3. Just a Boy Standing in Front of a Boy, Asking Him If He Requires Assistance
3
Just a Boy Standing in Front of a Boy, Asking Him If He Requires Assistance
Halfway through the morning, drill sergeant Gladys must be running low on crotchetiness or patience. Maybe both. She gives up taking me through the buyback procedure and tells me to do a sweep of the store for customers or shoplifters while she brews herself a cup of herbal tea. From the way she spits out the word customers , I don’t think there’s much difference in her mind between them and shoplifters. Both are likely the same level of nuisance to her.
“Approach people in a friendly manner and offer them assistance,” Gladys instructs me. “But don’t be so friendly they feel comfortable and want to spend more time in the store. Loitering is a real problem, particularly in bookstores. We want customers to make purchases, and then leave. It’s a fine balance.”
“Good book reference,” I say, hoping some Rohinton Mistry may be what finally warms Gladys to me. Tru was a big fan of Mistry, so naturally, I read it. But he shouldn’t get too much credit; it was an international bestseller and I read everything.
She adjusts her glasses. “What was?”
“Never mind.” I slump off to the nearest aisle.
It’s tempting to browse as I walk around. I run my finger along the spines of the titles. Something about touching a book’s spine always strikes me as somewhat intimate and slightly naughty. You don’t generally go around touching spines unless maybe you’re a chiropractor or pet a lot of dogs and cats. I wonder if the books get the same little thrill from it that I do. I smile and hum to myself quietly, so Gladys won’t hear me and tell me I’m off-key.
I turn to head down the last aisle to the back corner where the romances are kept and see a leg stretching out across the floor. My mind jumps ahead of me to someone having fainted and needing an ambulance, then to someone in the romance section getting romantic . The Campus Books staff told me rumors about students getting caught doing the deed in the library. I brace myself as much as I can and head in.
What I’m not ready to find is a guy reading. Just reading. Head down, nose in a book. Maybe it was too obvious a conclusion to seem plausible, because it’s not nearly as exciting as busting a heist, being the hero in a medical drama, or stumbling upon a couple giving a go at Othello’s beast with two backs.
The owner of the long leg has his other one bent and is resting his chin on his knee. The book he’s immersed in is balanced on the toe of his white sneaker. His hair is short along the back and sides and tousled on top, a little bit longer, highlighted blond. From the way the streaks lie, I can tell they’re from the sun, not a salon. He’s got on a white tee and a pair of light-wash jeans with the cuffs rolled up, no socks. I can see a glimpse of chest hair over his neckline and notice he’s got a fair amount of fine, almost translucent hair covering his arms.
His skin almost glows with a faint golden undertone everywhere it is exposed. Like his hair, it must have decided to drink sunshine.
I don’t know how I missed him coming in, there was only one other customer, a girl around my age named Mya who works at the coffee shop down the street and brings Gladys her daily scone. He must have snuck in when Gladys showed me where to stack returns in the back room because there’s no way I wouldn’t have noticed this guy. I stand there, staring at him, not sure what my next move is.
He reaches out and delicately turns a page. Even more gently he blinks, his eyelashes moving like the wings of a dragonfly at rest. One corner of his mouth shifts up almost imperceptibly. Not a full smile but he’s obviously enjoying whatever it is he’s reading. I can’t see the cover or title.
I half turn to go back down the aisle, figuring I’ll return and clear my throat or sneeze to be sure he hears me coming. But I don’t get a chance because he looks up.
He blinks that dragonfly blink again, his eyes coming into focus as if he’s just woken up. I open my mouth to say something but stop myself when he snaps the book shut. He pulls his other leg up, leans into his knees, and sandwiches the book between his thighs and chest, completely hidden from view.
I narrow my eyes. Whatever is going on, it’s fishy.
“May I help you?” I ask in a pointed tone. It’s only now that I wonder what I’m supposed to do if I did find a shoplifter.
He swallows and squeezes his lips together. He leans forward even more so he can look past me down the aisle.
“I’m good. Uh. Can I help you?” he asks like he’s the one employed here.
“I’m good too,” I say, my mind racing. The guy is fitter than I am and could take me. He could be concealing a weapon. I could very well be in mortal danger, and I’m not trained to stop a dangerous criminal. What would I even do? Scream for help? Try to tackle him? Get into a fistfight? I might get in a good slap or two but that’s it.
We continue to stare at each other.
“You sure?” he asks, with a tilt of his head.
I put my hands on my hips and blurt, “I’m trying to figure out if you’re planning to burgle.”
The guy laughs, leaning back. It’s enough that I can see the title of the book. The Silver Devil , one of the rippingest bodice rippers out there. Not what a sun-soaked would-be frat boy should be reading. Even if I’m not dealing with a shoplifter, my initial instincts may not be completely off. This guy could still be a low-level perv.
“I’m not going to steal. Cross my heart.” And he does. He crosses his heart, like a Boy Scout, before he checks the time on his phone resting on the ground beside him. “It’s later than I thought. I’ll get out of your way.” He stands and scans the aisle for a way out. There is none except to go past me.
But the aisle is narrow. And I am not.
