Book Lovers(88)

The back office looks irresistibly cozy in the gloom of the storm, the scarred mahogany desk covered in papers and knickknacks but meticulously arranged in Charlie’s signature style. Beside the lumpy sofa, the fireplace’s mantel and its three-deep rows of family pictures are freshly dusted, and vacuum streaks are still visible on the antique rugs. The bulky air-conditioning unit hangs silent in the window, put out of work by the false-autumn cold snap.

He moves a stack of hardcovers off the sofa, then crosses the room to take the chair behind the desk. His expression seems to tease, See? I’m perfectly harmless over here.

Except nothing about him looks harmless to me. He looks like a Swiss Army knife. A man with six different means to undo me.

This Charlie, for making you spill your secrets.

This one for making you laugh.

This one can turn you on.

This is the one who will convince you you’re capable of anything.

Here is the Charlie who will pull you into his lap to form your human barricade at a hospital.

And the one with the power to take you apart brick by brick.

“How’s Libby?” he asks.

“Well,” I say, “she has a beef jerky purse now.”

“So I guess you’re saying it’s a mixed bag.”

My head tips back, a veritable chortle leaping out of me. “What is it with this town and wordplay?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he deadpans.

“Settle a bet for me and Libby.” I hunch forward over my laptop, the screen folding half closed.

“That’s not really fair to Libby,” Charlie says. “I’m always biased toward a shark.”

Warmth fills my chest, but I press on, undeterred, a hammerhead to my core. “Is Spaaaahhh meant to be said as a sigh or a scream?”

Charlie runs a hand over his eyes as he laughs. “Well, I hate to muddy things even further for you, but back when I lived here, it was called G Spa. So I guess the pronunciation depends on how you think an orgasm sounds.”

“You’re making this up,” I say.

“My imagination is good,” he says, “but not that good.”

“What goes on in those hallowed halls,” I marvel, “and is it legal?”

“Honestly,” Charlie says, “I think it was just a fortuitous mistake. The owner’s name is Gladys Gladbury, so I think that was the reference she was aiming for.”

“She might’ve been aiming for that, but she definitely hit the G Spa.”

He smothers his face with his hand. “Your nightmare brain,” he says, “is my absolute favorite, Stephens.”

My blood starts to simmer as our gazes hold. “I guess we should read.”

“I guess we should,” I say.

This time he looks away first, moves the cursor on his laptop. “Let me know when you’ve finished,” he says.

With some effort, I pivot my attention to Frigid. Within a few paragraphs, Dusty’s hooked me. I’ve sunk into her words, engulfed head to toe by her story.

Nadine and Lola, the perky physical therapist, rush Josephine to the hospital, but after twenty-two hours, the swelling on Jo’s brain still hasn’t gone down. Nadine has to run home to feed the feral cat she’s been housing, and by then, the storm is amping up.

Here, in Goode Books, the walls shiver with our real-life thunder in agreement.

Nadine calls the cat as she walks through her dark apartment, but the usual nonstop yowling doesn’t answer. She sees the window over the sink; she’d left it cracked, and now it’s wide open.

She runs out into the rain, wishing she’d given the cat a name, because screaming You asshole, come back into the wind doesn’t do the trick. Finally, she spots the mangy tabby cowering, halfway in the storm drain.

Nadine starts across the street, hears the peal of rubber over wet asphalt, sees the car barreling toward her.

And then—the air rushes from her lungs.

Her eyes snap closed, pain shooting through her ribs. When she opens her eyes, she’s on the grassy shoulder, Lola sprawled over her. As they catch their breath, the cat scrambles out of the storm drain, looks at her warily, and trots off.

“Shit,” Lola says, scrambling up to chase the cat.

Nadine catches her arm. “Let him go,” she says. “I can’t help him.”

The hospital calls.

My chest aches as I scroll to the first page of the last chapter, taking a breath in preparation before I keep reading.

Nadine and Lola stand together in the sunlit cemetery. No one else has come, apart from the priest. Jo had no one except, over these last months, them. Lola reaches for Nadine’s hand, and though surprised, she lets her take it.

Later, at home, Nadine finds a floral arrangement on her step, a card from her former assistant: I’m sorry for your loss. She carries it inside and gets a vase down. Light streams in from the open window, making the water sparkle as it sluices from the faucet.

From the other room, she hears a feral yowl. Her heart lifts.

White space stretches out down the screen, room to sit and breathe within.

I stare at the blank page, emptied out.

In my favorite books, it’s never quite the ending I want. There’s always a price to be paid.

Mom and Libby liked the love stories where everything turned out perfectly, wrapped in a bow, and I’ve always wondered why I gravitate toward something else.