"Oh my God, Jacqueline, c’mon. He clearly likes you. I mean, he's hanging around even though you're acting so ridiculously desperate."
"That's what I'm talking about,” I snap at her. “Why is he so interested?”
"I was joking, you moron,” Allison says, tilting her head to one side and propping it up with her hand. "Look, maybe he actually likes you.”
33
Jacqueline
The following evening, after another day of avoiding taking his calls and just replying casually over text, but saying nothing in particular, I order some food from the Denny's at the corner and take a walk over to Main Street to pick it up.
I window shop, looking into all the little boutiques and even venture in the one that sells cool vintage items found in nice flea markets; artistic glass bowls and unusual clothing that only people in New York City and independent films seem to wear. In the back, I find shelves of novels. Most are paperbacks, but there are a few hard covers as well.
I've always loved the smell of a used bookstore. There’s something about the paper that has been touched by hundreds of people before me and the stories that have been loved.
The thing about fiction is that it's not the books that you're forced to read in school that you really make a connection with. It's not the ones that need explanations and analysis, but it's really the ones that you read for pleasure. It’s all about the ones that you re-read over and over again, because you happen to love the characters or because the characters on some level, despite all of their obstacles and problems, resemble you.
That's what I've always tried to find in fiction. I've looked for books that were basically about me. I wanted to read about girls who are not particularly confident at first, gaining in that strength and growing into proud, competent women.
"May I help you with anything?" An older woman with bright purple nails and a shaved head walks up to me.
She has a Bruce Springsteen T-shirt on and the kind of fire in her eyes that's difficult to describe.
"No, I'm good. I'm just browsing."
"You're new around here?" she asks.
"I'm not from here."
"Oh, you have a family member in the hospital?"
I nod again, not really wanting to talk about it.
"We have people coming in here trying to pass the time while they wait. How is your family member doing?"
"Not good," I state. "It's kind of a wait and see type of situation."
"Oh, I'm really sorry about that, honey," she says, taking a step forward and draping her arm around me.
Suddenly all of the emotions that I've been bottling up and keeping to myself rush to the surface.
I push myself away and I try to keep the tears from streaming down my face, and when that's not possible, I wipe them as quickly as I can, looking away.
“It’s my mom,” I whisper.
She gives me a moment, not saying a word.
"You're going to be all right,” she says when I look up at her. "It's in God's hands now, whatever happens."
"Yeah, I guess. I just wish that there were something I could do."
"You're thinking about her. You're sending her good vibes, positive energy. That's all you can do, but don't kick yourself over anything. Your mom knows how much you love her and how worried you are."
When the woman walks away, I see the scar on the back of her head going from the nape of her neck, all the way to the top. I want to ask her about it, but I already know as much as I perhaps should. She had some sort of surgery and seems to be in recovery.
Looking through the books again, I choose seven titles that I hope will let me think about something other than my own issues: a few heart-pounding thrillers, two suspense novels about marriage issues and lies and secrets, and a couple of dark romances.
"That will be $7.50," she says, pounding into the ancient cash register.
When a little receipt prints out, she hands it to me. I hand her the cash, and she offers a bag, but I decline. I have a whole stash of them at the hotel that I don't know what to do with.
I walk all the way back to the hotel, enjoying the slightly warmer air. The clouds are hanging low now, filtering the sunset, creating bright yellow and gold hues over the horizon.
I wanted to go see more of this place. It looks beautiful, full of nature and wilderness and people that are a lot nicer than they are back home. But, of course, I can't do that. My life is tied to the hospital now.
Holding onto the books, I reach into my pocket to retrieve the door key. It all becomes rather precarious when the books start to shift. I lift up my foot to try to keep them in place with my knee. Just as I push the door key into the slot and it dings green, the books come tumbling to the floor.
"Shit," I mumble to myself.
"Can I help you with that?"
A familiar voice sends shivers up my spine.
No, it can't be him, I say to myself. No, don't even think that.
I turn around slowly, my eyes going all the way, starting from his gray slim-cut suit. The white button down shirt is tucked into his belt, and he's not wearing a tie.
I'm afraid to meet his eyes. I look at his strong jawline and the slightly parted lips and I know exactly who it is.
"Dante?" I ask. "What are you doing here?"
"I was in town for business, so I thought I would say hi."
He kneels down to pick up my books.
My heart starts to thump out of my chest.
“But why are you here?" I ask him while he holds my book collection in his hands, waiting for me to open the door.
I hesitate.
"Look, if you want me to leave, just tell me. But I was worried about you. I thought that you'd want someone to talk to during this difficult time."
“So, you just showed up?"
He nods. "Was that wrong?"
"I don't know."
I shake my head, blood thumping through my brain, and I can practically hear it slosh around.
“Here, let me just drop these off for you, and I can go."
I open the door, and we walk into the dark one-bedroom apartment hotel with a small college-sized refrigerator in the corner and a small microwave on top.
I flip on the light because the one window with heavy curtains doesn't provide enough of it.
There's a durable but rather uncomfortable couch right near the front door, and I ask him if he wants anything to drink.
"What do you have?" he asks, plopping the books onto the reddish brown wooden table that has been serving as both a dining room and an office. "You've got quite a haul here. Going to be busy."
I nod, walking over to the kitchenette and grabbing two glasses, filling them with water.
"This is all I have.” I hand one to him.
"You know, I thought that you'd be more of a Kindle kind of reader."
"I am," I say, shifting my weight from one foot to another, realizing that I'm still wearing my boots and my coat. "I just saw the thrift store and haven't read a paperback in a while."
"Well, they look interesting,” Dante says, going through the book covers.
Suddenly, I have a flashback to being a kid.