Chapter Text
Chapter 1
The alarm was loud. Way too fucking loud. George groaned, rolled over and began grasping blindly at his bedside table, trying to find his stupid fucking phone so he could get it to shut up.
“For fuck’s sake,” he muttered as the alarm kept going off. Finally he relented, opened his eyes and slapped his hand against the screen until everything fell silent again. He lay there in the ringing quiet.
6:30am. Monday morning. Ugh.
He rolled onto his back, pressing the palms of his hands against his eyes and sighing deeply. Fuck my life.
All he wanted was to stay in bed, to curl up and forget about the start of another week. But he was trying to avoid that. He was trying to get his shit together and be an adult. He was trying to fight against the rising tide of sadness that seemed to have taken up residence inside him. So he forced himself to sit up and swing his legs out of the bed, even though it felt like he was waist deep in water and trying to fight his way upstream.
To be perfectly honest, the only thing stopping him, really, from giving up on this idea of getting his shit together and being an adult was the inevitable texts from Ross that would arrive if he wasn’t at the bookshop by 9am. They would read like they always did. Something sarcastic and light to mask the genuine worry. Like:
Ross: Morning boss man!
Ross: I’m assuming you’re not gracing me with your presence today.
Ross: That’s cool.
Ross: Quick question: Can I burn all these books or…?
Followed by something which betrayed his usual ‘I don’t give a fuck’ attitude:
Ross: (But seriously, if you need help just call. Love you x).
Ross was a good mate but having him care always made George feel awkward. He had a hard time accepting care from others. Once upon a time a therapist had told him it was to do with an immense amount of low self-worth that had probably been eroding away his insides since childhood. Fucking childhood.
It wasn’t that he was depressed. It was just that he was sad a lot of the time. Especially in the past year or so. And the thing was it had creeped up so gradually that he didn’t even notice it was happening. Just one morning he woke up with this heavy block inside his chest where his heart was supposed to be. It was making things… difficult.
George sighed again and forced himself up. He went through his morning motions: Piss. Stream Yoga With Adriene on YouTube while smoking a fag. Cry silently at the screen when Adriene makes some reference to loving yourself. Continue crying in the shower post-yoga session because everything feels shit and you literally have no fucking clue who you are anymore. Breakfast. Coffee – Strong, no sugar, dash of oat milk because I’m a fucking wanker now too – in a to-go mug. Same routine as every single day. Predictable. Like a well-worn rut.
Wake up, wake up, wake up it’s Monday morning and we’ve only got a thousand of them left.
George paused, hand on the doorknob just as he was about to leave his apartment for the day and quickly took out his phone. He jotted the strange little line down into his notes app. Might be able to use this for something.
Then taking a deep breath, he went to begin another dull day in the series of dull days that made up his sad little life.
******
The walk to the bookshop was done on autopilot – the way so familiar, he sometimes dreamt about it, like even his brain was too sad to dream up anything more creative. And the writing? Fuck, don’t ask about the writing. NEVER ask about the writing.
Sip of coffee. Drag of cigarette in hand. Brow creasing as he started to think about the fucking writing.
It was shit. All of it. And frustratingly, he was currently in the worst fucking episode of writer’s block that he had ever experienced. Maybe he should just accept the fact that this was his life now, that he would never be a properly published author. He would always just be the owner of a bookshop.
He frowned and then immediately felt guilty as he rounded the corner and the bookshop came into view. You love this place, you idiot he thought to himself as his eyes landed on the sign.
‘In the Good Books’ was George’s life and had been ever since it had first opened its doors. It was a dream that George had had ever since he was a little bookworm who found solace in imaginary worlds because reality was difficult.
As he grew up, his love of reading intensified and after he had finished studying English Literature in college, he had worked hard in cafes and bars, saved up as much as he could and had promptly taken out an eye-watering loan to get the shop up and running.
At first In the Good Books did alright, but gradually, as Kindles and online shopping became more popular, it started to struggle. But despite that, over the years it had built up a small but loyal clientele. It was this little group of regulars who were keeping the lights on (albeit barely).
The bookshop itself was very unusual, but George loved it. It was housed in an ancient building from the 1920s which, while giving it a certain charm, also tended to give it costly problems that seemed to make themselves known every fucking week these days.
