The Bookstore Owner's Chapter
"Mahogany Books has been the heart of Black DC for decades. When an author starts hosting regular readings, she discovers some stories write themselves."
Mahogany Books belongs to the community.
I'm Ramona—sixty, owner and curator for thirty years. Every Black book that matters has passed through my hands.
"I'd like to host a reading."
The author is established—Marcus Webb, three novels, critical acclaim. He's never asked before.
"Why here?"
"Because this is where Black stories come alive." His eyes find mine. "And because I've wanted an excuse to meet you."
The readings become monthly.
Then weekly. Marcus in my small event space, crowds gathered, his words filling the room.
"You have a gift," I tell him after.
"You have a gift." He gestures at my shelves. "Knowing which stories need telling."
"That's just curation—"
"That's judgment. Taste. The kind writers spend lifetimes hoping to impress."
The visits extend beyond readings.
He browses, recommends, discusses books with customers like he belongs here.
"Don't you have writing to do?" I ask.
"I'm stuck." He sets down a first edition. "Have been for months. Until I started coming here."
"What changed?"
"I found a character worth writing about."
"What character?"
"The woman who runs a bookstore like a revolution." His voice is quiet. "Who fights for stories no one else will carry."
"That sounds like—"
"You." He moves closer. "It's you, Ramona."
"Marcus—"
"I know. It's inappropriate. But I've been writing around you for three months, and I can't stop."
"Writing what?"
"A love story. About a bookstore. About a woman who deserves more than shelving other people's words."
"I don't—"
"Then let me show you." His hand touches my face. "Let me write you into something real."
The kiss happens in the stacks.
Between Baldwin and Morrison, his mouth finding mine.
"This is crazy," I whisper.
"This is chapter one." He smiles against my lips. "Trust me."
His brownstone is lined with books.
His own, others', a library of lives lived and imagined.
"Write me something," I say.
"I've been writing you for months."
"Write me something now." I sit on his bed. "Make it real."
He writes while I undress.
Pages filling as I reveal what I've hidden behind registers and shelving.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, still writing.
"You're not looking—"
"I'm seeing." He sets down the pen. "Now let me translate."
His hands are like editing.
Smoothing, refining, finding the best version of what exists.
"Here?" he asks.
"Yes. Perfect."
When he enters me, we're creating together.
"So good," he groans.
"Don't stop. This is the climax."
"Not yet." He smiles. "We're still building."
Afterward, he reads me what he wrote.
Words that capture everything—my curves, my passion, the fire I didn't know I still held.
"You make me sound—"
"Real." He sets down the pages. "You make me sound real too."
The book publishes a year later.
Dedicated to "the woman who owns the story." The literary world notices—a love story set in a Black bookstore, featuring a heroine who looks like me.
"Everyone knows it's you," my customers say.
"Let them know." I pull Marcus close. "It's true."
The wedding is in the bookstore.
Between the shelves we both love, surrounded by words.
"To the woman who gave me something worth writing," Marcus toasts.
"To the man who read between my lines," I counter.
We kiss while the books watch.
Some stories are fiction.
Some are truer than truth.
And some bookstore owners find that the best chapters are the ones you live.
Page by page.
Hand in hand.
Happily ever after.