Book Lovers(104)

“Wow,” I say. “Word does travel fast here.”

“Once, in high school,” he says, “I went to a barber on a whim and got my head shaved. My parents knew before I got home.”

“Impressive,” I say.

“Demented.” He holds the flannel up and I turn, feeling like a delicate socialite in an old black-and-white movie as he slips it over my arms, then turns me back to him and starts buttoning it.

“Is this yours?” I ask.

“Absolutely not,” he says. “I bought it for you.” At my surprise, he laughs. “It was on your list. I got Libby one too. She screamed when I handed it to her. I thought she was going into labor.”

For a few moments, we just smile at each other. It’s the least awkward extended eye contact of my life. It feels like we’ve both signed on for the same activity, and this is it: existing, at each other.

“How do I look?” I say.

“Like a very hot woman,” he says, “in a very unimpressive shirt.”

“All I heard was hot.”

His mouth splits into, quite possibly, my favorite of his various smiles, the one that makes it look like there’s a secret tucked up in one corner of his mouth. “Do you want to dance, Stephens?”

“Do you?” I ask, surprised.

“No,” he says, “but I want to touch you, and it’s a good cover.”

I take his hand and pull him out onto the dance floor, beneath the twinkling lights, while James Taylor’s “Carolina in My Mind” plays like the universe just wants to tease me.

Charlie folds my hand up in his warm palm and I rest my cheek against his sweater, closing my eyes to focus on how this feels. I imprint every detail of him on my mind: the scent of BOOK and citrus, with the almost spicy note that’s all his own; the soft, fine wool and firm chest underneath it; the eager, pulpy thud of his heart; his cheek brushing my temple; the indescribable shivery feeling when he nestles his mouth into my hair and breathes me in.

“Are you excited to eat?” he says quietly.

I open my eyes to study his thick, serious brows. “I already ate. I had Pie Dinner.”

He half shakes his head. “I mean when you get back to the city.”

“Oh.” I press my cheek into his shoulder, fingers curling in, trying to keep him, or me, here awhile longer. “We don’t have to talk about that.”

His hands gently increase their pressure for a moment. “I don’t mind.”

I close my eyes against tears, and after a pause say, “I’ve been craving Thai.”

“There’s a great Thai restaurant around the corner from my apartment,” he says. “I’ll take you someday.”

I let myself picture it again: Charlie in my apartment, his laptop in front of him, his face stern as he reads on my sofa. Ice hiding in the corners of the windowpane behind him, snowflakes melting across the glass, Christmas lights wrapped around the lampposts on the street below, people carrying oversized shopping bags past.

I let myself imagine this feeling lasting. I imagine a world within a world just for Charlie and me, moving the stone walls back a few feet to fit him inside them, and not spending every second looking for the cracks.

This, I think again, is what it is to dream.

And then, because I have to—because if anyone deserves honesty, it’s Charlie—I invite the truth forward to replace the story.

Me working twelve-hour days, trying to off-load my clients, then settle into a new job. Charlie exhausted from long days at the bookstore, weekends at physical therapy appointments with his dad, hours’ worth of googling how to fix leaky sinks and replace loose shingles.

Missed calls. Unanswered texts piling up. Hurt. Grief. Missing each other. Visits canceled for work or family emergencies. Both of us stretched too thin, our hearts spanning too many states, the tension unbearable.

My chest squeezes so tight it hurts. He told me someone needed to make sure I have what I need, but he deserves that too.

My heart races and my body feels like it’s on the verge of coming apart. “Charlie.”

There’s a long silence. His throat bobs as he swallows. His voice is a hoarse, growly whisper. “I know. But don’t say it yet.”

We don’t look at each other. If we look, we’ll know this game of make-believe is over, so we just hold on to each other.

His long-distance relationship was the worst year of his life. Mine almost broke me. He’s right that it’s different, that it’s us and we understand each other, but that’s why I can’t do it.

“A week ago,” I say, “I liked you so much I would have wanted to try to make this work.” I swallow a jagged, fist-sized lump, but still my voice has to scrape by to get out. “But now I think I might love you too much for that.”

I’m surprised to hear myself say it. Not because I was unaware of how I felt—but because I’ve never been the first person to say the L-word. Not even with Jakob. “You don’t have to say anything,” I hurry to add.

His jaw flexes against my temple. “Of course I love you, Nora. If I loved you any less, I’d be trying to convince you that you could be happy here. You have no idea how badly I wish I could be enough.”

“Charlie—” I begin.

“I’m not being self-deprecating,” he promises softly against my ear. “I just don’t think that’s how it works in real life.”