Book Lovers(41)

“My son edited this one,” Sally Goode says proudly. “That’s what he does, for a living.”

“Oh.” Someone get me a public speaking trophy, I’m on fire. Only speaking to Libby and Charlie for a week has clearly diminished my capacity to slip into Professional Nora.

Sally tells me my total, and when I hand over my card, her eyes slide across it. “Thought that might be you! Not often I don’t recognize someone in here. I’m Sally—you’re staying in my cottage.”

“Oh, wow, hi!” I say, once again hoping I come across as a human, raised by other humans. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“You too—how’s the place working out for you? You want a bag for the book?”

I shake my head and accept the book and card back. “Gorgeous! Great.”

“It is, isn’t it?” she says. “Been in my family as long as this shop. Four generations. If we hadn’t had kids, we would’ve lived there forever. Lots of happy memories.”

“Any ghosts?” I ask her.

“Not that I’ve ever seen, but if you meet any, tell them Sally says hi. And not to scare off my guests.” She pats the counter. “You girls need anything up at the cottage? Firewood? Roasting stakes for marshmallows? I’ll send my son over with some wood, just in case.”

Oh, Lord. “That’s okay.”

“He’s got nothing to do anyway.”

Except his two full-time jobs, one of which she just mentioned.

“It’s not necessary,” I insist.

Then she insists, saying verbatim, “I insist.”

“Well,” I say, “thanks.” After a few minutes of work in the café, I thank her again and slip out into the dazzlingly sunny street to cross over to Mug + Shot.

My phone gives a short, snappy vibration. A text from an unknown number.

Why is my mother texting me about how hot you are?

This can only be one person.

Weird, I write. Think it has anything to do with the fact that I just went to the bookstore in nothing but a patent leather trench coat?

Charlie replies with a screenshot of some texts between him and his mom.

Cottage guest is very pretty, Sally writes, then, separately, No ring.

Charlie replied: Oh? Thinking about leaving Dad?

She ignored his comment and instead said, Tall. You always liked tall girls.

What are you talking about, Charlie wrote back, no question mark.

Remember your homecoming date? Lilac Walter-Hixon? She was practically a giant.

That was the eighth-grade formal, he said. It was before my growth spurt.

Well this girl’s very pretty and tall but not too tall.

I stifle a laugh.

Tall but not TOO tall, I tell Charlie, can also be added to my headstone.

He says, I’ll make a note.

I say, She told me you would bring wood over to the cottage for me.

He says, Please swear to me you didn’t make a “too late for that” joke.

No, but Principal Schroeder was in the café, and I’ve heard the gossip moves fast here, so it’s only a matter of time.

Sally’s going to be so disappointed in you, Charlie says.

Me? What about her SON, the Rake of Main Street?

The ship of her disappointment in me set sail a long time ago. I’d have to do something WAY sluttier to let her down now.

When she finds your stash of Bigfoot erotica under your race car bed, maybe the ship will circle back.

Outside Mug + Shot, I lean against the sun-warmed window, the trees lining the lane rustling in a gentle breeze that heightens the smell of espresso in the air.

Another message comes in. A page from the Bigfoot Christmas book, featuring a particularly egregious use of decking the halls, as well as a reference to a sex move called the Voracious Yeti, which doesn’t sound remotely anatomically possible.

Libby walks into my periphery. “Already done with the Wi-Fi?”

“Thoroughly unplugged,” I reply. “Have you ever heard of the Voracious Yeti?”

“That a children’s book?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll have to look it up.”

My phone vibrates with another message: I find the Voracious Yeti highly implausible.

I find myself smiling, possibly with knives. So disappointing. Really pulls the reader out of an otherwise stunning work of realism.





12





I SIT UP, GASPING, cold, panicked.

Libby.

Where is Libby?

My eyes zigzag across the room, searching for something grounding. The first rays of sunlight streaming through a window. The sound of pots and pans clanking. The smell of brewing coffee drifting through the door.

I’m in the cottage.

It’s okay. She’s here. She’s okay.

At home, when I’m anxious, I cycle. When I need a boost of energy, I cycle. When I need to knock myself out, I cycle. When I can’t focus, I cycle.

Here, running is my only option.

I dress quietly, pull on my muddy sneakers, and creep down the stairs to sneak out into the cool morning. I shiver as I cross the foggy meadow, picking up my pace at the woods.

I leap over a gnarled root, then thunder across the footbridge that arcs over the creek.

My throat starts to burn, but the fear is still chasing me. Maybe it’s being here, feeling so far away from Mom, or maybe it’s spending so much time with Libby, but something is bringing me back to all those things I try not to think about.