He stubbed out his cigarette and threw it into a nearby bin and then George fixed a neutral expression on his face as he entered the shop, the little bell above the door tinkling as he did so. Ross appeared from the tiny office behind the counter and offered him a cheerful, “Alright, boss man?” as he entered.
“Alright. Thanks for opening,” he said, placing his coffee down on the counter while Ross stretched lazily.
“No worries. It’s a cold one.”
George glanced back out at the street through the shop’s front window. It was a bay window and the old glass gave the impression that the sky was wider and more curved than it actually was – a distortion.
“Fucking freezing,” George mumbled, unwinding his scarf and shrugging off his coat. He shivered and put his scarf back on immediately while Ross gave him an apologetic look:
“The heating is on the blink again.”
“Oh bollocks,” George said it softly and with deep feeling. He took a sip of his coffee – it was rapidly turning lukewarm.
“Want me to organise a plumber?” Ross asked.
George nodded, his mind drifting to thoughts of finances. He had just barely scraped this month’s mortgage together. He wasn’t even sure they had enough money for a plumber. Not with the leaky window upstairs still needing fixing and the family of pigeons that had taken up residence in the shop’s upstairs storeroom.
“I can also take a look at finances and see what we’re working with?” Ross offered. Ross knew that the financial side of things wore heavily on George.
“Thanks mate,” George said, giving Ross a small smile as he slid around the counter, picking up his belongings as he went.
“If anyone needs me I’ll be – ” he started but Ross finished his sentence:
“Trying not to cry over your keyboard. Writing time. Got it.”
No matter what was going on in George’s life, every morning began with an hour of writing. Even if all he did was sit and stare at a blank word doc, which was mostly what he had been doing for the last few months.
“I fucking hope we sell some books today,” George huffed making Ross laugh out loud.
“Fuck, me too mate. At what point does it become solicitation if I offer to shag someone in exchange for buying a book?” he wiggled his eyebrows and George smirked.
“I think you’ve just answered your own question. But hey, if it works I’ll fuck them too. Anything to get a sale.”
Ross cracked up at that.
“That’s the type of shit you need to write about. I’d buy that book,” Ross called after him as he disappeared into the tiny office.
The office was cramped and covered in a thin layer of dust. George put his stuff down, choosing to ignore the mess of bills that littered his desk and slumped into his chair. He opened his ancient laptop and booted it up. His desk faced the wall (to stop him from getting distracted) and the only thing in his direct eye-line was a small hot pink post-it note that had the words: ‘Write drunk, edit sober’ written on it as a sort of inspiration. But what do you do when there are no words left inside you to get drunk on? That was the million pound question.
George placed his fingers against the keyboard and took a deep breath. Don’t think about it too much. Don’t freak yourself out. Just breathe and write.
His fingers began moving over the keys as he typed: My name is George. I am 30 years old. I am tall, awkward and an introvert. I am… really fucking lonely and sad. And I hate that that’s a cliché. Just like everything else I write. Fuck.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, running a hand down his face and closing his eyes. When did his writing get this shitty and self-indulgent? Seriously.
George took another deep breath, head still in hands, and sighed it out loudly. This was not going well. He looked at the laptop screen through his parted fingers and then reached out and closed it. What was that famous quote? Yeah, writing is easy, all you have to do is sit at your typewriter and open a fucking vein.
He glanced at his watch. He had only been sitting there for fifteen minutes. Sigh of resignation. Hands off face. Reopen laptop. Delete, delete, delete.
Okay George, breathe. Just fucking breathe. You can do this. Write it out. Write anything. Whatever it is, just fucking write something.
His funny little phrase from earlier crept back into his head. He typed: Wake up, wake up, wake up it’s Monday morning and we’ve only got a thousand of them left. And I know it feels pointless and you don’t have any money, we’re all just gonna try our fucking best.
He frowned. Great, I’m a fucking poet now. Brow furrowed.
And on it went until the clock finally hit 10am and he allowed himself to get up and leave the desk.
Ross looked up as he emerged from the office. He was sitting in one of the battered old armchairs that sat across from the counter, opening boxes of new stock that had come in. Ross had known George long enough to know whether the morning’s writing had gone well or not.
“Don’t worry G – can’t be a knock-out every day.”
“Have we had any customers?” George asked, trying not to sound too desperate.
Ross gave him a look that suggested George was an idiot for even asking the question.
“Fuck’s sake,” George muttered.
