his assistant. I inhaled
deeply and felt immediately like a weight had been lifted from me. For once in my life I felt like I had
reached a landmark, and I knew this was where I belonged. I smiled to myself, and as I walked home the
world seemed to be spinning with my excitement.
Chapter 2
I tried not to let literary wanderlust take over as I crossed the threshold of the store for the first time as
an employee rather than a spectator. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, letting the lingering
scent of soft leather wash over me. I hadn't had a real job in a long time, and I really wanted to prove
that I could do it, perhaps more to myself than to Xavier. I had come to San Francisco looking for a new
start, and while this was not what I had expected, this was what had presented itself. Who was I to
question that?
The now familiar sound of Xavier's throat clearing tore me from my nervous stalling. "You know," he
laughed, " to work here I do expect you to actually enter the building. I find it hard to believe you can
meet my expectations from the doorway."
I blushed and instantly vowed to get a better handle on my blushing. Then I took a deep breath and
approached the big wooden desk that was Xavier's hub. The day I had met him that desk had looked
luxurious, and while it still seemed to exude grace and eminence, it took on a new air of authority. I was
immediately intimidated.
"Amelia," Xavier said in a soft voice, "you look terrified. Honestly, you can relax. I offered you this
position because of how well we interact. Human interaction is the hardest part of any job. Once you've
mastered that the administrative skills can be taught. I don't expect perfection; I merely expect you to
keep trying and to come to me if you have any questions or concerns. You think you can do that?"
I laughed the kind of laugh that seems to bubble up and erupt from people when relief hits the brick wall
they’ve erected from tension and anxiety. "I'll take that as a yes," Xavier said through his own laughter.
"Now let's get started, shall we?"
My first day was a litany of the mundane details that surround a business. I learned new programs and
memorized enough numbers and passwords to write a book. By the time we were done for the day my
head was spinning. I was sure I'd be dreaming in codes and file names. Xavier followed me to the door
and held his arms out for a hug as if he were seeing a friend off from a dinner party. I smiled as we
embraced. I liked this feeling of community. I really liked it.
"You did a great job today, Amelia," he said warmly. "You have a lot to learn, and I have a lot to learn
about having an assistant, so this is going to be a gradual process. Once I'm sure you've got the routine
of the store we'll delve into the personal assistant portion of the position."
"Sounds like a plan to me," I said with a smile, a feeling I was becoming more accustomed to.
I walked away from the store that day feeling accomplished. More importantly, I left feeling like I
belonged somewhere and that maybe someone cared that I'd be back.
Over the next few days my brain was stretched and tested with more numbers and routines to learn. I
began to watch the quiet, often motionless, door while Xavier worked on repairs. Secretly, I wondered
how the store made enough money to stay in business. The shelves felt more like a personal collection
than goods being sold, as I had not seen a single one move since I had been the one to move them.
Perhaps book repair made more than I could imagine, or maybe Xavier was independently wealthy and
this store was a pet project of some kind. It wasn't really my concern, but I was still curious. I mulled
over the brazen idea that someday I'd get up the nerve to ask.
The more I learned about Xavier the more I sensed a deeper complexity, one he didn’t openly share.
Then again, I reasoned, that was true of us both. As I walked home that Friday night I thought about
the road that had lead me to the West Coast.
My mother had tried her best with what she had had. At sixteen she had found herself alone with a
newborn. She worked any job she could to keep me fed and taken care of, and she did it all with a smile
on her face. There were no bad memories from my childhood, no haunting trauma, no days spent
alone raising myself. I was a happy child with a happy childhood. I never imagined that at 19 I
would arrive for a lunch date and find my mother dead by her own hands. It took me three years
of skimming the gutters and shadows of depression before I managed to pull myself together.
One morning I broke down, but instead of submerging myself in a bottle of tequila I prayed. I
prayed and cried, and something lead me to a tiny jewelry box with nothing inside it but an old
silver charm bracelet. I slid it on my wrist, and suddenly I felt her back with me. All those
laughs and smiles flooded back. For the next few years I wore the bracelet when I felt lost or
alone. Over time I lost some of the charms, but one day I looked down and all I had left was a
tiny silver Golden Gate Bridge. It was that day that I felt called to move to San Francisco. I
could almost hear my mother urging me to start over somewhere new. Now here I was starting
over with a new home, a new job, and a closet full of my mother’s things I couldn’t bear to look
at quite yet.
