The best part about being a Walters was the money.

An unlimited bank account meant an unlimited amount of money for me to invest into anything and everything I could dream up—particularly supplies for fashion designing. It was one of the few joys I felt in life, and I thrived in it.

When I wasn't sketching dresses or posting photos of my designs to promote my future business, life was dull and sunless. Anthony, my oldest brother, and Andy, the second oldest, worked long hours with my dad at Walters Architecture, while my mom stayed home, still acting as my dad's secretary after all of these years. Brandon, my twin literally in everything but gender, always chose to hang out with his friends over family, and Willa, my younger sister was either kept on a tight leash by my mother or her nanny, while she was home-schooled.

In all things except for the name, which I shared with my family, I was alone. There was no mom to kiss me on the cheek when I came home most nights and no father to greet me. My older brothers were too busy with work to tease me relentlessly on weekdays, and often, they didn't have the energy to by the weekend. And Willa, my dear, baby sister, was still dealing with mental trauma from recovering from leukemia doctors found when she was six. She no longer had the spirit to spend time with me; she was still too depressed from the cancer that stole her life away years ago.

So that's where life left me: alone and wealthy. Sometimes one didn't balance out the other, but when it did, being a Walters was nice. At least, that is what my cousin and I always liked to think—which was ironic, I suppose. Optimistic wouldn't be the first word I'd use to describe Mary Walters. Perhaps realistic. Or conniving. Definitely nothing associated with sunshines and rainbows—or Mary Poppins.

Mary was always practical, which was why I trusted her opinion without question. She was not only family—being my cousin and all—but also my best friend. I had to trust her judgement: it was part of the job description.
Unfortunately, though, trusting her judgement also meant biting me in the butt, when she decided that I needed a job to boost my college application to UC Berkeley. Didn't having six-hundred thousand followers on instagram count for anything in the college admissions process?

Apparently not, if you listen to Mary Elizabeth Walters.

So what did I do? Stand up to her ridiculousness of course! Inside the safe mental confines of my head.
And what did I do in the physical world? Nod politely and fill out the online application she directed me to. All in the name of being a good friend of course. It's not like I'm scared of her silent glares or judgy eyes . . .

Definitely not.

Which is why I ducked my head with confidence as I walked through the door of Frank's bookstore in Downtown, Los Angeles. Because I wasn't scared of my older cousin, who was silently watching me with a fierce expression saying don't-try-me, as I slanked into the bookstore against my better judgement and will.

"You'll do great!" She brightly encouraged me once I was beyond the point of no-return.

"Thanks," I muttered darkly under my breath as I stalked into the store.

The room was bright, with rays of light streaming through a long strip of windows at the front of the store. Aisles of bookshelves disappeared from sight, trailing deeper into the back of the store than I had originally imagined, from glancing through the windows.

Feet away from the door I entered was an oak desk with a cash register and a young boy manning it. He was tall and unfamiliar, but he wore a kind expression on his face. His head was tilted in the direction of the left-side of the store, which was consumed with a small cafe and seating area, which was empty at the moment I entered.

"Excuse me?" I called out in an unsure voice.

"Yes," the boy replied without skipping a beat.

He turned his head in my direction and when our eyes met, I could have sworn he heard a pin fall—because his mouth fell ever so slightly too open to be natural, and his eyes widened a millimeter past their set point. They were subtle changes, but his surprise was noticeable to my keen eyes.

Silently, I couldn't help but wonder from his reaction, Did I know him?

"Um," I cleared my throat, "I was just wondering where I should go for the job interview?"

The boy frowned, scratching the back of his neck with his long fingers.

"Frank never told me he was hiring."

An "Oh" fell from my lips, and I pressed my mouth into a tight line to keep them shut. I didn't need the incompetence of not knowing where my job interview was to keep me from getting this job.

"So . . . I'm guessing you applied to work here?" His tone was suddenly sharp and inquisitive. Condescending. He was talking to me like I was an incompetent child.

My cheeks flamed red with heat, and I hotly crossed my arms over my chest.

"Of course I did. I wouldn't just show up for an interview without filling out an application, first." Internally, I rolled my eyes. What did he think I was? An idiot?

"Right. I didn't meant to imp-"

A loud crash behind one of the book aisles interrupted him mid-sentence, drawing both of our attention towards the farthest aisle.

"Albany! You're here!"

Limping quickly towards me from the farthest aisle of books was a elderly man with a red nose and jolly grin.

"I . . . am?" I asked with perplexment.

The old man came up to me with the same grin and patted me roughly on the back, in what I guessed was supposed to be a reassuring manner.

"I can't believe you're here! Can you believe she's here Kit?" he glanced in the boy's direction with a warm smile that reminded me of the sun. "We've been looking for help for months."

He returned his eyes to me and looked upon me with only kindness.

"So you're interviewing me?" I said.

He shook his head and chuckled with amusement.

"Of course not."

"But then who-" I started before the boy, Kit apparently, interrupted me.

"I already told you," he said with a new air of confidence and authority. "Frank isn't hiring right now."

"Of course he isn't," the old man said. "I've already hired someone. Her," he said, pointing towards me with his knuckle.

Kit and I sucked in a sharp breath at the same moment.

"You did?" I asked softly at the same time that Kit said, "You did?" in an accusatory tone. His words were piercing and sharp: almost angry.

"I did," the old man announced with glee.

A wide smile spread across my face like a blooming orchid and relief swelled in my heart. I was suddenly prepared to take the job that Mary told me I needed. Even though whether I would actually need it would remain to be seen, in an odd way, I still wanted it. It was something new and my own. Mine.

But as I celebrated my small victory, I had the strangest urge to look to my right, and when I did, I caught the glare of Kit. His tousled, chocolate curls and brown eyes pierced through my eyes, into my soul, and I was sure, from his expression, that whatever he saw, he didn't like. And above all else, unlike Mary and Frank, I was sure that Kit didn't want me working at Frank's bookstore in Downtown Los Angeles. The only question was, Why?