Chapter Thirteen
196 days until graduation
Meet in the Margins is my favorite bookstore in Fairwood, and while that doesn’t say much considering how small the town of Fairwood is, it doesn’t remove the sentiment.
It’s a rainy Friday night, and the sun has already set by the time I walk in the bookstore at almost nine o’clock. This is the best time to come here. The entire front wall is made up of windows that give the perfect view of the rain and street lights outside.
Meet in the Margins not only functions as a bookstore but also as a cafe that stays open almost all night long. It is the perfect place to find all the necessities needed for a long study night.
Since freshman year, I have come to Meet in the Margins at least once a week, but I knew of the bookstore long before then. It may even be my favorite spot in all of Connecticut.
I do homework here all the time. It’s peaceful, and I enjoy escaping somewhere that few people I know will frequent.
Mrs. Stevens, the bookstore owner, knows me by name. She even remembers my preferences based on past books I have bought, making her a stellar recommender.
“Good evening, Gen,” she greets when I walk in the door.
“Hi, Mrs. Stephens.” I smile, taking in the familiarity.
The vines and plants hanging from the ceiling with yellow fairy lights woven in between make the place feel cozy. The lights are dim where tables scatter the area of the first floor nearest the cafe. Most of the lighting is on the second level where all the main bookshelves are located.
“Anything I can help you find?” Mrs. Stevens is upstairs on the second floor, shelving books—none of which I’ve seen before.
“Not right now, I’m coming in to finish my applications. I might pick out something on my way out, though,” I tell her, hopping up the two steps that lead to the raised level of the store, where the tables are. “What are you stocking?”
“We got a new shipment of these gorgeous babies.” She holds up a stack of about ten books, all with different colored cartoon covers, probably rom-coms. “I’m sure your friend would love these.” Winnie.
She loves romance novels and comes here often, either alone or with me. Sometimes, we sit at a table and do homework together while drinking coffee, other times we silently read.
“I’m sure she will,” I tell Mrs. Stevenson when I take a seat at my usual table. “I think she was already planning on stopping by sometime this week for the newest book in the series she’s been reading.”
“I figured.” Mrs. Stephens smiles. “You let her know that I have one saved in the back for her.”
I nod. “I will let her know the next time I see her.”
I love that Winnie loves romance novels. Even though I can’t indulge in the idea of falling in love like characters do in books, I still enjoy them, and I love watching Winnie get all giddy and excited about the cute plots.
Winnie has always been more of a hopeless romantic, while I am not a romantic at all. Her and Eloise get along that way; they are both keen on expressing their love of love. Eloise might be a little more realistic than Winnie however, and not as hopeless.
We’re the complete trifecta of optimist, realist, and pessimist.
Yet, there’s a bit of love in each of us, which is likely what makes us fit so well together. Winnie’s the idealist lover, Eloise is the sensible lover, and I’m the platonic lover.
I think I love my friends platonically more than I could ever love a man romantically.
“Do you want something to drink, honey? Water, coffee, tea?”
“Coffee would be great.” Mrs. Stephens knows me so well.
She sets the mug down next to me, careful to avoid the stacks of papers I have laid out, and right when I absorb the peaceful ambiance of the store, the bell above the door chimes.
That’s odd. Usually, I am the only person who ever comes in here this late.
I look up from my laptop, and who I see should surprise me, but somehow it doesn’t. I have been learning to live with his constant bouts of annoyance.
Jameson Beaumont strolls through the door, as if he comes to my bookstore regularly.
Just great.
I can only hope he’s just in here to get a coffee and leave, but then I see him wander through the few shelves that are on the first floor, and I realize he isn’t just stopping by.
When he looks up and makes eye contact with me, his face forms a shocked expression. I glare. This is my spot; he shouldn’t be surprised that I’m here.
I’m assuming he got dropped off here, considering he wouldn’t have walked in the rain, and he can’t drive in the states.
“Genevieve.” He nods in greeting.
I say nothing, trying instead to focus back on my work. My laptop screen has suddenly become much less interesting, to my distaste. I cannot deal with a distraction right now. Time is running out on these college applications, and I am stressing over not having them done.
Having him here will only delay the process.
I look back to see Jameson walking leisurely around the first level of the store. Occasionally, he picks up a book that interests him. Most of which I’ve already read, which angers me more. We have the same taste in books, what a travesty.
If he were anybody else, I would think about possibly offering similar recommendations, but I refuse to publicly acknowledge that Jameson and I have the same book taste.
Eventually, I hear him come up the steps to the second level, where I am sitting. “What are you working on?” He asks.
I don’t bother looking up at him. I don’t want him to think I am inviting him to have a conversation with me. “My Valedictorian speech.” Please leave me alone.
“What?” He takes another step toward my table, sounding slightly threatened.
“I’m kidding,” I say in a bored tone. “I’m doing college applications. Now if you don’t mind, I would like to be alone.”