My phone rang Sunday afternoon. Xavier’s voice sounded hesitant but warm and welcoming.
“So, I’d like us to meet somewhere tomorrow that’s not the store. I think before we delve into the
personal assistant portion of your job we should talk, and the store is not always the best place for
private conversation.
I chuckled. The store got maybe half a walk-in a day, and more often than not it was someone looking
for a restroom or directions. It was also true that we had been stuffed in that shoebox of an office
reciting passwords for way too long, and I was not about to give up the chance for fresh air just to make
a point. “Sure,” I agreed. “Where would you like to go?”
“I was thinking we’d grab lunch and sit for a while at Golden Gate Park. It’s supposed to be a nice day
tomorrow, I think.”
He sounded uncertain, and I was immediately keenly aware that I had never seen Xavier leave the store.
I had learned through conversation that he owned the building and lived in an apartment over the store,
but I had never heard him mention a social life or plans with anyone, which seemed off for someone so
easy to talk to, or look at for that matter. I suddenly realize I hadn’t said any words out loud in a while
and snapped myself out of my wandering curiosity.
“I could go for that,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound too eager to get out of the store and really hoping I
didn’t sound too eager to be doing it with him, especially if it meant getting him to unravel a little more.
“I could pick something up for both of us on my way over if you’d like.”
“Spoken like a born personal assistant! I appreciate it, but I’d rather treat you this time. It will make us
even for the tea.”
I could’ve sworn I heard him wink over the phone, but it may have just been wishful thinking. We made
our plans for the following day, but that night I couldn’t sleep. My mind was awash in what kind of
things I might learn about this quiet, mysterious man and his life.
At 7am I still couldn’t sleep longer than an hour at a time. I wasn’t scheduled to meet Xavier until noon,
but I could no longer lay in bed with my thoughts. I rolled over to check the clock for the countless time
since the sun had risen, and my eyes wandered to the closet I hadn’t opened since I moved in. Inside
were plastic bins that held what was left of my mother’s life. She hadn’t had much, but I hadn’t yet been
able to muster the strength to sort it.
I slid myself out of the bed and crossed the short distance to the closet, my bare feet padding in softly
ominous thuds on the hardwood floor, my footsteps slow and distant in contrast to my pounding
heartbeat. The closet opened with a slow mournful cry. Inside were five neatly stacked tubs holding all
that remained to tell her story. Locking my eyes on these innocuous grey bins it seemed silly that I
hadn’t been able to face this in over six years.
I grabbed the smallest one from the top and rested it at my feet. I sat on the floor and hovered my
hands over the lid like a Ouija board, trying to divine what was inside it. Somehow seeing my mother’s
things without her would make it permanent that she was gone. It would also mean I had to grow up
and accept responsibility for myself. In one moment I had gone from being a daughter to an executor of
a very sparse estate. In one day, I had become an orphan, and though I had long forgiven her for that I
still didn’t understand. Part of not yet opening these boxes was the possibility that they would paint a
very different picture of my mother than the vibrant woman I held in my heart.
All at once my tiny apartment seemed more like a cage than a cozy studio, and my vision tunneled as I
gripped the box. My cheerily decorated sanctuary flickered and spun on its axis as all the light and air
were sucked into the small opening I had made in the lid like a black hole. I needed to get out. This
was not the time.
I threw on the first clothes I could find, prayed they were even remotely appropriate for a meeting with
my boss, and fled the apartment, leaving the sterile bin of my mother’s belongings sitting on the floor.
This was the closest I had come to actually opening a lid, but this was not the day.
Chapter 3
I meandered as much as I could in an attempt to clear my head and not look upset, but I still arrived at
the park an hour early. The panic had mostly subsided, and I had spent four blocks trying not to look
like I was crying in public. The day was mild with a slight breeze that tempered the bright sun.
I picked a shady spot by a tree and slid off my shoes, letting the cool grass tickle between my toes. I
giggled under a smile, and as I closed my eyes my ears were flooded with the sound of seagulls hailing
one another in the sky and happy children playing a game nearby. My nerves were finally calming, and
my mind was beginning to let go of the morning’s mishap and think towards the future. I wanted to
build a life here in San Francisco, not just survive every day as I had in Las Vegas. I wanted to see new
things and really enjoy my free time not use it to resent having any free time at all. I wanted to find my
community.
