The Bookish Life of Nina Hill(49)

Another wall was dedicated to books Nina had already read, which were obviously alphabetized by author and then subordered by date of publication. A few years earlier, while recovering from a broken heart, she had purchased a little stamp kit, library tickets, and library ticket pockets, and spent five weekends in a row organizing her library. It turned out that her heart was only slightly dented and that five weeks is exactly how long you need to spend distracting yourself in order to realize it. Plus, now she could keep track of every time she reread her books or, on the rare occasion she had a friend who could be trusted, when she loaned them out.

Libraries were her favorite places, and when she traveled, she would start out at the local library, thus immediately identifying herself as a total nerd. They say you always remember your first time, and Nina definitely did. Walking into the Los Angeles Central Library to get her first library card, when she was eight or so, was still a memory she treasured. The entry hall of the library was as beautiful as any cathedral, and Nina had looked around and realized she would never run out of things to read, and that certainty filled her with peace and satisfaction. It didn’t matter what hit the fan; as long as there were unread books in the world, she would be fine. Being surrounded by books was the closest she’d ever gotten to feeling like the member of a gang. The books had her back, and the nonfiction, at least, was ready to fight if necessary.

So, Thursday night was reading night, the best night. She had a routine: She left work, she picked up dinner, she got home, she ate, she showered, she put on pajamas and special fluffy socks that she preheated in the microwave, and then she curled up in her enormous chair and read until her eyes crossed.

That night she was reading The Human Comedy by William Saroyan. Liz had been horrified when Nina had said she’d never read anything by him and insisted she take it home immediately.

“Some people say he’s too sentimental, but I think he’s one of the few writers brave enough to write about the intense beauty of love and joy and the ugliness and fear they sometimes cause.”

Nina had looked at her and raised her eyebrows. Liz had shrugged. “See, that’s the kind of statement one makes after reading Saroyan; you can’t help it.”

Nina was enjoying the book; the writing was beautiful, the characters were real, the situations were bittersweet, but it was after an hour or so of reading that she came across a line that struck her so forcefully she had to close the book for a moment: “I’m lonely,” the young character Ulysses said, “and I don’t know what I’m lonely for.”

Nina knew that double whammy: the emotion itself and the frustration of not being able to put it into words. She’d read somewhere that if you can’t put language around an experience or feeling it’s because it’s from your earliest childhood, before speech, when everything was inexplicable and overwhelming. She often felt that way when she was alone in a crowd of people. She’d look at their faces, and ideas would hover on the edge of her mind just out of sight. If she tried to capture them, they’d dig themselves deeper like sand crabs, glimpsed for a second as the feelings washed over her and then were gone.

Impulsively, she pulled out her phone and tugged the little slip of paper with Tom’s number from her pocket. Without giving herself time to think it over and change her mind, she texted him.

“Hi, this is Nina. From the bookstore.”

Then she closed her phone and went back to her book. It buzzed. The phone, not the book.

“Hi.”

Hmm, not exactly an inspiring response. But then, “I don’t know any other Ninas, so you don’t need to qualify yourself.”

She sat and thought for a moment, then typed, “I’m sorry if I seemed rude today.”

“No problem.”

She smiled wryly. He wasn’t saying, no, you weren’t rude, don’t worry about it. He was saying, yes, you were rude, but I’m prepared to accept it and move on. “I have a lot going on right now.”

“So I could see.”

Was he mad at her? It was so difficult in text, and she wondered if her generation’s reliance on written communication was making them better writers or simply more confused people. Body language told you so much; text on its own was subject to misinterpretation in every way possible. You’d think they’d all get very good at subtlety and vocabulary, in order to make their brief conversations more precise, but she hadn’t noticed that trend.

He texted again. “Between chapters?”

He’d remembered what she was doing that night, but did that mean anything? Only that he had a good enough memory to hold a fact for a few hours; let’s not read too much into that, Nina. She pushed down her fluffy sock and scratched where the elastic had been.

“Yes,” she replied. “Something I read made me think of you.”

Dammit. Why had she said that? Now he was going to ask her what, and she was going to have to come up with something, because if she told him it was a line about loneliness, she would suddenly a) reveal too much about herself and b) look like a loser. A lonely, lonely loser.

“Well, it’s nice to hear from you.”

Nina sighed. He’d deflected, thank God.

A few miles away, sitting on a barstool and half watching a soccer game on TV, Tom creased his eyebrows. He’d wanted to ask her what she’d read, but then he’d gotten worried that it would develop into yet another conversation where he felt like an illiterate peasant. He’d managed to dodge that bullet. Now what? It was her turn, so he waited.