He realizes this when we end up squished only a few inches apart. His cheeks are spotty and red under his golden tan. His blue-gray eyes are like ice over a puddle. He’s still clutching the book to his chest.
“Is it any good?” I ask. When he continues to stare into my eyes without responding, I add, “The book.”
He looks down. “It’s not the sort of thing I normally read.”
“It’s exactly the sort of thing I normally read,” I admit, surprising myself. Being fat and Cass’s kid, I’m all for being who you are and letting your personal brand of freak flag fly. But this guy is a stranger and admitting to reading romances to him is kind of like telling him what cut of underwear I prefer.
He moves as if to step away, but his back is against a set of steel shelves that would look more at home in a garage stocked with power tools than housing romance novels.
“I could make a few recommendations,” I offer. “To get you started. Since I know the area well.”
“No, that’s ok.”
“It’s no problem. Seriously. It’s my favorite thing.”
“Making recommendations or books?”
“Both.”
He holds up The Silver Devil . “I was giving something different a try. I’m not sure it’s for me.”
“That one might have been a lot to start with,” I say. “There’s more variety within the genre nowadays.”
He hesitates, then says, “No offense, but I’m not sold on romance. The relationships portrayed in these books are problematic. They’re not realistic or attainable.”
“Problematic relationships are completely attainable.”
He laughs. “Touché. So, you’re an expert?”
I shrug and can’t help but smile. “I know a few things.”
“About love?”
“About romance.”
“What’s the difference?” He runs a hand through his hair.
I smell laundry detergent and grapefruit shampoo and the kind of inexpensive aftershave fathers might wear gathered in an auditorium on parent council night. I study his face. He looks slightly amused, the smile on his face stretching from his lips through his cheeks and into his eyes.
“Everything.” I pause. “And nothing.”
“I should call you Casanova then.”
Not wanting to give away too much without knowing a little about this stranger, I shrug again. “Depends. What should I call you?”
He grins. “I’m new here.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know. I really do need to go.” He turns and strides toward the front of the store.
I follow. “Did you want to steal that?” I point to the book he’s still carrying.
“Oh right. I don’t think so. Like I said, it’s not really my thing.” He holds the book out.
I pull it toward me. The cover, a half-naked woman in the arms of a stern, rakish man, is dated and the pages are yellowed but otherwise, it’s in perfect condition. He hasn’t let go of the book. Our fingers graze on the spine and I feel a tingle.
“Robert?” I hear Gladys’s sharp voice from behind me.
The guy jerks his hand back from The Silver Devil as if he received an electric shock.
“If he’s ready to cash out, I better do it. You don’t know how to work our machine,” Gladys says as she comes up beside me. “Give that here.”
The guy’s eyes go wide. I know that look. It’s the look of being caught. The look of embarrassment. A look I’ve received my entire life. A lot of people can be judgy about a lot of things including liking romances, and The Silver Devil leans toward salacious and scandalous. That doesn’t make reading it something to be ashamed of. There’s a world of difference between a guilty pleasure and feeling like you’re doing something wrong.
It’s not like this guy and I know each other. It’s not like I have a reason other than I’ve been in his shoes, feeling like someone is judging me for what I like to read, or how extra I am, or how fat, or how I’ve messed up. Those feelings suck and I don’t want someone else feeling that way if I can help it. Especially not because of some book.
With one quick motion, I hide The Silver Devil behind my back.
Gladys fixes me in her glare. “I don’t much care for what it is you’re playing at. Hand it over.”
I position myself so Gladys can’t reach around my body and make a grab for the book. In those few seconds, the guy is out the door, the little bell jingling.
“Not even noon and you already lost your first sale,” Gladys says with an eye roll.
I stare after the guy. Maybe it’s the devil in my hands spurring me on, but I can’t stand thinking of him without a little romance in his life even if his first venture into it was more tawdry than happily ever after.
“I’ll be right back,” I say and hurry out the door before Gladys can object. My thighs rub together as I run up the block, the material of my pants heating up and swishing loudly making me sound like an oversize corduroy grasshopper.
“Hey,” I call. “Hold up.”
The guy stops when he sees me.
I pant as I hold out the book. “Here.”
He doesn’t move to take it. “I don’t normally—”
“You said already. I don’t normally run in the heat. Consider it a welcome gift, new here.”
He extends his hand slowly to take the book from me. “Do you normally give guys you just met gifts?”
“It’s a day for not normally.”
“Maybe I’ll catch you around, Casanova,” he says. “Or is it Robert?”
“Bobby. And it’s not a big town.”
He holds the book up. “Thanks, Bobby.” The sun gathers on his shoulders and the top of his head, outlining him.
“And I should call you?” I ask.
“New here,” he says before he turns, sunlight sparkling off his lashes and in his eyes. He grins back at me over his shoulder as he walks away. “Luke.”
He turns the corner before I head back inside Corner Books.
Gladys is waiting, tapping her foot. “What sort of nonsense was that? We’re a store, not a library. You can’t be giving things away for free.”
I slide my wallet out of my back pocket, thinking of Luke absorbed in the book and knowing it belonged with him. Whatever the damage is, it’s worth it.