“I called the plumber though. Someone will be out at some stage between now and,” – Ross glanced at the screen of his phone to check the time – “8pm apparently. So basically we’re stuck here all day… hey have you read this yet?”
He held up a copy of the month’s latest ‘must read.’ George shook his head.
He couldn’t really focus on anything these days, least of all reading. All he did in the evenings was go home, make a pathetic dinner for one and sit in front of the TV watching really fucking boring obscure sports coverage from across the world, because the inane chatter of the commentators was better than sitting there remembering how alone he was.
“I’m just going to do the rounds,” said George, leaving Ross engrossed in the first chapter of the bestseller.
‘The rounds’ basically involved wandering through the twisty little shop with all its alcoves and mazes of shelves and making sure that the place was relatively tidy and nice just in case any customers decided to show up.
‘The rounds’ also involved George pausing at the same point upstairs, taking a deep breath and reciting the mantra of ‘I won’t be disappointed, I won’t be disappointed, I won’t be disappointed…’ before he approached the shelf that was home to the small line of books in the shop that meant the most to him.
As he rounded said corner on this particularly chilly day, and despite his mantra, he couldn’t ignore the heavy weight that wrapped around his heart like an anchor and dragged it south as he saw the books all lined up neatly, exactly where he had left them.
“Bollocks,” he muttered, going over and picking up a copy.
He studied the cover. The image was perfect – enticing, interesting – he had purposely paid extra for it. He sighed as he ran his fingers over the letters along the bottom of the cover: G. Daniel.
What was it about this book that no one wanted? Was it because it was self-published? Were people still snobby about that? But nonetheless, the five copies that he allowed himself to keep in the bookshop were still there all these months later, completely untouched. George was, despite his best intentions, disappointed. Heavy sigh.
He left the book he was holding on the windowsill, in the hopes that maybe it would inspire someone to pick it up.
******
George shivered slightly and glanced at his watch. It was coming up on eight o’clock and there was still zero sign of the plumber. The weather had failed over the course of the day and it was pissing rain outside. George was so fucking bored he was doing a job he hated – cleaning the bottoms of the bookshelves upstairs. He had let Ross leave at his usual time because there was no point in both of them staying late. Given the awful weather, George had decided to keep the shop lights on while he was still there, just in case anyone wanted to get out of the rain and maybe buy a book.
He was just about to take out his phone and make an angry call to the plumber when he heard the front door slam open downstairs and the bell above the door jangling angrily. That didn’t sound right.
George got to his feet, his heart quickly feeling like it had been dropped from a height when he heard an absolute racket bounding up the stairs towards him. He spun around but it was too late – the force hit him so hard it knocked him backwards right onto one of the small bookshelves arse-first.
“FUCK!” George yelped the word on impact. Noise of the structure collapsing beneath him. Sound of what he fucking hoped was wood cracking and not a bone. Books went everywhere. The air was completely knocked from George and his back felt like it was well and truly fucked.
He groaned as the pain started radiating through his body and then a cold nose was shoved in his face, followed by the distinct smell of wet dog.
Everything happened so quickly it took George’s stunned brain a few seconds to make sense of things. He wasn’t being robbed – he had just been rugby tackled by what appeared to be a gigantic, black dog which was now slobbering all over him.
“What the fuck?” he groaned as the dog started licking his face.
He reached out a hand and grabbed the dog’s collar so it couldn’t run away and, using the dog as leverage, managed to pull himself up into a seated position, hissing as his back protested. Yep, back is definitely fucked.
The dog was huge and he was soaking wet. George tried to gather his thoughts. And then he heard the bell ring again downstairs and a distressed voice yelling: “Hello?! Hello?!”
“H-Hello?” George croaked out. He felt weird – slightly out of it. Maybe he had gone into shock.
The dog nuzzled into his neck and the press of his cold nose woke George up a bit.
“Who are you hmm?” he asked the dog quietly, spotting the nametag just as the voice downstairs yelled it loudly:
“MAYHEM!”
The nametag read: Mayhem Healy, goodest of bois.
Momentarily forgetting the pain in his back, George chuckled.
“MAYHEM! FUCK!”
Mayhem did his best to try and climb into George’s lap now and George quickly stopped him. His back was too fucked to hold an extra two stone of dog. Instead he scratched behind the dog’s ears, which seemed to appease him.
“You don’t want to go back to what I assume is your owner hmm? You want to stay here with me?” he asked the dog, who started wagging his tail. George loved dogs. He loved dogs more than he loved people.