Xavier looked more calm and relaxed than I had ever seen him as he walked up with a backpack and a
paper bag full of what I assumed was the lunch he had insisted on providing. I began to stand as soon
as I noticed him, but he waved me to stay where I was. I happily acquiesced and admired this different
incarnation of my boss, one drenched in sunlight with breeze-tousled hair. He looked alive but somehow
surreal.
“Well, hello,” he greeted me as he gracefully sat, facing me. He looked relaxed, but there was an air of
anxiety behind his eyes, and it dawned on me that he could be just as anxious about sharing his personal
business as I was about being responsible for it. I tried to make myself open and accepting, and I hoped
he would sense that and feel comfortable doing the same.
Xavier presented the paper bag to my lap like a trophy. “This,” he said confidently, “will be one of the
best crab cake sandwiches you have ever had in your life!” I opened the bag, the smell of fresh crab and
savory spices filling the air, and for the next half an hour I sang his praises for not being wrong. We
bantered lightly as we ate. Xavier was not only brilliant, but he had a flair for inciting laughter and
imagery.
After lunch we took a walk through the botanical gardens, and Xavier began to open up about his past.
“I grew up a very sheltered child,” he began as we stood overlooking a koi pond. “My parents had never
intended to have children, and my mother was quite surprised to find herself pregnant later on in life. I
was sick as a child with a genetic disorder, and the nurses at the hospital would bring me books. I
developed a love for reading very early on and would write little stories for them whenever I could.”
Here he stopped, and I could tell how deliberately he was choosing his words and how pained he was to
be telling me this story. He continued. “At thirteen years old I was told I would probably not live to see
my 18th birthday, and I gave up. A year later my mother passed away, and my father didn’t know how to
raise a child, let alone a sick child, so aside from basic survival I was left to my own devices. The year he
died I had survived for three years past my expiration date, and I felt guilty for still being alive. I was
drawn to San Francisco when I discovered beat poetry, and once I was here I knew I was home, but I
couldn’t really afford San Francisco, and I spent a couple years living in co-ops and communes.”
Xavier lifted his glasses and wiped what may have been a tear from beneath them. I could feel how
much he hurt, and I wondered how few people had ever heard this story out loud. How long had this
man been carrying this weight around on his own?
I felt him inhale deeply, and I expected him to shut down, but he kept going. “By the time I was 25 I
was a mess. I was drinking all the time. I was broke. I considered ending it all.” At this, I froze and
gripped the handrail of the bridge. He couldn’t have known about my mother or that morning’s failed
attempt at facing the boxes in the closet, but I couldn’t bear to hear him say the word. Not today, not
now.
“One day I blacked out, and a memory from my childhood rushed back to me and reminded me of who I
was and who I had wanted to be. When I was eight years old my parents and I were on a road trip. It
was one of the few vacations we had ever taken, and I was hungry to see as much as I could. We
rented an RV and drove for what seemed like months. I begged to stop at every book store we passed,
but one in particular felt like Wonderland. It was full of antique and out of print books, and as I floated
through it like a dream I knew that this was my calling, and I tried to memorize every detail. The woman
behind the counter was like a fairy godmother as she cheerfully entertained every question my eight year
old mind could throw at her. Before I left she handed me a book of fantasy stories and a blank journal.
It was bound in black leather elaborately carved with flourishes and knots. Inside was a black ribbon
placeholder on which she had tied a silver charm of a feather quill. It was the most beautiful thing I had
ever seen. She told me someday it would be just one of many books I would write, but it would be the
most important because this one would be my story. It was many years before I opened it and actually
wrote anything inside it. It seemed like something sacred, like it would be a sin to mar its pages with
normal scribbles and notes. Finding that memory was a wake up call from a part of me I thought I’d lost.
I started writing, eventually got published, found some supporters, and opened my store. It’s as close to
a replica as I could put together from memory of the store in the desert.”
“Published?” I broke in, both impressed and surprised. “Anything I’d know?”
Xavier blushed. “I don’t know, maybe?” He grinned as he brushed the idea off like a piece of lint. “It’s
been a few years since I’ve written anything new, but I write under the last name Blaze. It sounds looks
much better on a dust jacket.”
