Chapter 35
Chapter Thirty-Five
Hunter
W aiting for Cassidy is torture. I know damn well I scared her. My brute force isn’t what pushed her over the edge, though. I could tell when she and I were standing outside the bar, while I was sitting on the bench, that she felt something different. I could tell she knew I wasn’t just a fling. Forcing this realization on her works against me.
I’m sitting on her lounger in her front room just waiting to hear from her, or for her to walk through that door. The girls have brunch this morning, and I’m guessing that can take quite a while, especially with the big day only a week away.
I imagine this room to look a lot like the inside of Cassidy’s mind. Chaotic but organized in a way that she completely understands. Each book or series is specifically placed so that she can find it immediately, but it makes no sense to me.
I get up from the chair and begin to browse. I find a grouping of books together and read each title. I pick up one I don’t know and scan the synopsis. I move down a few books and repeat the process.
Cassidy may be the only person I know who has read most of the books in her home. I can tell by the worn pages, the occasional broken binding. Not once do I find a crease from a folded page. Not once do I find any annotations written.
From looking through even just a few, I can tell that Cassidy doesn’t like to mar the original work. There is a pile of books on the floor next to a shelf tucked away. They seem different from the rest, lonely in a way.
Each grouping has a purpose, and although I may not understand it, Cassidy does.
This seems to be true for much of Cassidy’s life. She makes things fit into categories in which she knows exactly what to do with them. Where do I fit in her life, if at all?
The books on the floor are a mix of authors and genres, with no rhyme or reason for their placement. I pick up the one on the top and flip through the pages, then I do the next. Something seems off about these books. They are different from the rest but somehow seem oddly familiar. When I get to the fourth book, it dawns on me.
The binding of the book is tight. The pages are crisp, without any signs of wear. The covers and corners are pristine and look like a possible remake or redesign. My mind reels wondering why I feel as though I have seen the titles and covers before, but it’s not easy to place.
I continue to look through the pile, and I know that these books are on a “to be read” list. They are untouched and that is what makes them lonely. Cassidy hasn’t flipped through the pages of these books even once, but I know she’s talked about them. Their names are familiar. It’s as if I have heard her speak in detail about a few of these .
It’s when I get to The Alchemist that I realize that this is not just any book. This is a book Cassidy loves. I get off my haunches, walk down her slim hallway, and make my way to her bedroom.
Her bed is made, and the room looks cozy but lonely. I didn’t sleep in her bed last night; it didn’t sit right with me to sleep in her bed without her. A man sleeping alone in his woman’s bed doesn’t seem to have the same appeal as her curled up in mine.
Her room has its fair share of books, but there is a rolling cart next to her bedside table that has a very specific purpose. They’re Cassidy’s best-read books; books the girl reads over and over again, and only seems to fall more in love with.
She had mentioned getting this cart after seeing my mother’s first-edition shelf. Wanting to make a small addition in her home similar to that effect but not taking up too much room, since she doesn’t have much to spare.
Each of the books in this cart matches the pile in the living room. This cart is full of Cassidy’s best spent time. It’s her most precious pastime, her favorite fictional moments, but she’s updating them with new ones. The thought crosses my mind that she is doing it for the aesthetics, but I think I know her better than that.
She likes how worn her books are. They add character and a personal touch that is specific to her. She doesn’t mind new books if they’re new to her, or if there is something unfamiliar about them. Fresh cover art, a new special edition epilogue, or hardcover versus paperback.
Grabbing three of the books off her cart, I make my way back to the living room to compare the pile on the floor and the books she has tucked away in her room. The wear is apparent from the cover alone, and once the pages start turning, I can smell the difference, too. The glue on the binding of the new books is fresh and scentless, whereas Cassidy’s favorites have the loved old book smell. The pages are bright white and starchy, while her older, well-loved books have a softened feel and a creamy hue. Other than these few characteristics, the books are basically the same.
I don’t see Cassidy caring much for the vanity of her library or books, since they serve her an actual purpose. They’re her life outside of work. They’re her escape from reality. They’re her adventures and memories.
The new books have some purpose, and it’s not my place to figure it out. I start gathering all the books together and putting the originals back in their place.
Once back in her front room, I finish looking through the mysterious pile of repeaters. The last one is Gone Girl , which Cassidy and I had recently covered. I flip the book open, and there’s a note on a piece of paper nestled between the first few pages. The writing can be best described as scribble, and I chuckle.
I’m sure this book is in your mother’s library if she likes it. Thought maybe you should have your own and then you can understand what I’m talking about when I go on and on about it. More books to come.
Glitter Girl _
I actually hate that I wrote that.
-C. Walker
Much bette r
Glitter Girl. I like it. It suits her in more ways than she thinks. Plopping down on the couch, I flip through the first few pages before sleep takes me. There has been tension in the air and on my shoulders for the last few days and suddenly, the urge to close my eyes and rest wins.