Wolf Like Me

Leah POV (Age 19)

“You look fine,” Fatin said as she straightened the crisp white collar under Leah’s brown knitted jumper. “Stop worrying. You’re built for this job.” 

“Yes, but literally every literary student in need of a job is going for this. I don’t stand a chance.” 

“Just go in and be you.” 

“When has being me ever got me anywhere?” 

Fatin kissed Leah’s cheek. “You, Leah Rilke, are perfect. Perfect does not mean flawless, it means that in my mind you are everything I could wish to see in a person. And you have a great ass.” 

“I run on anxiety.” 

“That anxiety makes you meticulous. It gives you pause to consider that others may be going through struggles emotionally too. It makes you empathetic and I love every one of those things about you.” 

“What if they don’t like me?” 

“Leah half of the people going for that job are pompous jerks, and if the owner is pompous then I don’t want you working there.” 

“I doubt it, it’s a small store owned by some random woman who used to write queer literature.” Leah had spent thirty minutes reading every article she could find on the place. Whilst there was little out there she committed what she could find to memory.

“Then that sounds perfect. But even if you don’t get it, do not feel as if you have not done enough. There are always so many people going for these things. All you can do is be yourself, explain why you’re suited, and hope for the best.” 

Leah nodded. “You’re right.” 

“Baby, you’ve got this. Now go make me proud.” She began to walk out, blushing as Fatin whistled. “Hate to see her go but love to watch her leave.” 

“You’re so gross.” 

The sound of Fatin’s laughter filled the place as Leah walked out, warming her chest.

The store itself could have been missed if one were to blink when passing. The door was short, almost more suited for a hobbit’s home than a bookstore and Leah had to crouch to get through it. Books were stacked haphazardly, and bird cages sat around them with skeletal remnants inside them that Leah prayed were acrylic and just for show. 

It smelled musty, like books that had been sat around for years; then again by the looks of it, many here had. The pages were old and worn, the cloth and leather of the bindings fraying from decades or centuries of use. 

A finger hovered across the gilding on one. Her hands were clean, and restorers now stated gloves were not to be worn when handling older texts; it took away the sensitivity in your fingers, leaving you gripping them too hard and resulting in more damage than bare hands ever would.

“They’re the Bibles.” 

“What?” 

An old woman peered up, short enough that it explained the front door. Her frame was four foot nine if that, hunched over the desk as she lowered her chained glasses further down her nose. 

“Bibles. Do you know how much they’re worth?” 

Leah peered at the pile. “Not much.” 

The woman laughed; a croaky sound marred by years of smoking far too many packs of Marlboros. “If I was to tell you that some are from the eighteenth century?” 

She peered down at the stack of books. Most were so damaged that pages were falling out of them, and others were seemingly glued back together by someone who had no knowledge of binding. 

Again, she cast an eye over them. “Can I look at them?” 

“If you wish.” 

Leah thumbed through them one by one, taking note of what lay within. 

“Not as much as most would think. Maybe a grand for the one at the side because of the illustrations. The others are beat up and Bibles were so mass-produced that you’d be lucky to get a couple hundred if that. Then again there's a lot less demand at the moment for the mass-produced ones because they don't hold their value, so selling them at all would be a task.”

She wasn’t intending on being rude, but Leah bit her lip; sometimes her knowledge and bluntness were taken as such. “Most of these seem beyond saviour and rebinding them would likely hurt the value more.” But then Leah spotted one, a bible that looked as if it were made for a doll's house rather than a human home. The pocket bible sat neatly in her palm, perhaps ten centimetres if that in height. “This one is worth more.” 

“But it’s tiny and the binding is worn.” The woman cocked her brow.

“The binding just needs some gentle maintenance and it’s mostly intact. The miniature ones were made in much smaller batches so whilst many are worthless due to overproduction, ones with certain illustrations or the mini pocket ones are often worth far more.” 

“You’re Christian?” 

Leah shook her head. “No, I just watch a lot of videos about books. Old books, new books, binding.” 

The woman raised a brow but said no more, directing Leah towards the back. 

“I’m here for an interview, Leah Rilke.” 

Her aged hands ran across a pile of books stacked on a table, most looking older than the woman herself. “You know I rebind these for locals as a hobby. Just charge material cost, more of a joy of mine than a profitable venture. Do you want to rebind one?” 

“Are you not worried that I will mess it up?” 

The woman laughed, eventually coughing as she wheezed. “Have you seen the state they’re in already? I don’t suppose you could make them any worse.” 

“I was meant to have an interview.” 

“The owner is running late. Go ahead.” 

Leah nodded, sinking into the seat as she chose a text. She ended up with a copy of Frankenstein sitting in her hands, the cover so worn it was beyond help. 

Methodically she went about stripping the cover with a precision knife, making sure not to harm the text block. It peeled away from the cover which she put to the side knowing it could not be used. Reaching for the book press she clamped it in place, sanding down the edges which were marred by green water damage until they appeared as good as new. 

She began making a cover, cutting the MDF to size then gluing the cloth to it whilst she re-glued the text block binding and applied a fresh cloth to stabilise the spine as well as new endbands. 

“Just leave it to dry, you can glue the text block in tomorrow.” The elderly woman said, peering over at Leah’s handiwork. 

“What?” 

“The job, it is yours if you want it.” 

“I thought we were waiting for the owner?” 

“I am the owner. My breakfast was sat here, and I wished to finish it.” She gestured to the remnants of a croissant. “The job is yours if you’d like it. As many people have walked through that door, I don’t want someone here simply to sell books. I want them to love them just as I always have done. I must ask though, what do you like to read?” 

“Everything,” Leah said. “I love fantasy the most, or soulmate romances.” 

“Soulmate romances?” 

“I met my soulmate at seven. She always bought them for my birthday and other occasions, so I’ve grown to love them.” Leah's cheeks tinted as she thought back to the way that she would often find a wrapped romance book on her pillow, the smell of Fatin's perfume lingering on it.

The woman smiled softly. “You know my wife hated it when I bought this place because she said it would raise hell anytime she asked me to leave. She wasn’t wrong.” 

“Does she like it now?” 

“We never had children; this store was always a child to us. It grew to be something she adores even if she likes to pretend that she doesn’t. Frankie has always been like that. All stone features and a set jaw until something weakens her heartstrings. Even when we met, I had to work for it. Pain in my ass.” 

“But you’re mates.” 

“How was it with your mate?” 

Leah swallowed, remembering. “I- I hated her at first.” 

The woman laughed, placing a book down on the table. “I didn’t meet Frankie at seven, but we did meet at twelve. I think there’s often a rivalry of cliques that get in the way of younger mates. School drama and whatnot.” 

“Yeah. I still don’t always feel like I fit in with Fatin’s circle. We’re so different.” 

“They say the strongest mates are the oddest pairings.” She raised her glasses again. "Tomorrow, I'll see you here."