It was then that I realized who he was. Xavier Blaze, The Xavier Blaze, the one contemporary author I
had followed through my teens. My mother had owned every one of his crime mysteries, and I could
remember reading them on sick days home from school. No wonder he had seemed so familiar. No
wonder I had been so drawn to him intellectually. I flushed, suddenly feeling extremely foolish for
having developed a crush on a man who was not only my boss and a well-known member of the literary
community, but also much older than I had taken him for. In an attempt to stifle the squeal rising
inside me I tilted my head to the ground and cleared my throat.
Xavier seemed surprised to find me still standing next to him. He shook his head and motioned me to sit
with him on a nearby bench, and I felt something serious about to hit me like a stray bullet. “I have
been trying to write my last novel for three years,” he said as he averted my eyes. He cleared his throat
as if the words he was trying to say were choking him from the inside. “I just can’t find the right way to
wrap up the story line that I left hanging in the last book of the series. And um…”
He stammered for a brief moment, and I got worried. I had not once, in almost a month, heard Xavier
trip over words. I swallowed and tried to find his eyes. I wanted to encourage him, but I just didn’t
know what to say. I could feel him floundering, but all I could do was grab his hand and be patient while
he sorted his thoughts.
“I’m dying, Amelia,” he said almost imperceptible after a long moment of silence, “and not like before.
It’s for real this time, and I can’t leave my characters with unfinished business. I can’t have that on my
karma. “
San Francisco suddenly fell away from me. Xavier was dying. The one person I felt confident and
capable around was dying. Not only that, but he was more worried about a handful of fictional
characters than himself? Nothing made sense in this, and I was abruptly overwhelmed by a wave of
confusion and anger that knocked me out of my stunned silence.
“I’m sorry,” I interrupted, “but what? Your characters? You’re dying, Xavier, and you’re worried about
your characters?”
“Amelia, please,” he looked as if I’d slapped him, “try to understand that these people are all that’s kept
me going for almost twenty years.”
“People?” I spat. “People?” I stood, unable to keep talking. “I’m sorry, I need to go. I just can’t do this
right now.” I began to walk away as quickly as my shaking legs would carry me.
“Amelia, please,” he called after me.
I spun and faced him. “I’m sorry, Xavier. I can’t do this today. I really hope I haven’t just lost my job,
but I’m really going to have to process this information before I can learn what it is you expect from me.”
Xavier suddenly looked sad and exhausted. “I understand,” he said quietly as his head dropped. He
didn’t say another word as I turned and walked home crying for the second time that day.
I was still upset when I got home. I didn’t understand how Xavier could just sit in the store day after day
and spend what was left of his life on characters from a book. I started shaking as I realized I may also
have just quit my job. I couldn’t shake Xavier’s face from my mind. He had looked crushed by my
reaction. Would he fire me? Could we even still be friends after this?
As I sat on the lid of the grey bin still sitting in the middle of my apartment a wave of guilt washed over
me. Did Xavier have anyone to support him? I had not once seen a friend visit him. I had always
assumed he was just a private person, but the way in which he told his story told me he didn’t have
anyone else with whom to share these fears and feelings. I felt ashamed. Not only had I just
abandoned him, but he had opened up to me exactly in the way I had hoped, and I had thrown it back in
his face. How many times had I felt that way since my mother’s death? How many times had I reached
out to fall short? How many times had I lacked the courage he had just shown me by making himself
completely vulnerable and transparent?
At that moment all the emotions I had pushed away in fear, shame, and guilt rushed to the surface, and
I doubled over, put my head in my hands, and began to sob. I was no longer holding back the tears for
fear of someone seeing them. I let them run down my cheeks, through my fingers, and onto the floor. I
slid to the floor with them and embraced the box the way I’d wanted to embrace my mother every time I
had prayed for her to come back to me. I sobbed into the hard plastic, then I ripped the lid of the box
and threw it across the room, nearly taking out the reading lamp. Through tear blurred eyes I plunged
into the box.