“Sorry mate. Reckon your owner is going to have a fucking fit if we don’t tell him you’re up here,” said George. Mayhem sighed forlornly through his nose, as if he understood.
“MAYHEM, JESUS!”
George cleared his throat and shouted properly this time so he could be heard: “HI? HELLO? I’VE GOT A DOG UP HERE!”
A moment of silence and then the noise of human feet pounding up the rickety old stairs.
“Oh my god Mayhem, you absolute fucking tit!”
George didn’t get a chance to see the man’s face properly as he ran into the room, dropped to his knees and wrapped the dog in a hug, burying his face into the dog’s wet fur. A palpable aura of relief radiated from him.
The man couldn’t have been much older than George, although it was hard to get a clue of his actual age – he had his hood pulled up and was wearing a huge scarf over his mouth. He was soaking wet however, just like his dog.
“You dickhead. I thought you were going to get hit by a fucking car. You gave me a heart attack. Jesus Christ!” His words were slightly muffled and George watched as he raised a hand to his face and pulled the scarf down, obviously getting frustrated with the material covering his mouth.
George was just about to ask what had happened when the man finally lifted his face from the dog’s fur properly. All the words that George had in his mouth immediately evaporated.
“I’m so sorry about this. Thank you for grabbing him and calming him down. He’s still young and he’s freakishly strong – stronger than he looks. He managed to yank the lead out of my hand. I have no idea why he came in here. I’m so sorry!” The owner babbled, pulling down his hood, while George stared at him blankly.
His face was… well striking which was a word George had honestly never used to describe another man in his entire life. He had big dark eyes (much like Mayhem’s) that seemed to draw you in and he had this quality about him. He was…
Beautiful.
George frowned as his mind breathed the word. That doesn’t sound right.
The man was talking to the dog like he was a human now:
“You made me look like such a twat. Don’t give me those eyes. Ugh, fine, I’m sorry. Here.”
George just continued to watch as the man took a dog treat out of his coat pocket and held it up to Mayhem who happily took it from him.
And then, those big dark eyes landed on George:
“Are you alright? Oh fuck, are you hurt?” the man turned his attention to George now and reached out a hand, placing it on his shoulder.
George jumped at the unexpected human contact.
“I-I’m okay. He just caught me by surprise,” George finally said, snapping out of whatever weird reverie he had just been in.
“W-what kind of dog is he?” he asked, desperately trying to get the man’s attention off him. It was making him uncomfortable.
As if sensing his discomfort, the man removed his hand from George’s shoulder.
“A cane corso. This isn’t even as big as he’s going to get, which is a terrifying thought. But if he would just listen to me and let me train him, we’d be okay,” he said, shooting a look at Mayhem, who sunk his head down, knowing he was in trouble. Smart dog.
“Oh fuck, I’m so sorry about this. Look, I’ll pay for any damage done,” the man said, brows creasing when he realised they were surrounded by books and splintered wood.
“Don’t worry about it. I’m just glad he’s okay,” said George. He held out a hand and Mayhem snuffled at his palm, obviously looking for another treat.
“Can I at least give you a hand tidying up?” the stranger asked and George shook his head, coming back to himself properly now.
“That’s very kind of you. No, it’s fine honestly. Just make sure this brute gets home,” said George, nodding at the dog.
The man smiled and that word ran through George’s mind again – beautiful. George cleared his throat awkwardly. Silence fell between them for a few heartbeats and then Mayhem’s owner got to his feet and picked up the dog’s lead.
George followed suit. He winced as pain radiated up through his lower back. Thankfully Mayhem’s owner didn’t notice.
“Anyway, um, thanks,” said the stranger.
“It’s no problem. I’m glad he’s okay,” said George.
“Alright you fucking menace, let’s get you home,” said the man, gently tugging on Mayhem’s lead. He sounded exhausted and George got the impression that there was a reason why Mayhem had been given that particular name.
Mayhem strained against the lead, looking back at George as his owner guided him towards the door.
George waited until he heard the downstairs door of the shop shut firmly behind the man and the dog, and then he let out a deep breath he wasn’t aware he had been holding.
Momentarily forgetting about his back, he bent down and grabbed a book to begin cleaning up the mess Mayhem had caused. He hissed as his back strained and dropped the book. It was only when the book hit the ground with a soft thud that George realised his hands were shaking.
******