Albums. The bin was full of albums and pictures in frames. I took them out, one by one, with tears still
pouring from me in wet, ugly sobs. I looked at each one, studying my mother’s smile and recalling her
voice, her laugh, and every lesson she had ever taught me. I could hear her reading to me, singing to
me, telling me jokes or stories about her childhood. I smiled, and it was painfully bittersweet to think of
her. She had been my best friend and the only person I ever felt truly accepted me and loved me for
who I was even though her life was harder because of my existence.
Another pang of guilt stabbed directly at my chest. My mother had felt no way out of life except by her
own hands, and I hadn’t known there was anything wrong. Why hadn’t she felt she could talk to me?
What had gone so terribly wrong that she had needed to hide it until it consumed her? I searched her
face in every picture, but there were no answers, and there never would be.
“Why, mom?” I asked out loud, and it was the first time I had faced my confusion head on. “Why?” I
repeated. “Why?” and again. “Why?” and again until I was screaming it at the top of my lungs over and
over, my voice cracking under the strain of my erupting emotions. It was the exact moment that I
crumpled into a puddle of myself that my door flung open.
“Amelia?” I heard Xavier’s alarmed voice, and he sounded farther away than he should have for the size
of my apartment. Wait, why was he in my apartment? Of course, he knew my address from my
employment forms, but why was Xavier Blaze at my door? Why now, when I was tying my hardest to
fold into myself?
“Amelia!” he repeated, “Holy Hell, Amelia, what happened?”
I was too shocked to look up before I felt Xavier’s arms holding me tight, as if I might run at any second.
He pulled me into his arms as I tried and failed repeatedly to pull myself together and rocked me until I
could breathe, occasionally glancing around him in an attempt to sort out the chaos that had been flung
and scattered across my floor. We stayed there until our heartbeats had stabilized, then he pulled me
upright, holding me as one would hold a stuffed animal he was trying to prop up.
“Xavier,” my mouth blurted as soon as it could form words. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he replied quietly. “I threw a lot at you all at once, and there seems to be something
happening here that was not in your job application. You wanna tell me what’s going on?”
I told him everything. I told him about my childhood in Las Vegas, about my mother and her suicide,
and about my subsequent descent into depression. I told him about the boxes and my failed attempt
that morning at opening them. I told him how much I wanted to keep my job and the first friend I had
made in a long time. I told him again how sorry I was. The whole time he just sat and listened with no
expressions to give away any judgment or emotion. He listened to every word, and I talked until I
couldn’t think of another word besides “please”.
By the time the room fell silent I was physically and emotionally exhausted. I was acutely aware of how
much I sounded like a lunatic, and I couldn’t imagine what he thought of me. His face still betrayed
nothing, and I was sure I’d just sealed the envelope on his dismissal of me altogether. I couldn’t look at
him anymore, so I studied my hands, mentally tracing their lines and details in my mind as if I were
drawing them.
“Amelia,” he started in almost a whisper. “Please look at me?”
I sighed, but I obeyed.
“I wish,” he continued. “I wish you had talked to me about any of this before today. It might have
changed how I introduced you to the more personal side of ‘personal assistant’.” I felt him shift to a
more comfortable sitting position now that thing had calmed down. “Nonetheless, I can’t change that,
but I can change how we proceed.”
I nodded silently and listened intently.
“I can’t expect you to be able to sift through my disorganized life and unbox all my secrets until you’ve
been able to at least open your own.” I braced myself for the quickest I’d ever lost a job in my life. “So,
we’re going to do it together.”
He laughed at the startled look that much have spread across my face as I struggled to find an
appropriate response. He was giving me an ultimatum. I could either lose my job and potentially my
friend, or I could face the demons I’d kept boxed away for the better half of a decade.
“Amelia,” he interrupted my deliberation. I had never heard anyone use my name this many times in one
conversation. “I want to help you, and you know as well as I that you need this to be able to let go and
move forward with your life. I won’t feed you lines about what your mother would have wanted or
angels in heaven, but I will tell you that you deserve better than how you’ve been treating yourself. You
don’t have to do it alone.”
I nodded. He was right, of course he was right. I couldn’t avoid this anymore.
“I guess you’re right,” I stubbornly acquiesced. “Besides, that’s the only closet I’ve got, and I’m going to
have to put my clothes away at some point.” I managed a small grin as I motioned towards the pile of
folded clothes in the corner.
“Attagirl!” Xavier stood and offered his hand to help me up. “But first, why don’t you make us some tea.”