“What college?”
I almost shut my laptop, but that would make it seem like I want to talk to him. “None of your business.”
“Geez, someone’s aggressive tonight.” He holds up his hands in mock surrender.
“And you’re rude.” I try to go back to typing, but the chair my feet are resting on is pulled out from under me.
Jameson sits in the stolen seat.
“Do you know how to take any social cues?” I ask him, not hiding my annoyance. “I’ve been silently, yet obviously, begging you to leave since the moment you walked in here, and now I’m worried you’re becoming obsessed with me.”
“I don’t think you really want me to leave.” He shrugs. “As for the obsession, I think the only obsession between the two of us is the one you have with my imaginary death you’ve been concocting in your head.”
“No, I want you to leave. Your arrogance is cushioning the impact of my dismissal toward you, which is only proven more because you believe I am spending my valuable time thinking anything about you.”
“I’m okay with your dismissal if it means I can continue to sit here.”
My hands fall to the table, causing a loud thump to erupt through the bookstore. “Why do you want to be near me so badly?” My voice is as loud as I can make it without being disrespectful.
“You’re assuming I want to be near you, but maybe I’m just staying here because of how comfy this chair is.” His smirk is so cocky it’s sickening.
“I came here for some peace,” I tell him. “Frankly, I don’t give a fuck if you sit there even when there are almost a dozen other chairs that are at least five feet away from me. I need you to leave me alone so I can finish what I came here to work on.”
He nods, like he understands. “You won’t hear another word from me.”
For the next few hours, we sit in silence. I continue to type on my laptop, and Jameson reads one of the books he picked up when he first walked in.
Sometimes, I feel him glance at me. Other times, I glance at him, and on the rare occasion we look up at each other, we quickly look back down.
When I get particularly frustrated with one of my essays and all the ways it’s not coming together, I audibly groan, running my hands through my hair and pulling on the roots in aggravation.
Jameson looks up at me cautiously, and when I think he’s going to say something, all he does is nod toward the cafe area of the store.
I don’t respond. He grabs my mug and walks away. When he returns, he has two mugs, one in each hand.
I find it kind of him that he says nothing about my outburst, proving true to his word that he won’t talk to me for as long as I don’t want him to.He respects me not engaging with him, and I almost find comfort in how okay he is with the solace we’ve created.
Almost. I still don’t like him.
How could I like him after everything between us? We’ve said some utterly cruel things to each other, and I’m unsure of whether we could come back from that.
Not that I want to.
It’s almost eleven o”clock at night when I finally decide to call it quits on my college applications.
Jameson is almost done with the book he had started while sitting next to me.
I get up from my seat once my laptop and the stack of papers that had become scattered across the table are in my backpack.
I wander around the store for a bit, partly trying to decide on a book to read, and partly because I don’t want to go home yet. Then, when I turn around from a particular shelf, Jameson is almost directly behind me, watching intently as I scan my options.
“I like this one.” He reaches above me from behind, his arm stretching over my head as he grabs a book for the top shelf.
The book is Wuthering Heights by Emily Bront?.
“Already read it.”
He keeps trying—book after book—to find one that I haven’t read.
“Okay, last try,” He groans as he puts another Bront? sister book away.
I follow him as he ambles his way through the rows of shelves.“I think you’ve pulled out almost every book that I’ve read, so as long as you don’t choose Pride and Prejudice, you’re in the clear.”
Pride and Prejudice was one of the first books I ever remember reading and loving. I reread it frequently when I want to feel a bit of nostalgia.
“Okay, okay,” he says, seeming to find the one he was looking for. “What about this one?”
The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton.
He holds it out to me; I take it from him and flip through it.
“Winner?” He asks.
“If you constitute a winner as being a book that I have yet to read, then yes, winner.”
We fall quiet, not knowing what else to say. Before Jameson can try to mend the silence, I walk back toward the table we were sitting at.
I sit in the chair with my knees up to my chest, resting the book on my kneecaps as I start the first page.
I would have never thought I would let Jameson pick out a book for me, but I allow my mind to justify it.I didn’t ask him to choose what I read; therefore it means nothing.
When Jameson returns to the table, he continues reading as I do. One of his legs is crossed over the other, and his book rests against the table.
After a while, my eyes grow heavy and I set my book down on the table.
Jameson leans forwards resting one of his elbows on the table. “Does this place ever close?” He whispers in question.
“From three a.m. to four a.m. for cleaning, but other than that, no.”
“Do you work here or something?” I think he’s wondering because he noticed how Mrs. Stephens would come and check up on me.
“No, I’m just here often.” I look up at the clock, it’s almost one in the morning. Collecting my bags, I say, “I should get going.”
Jameson nods. I figured he would leave when I did, but he doesn’t make any attempt to move from the table when I stand.
“Well, I’ll see you around,” I say in an attempt at an agreeable goodbye.
“Yeah,” he answers, leaning back in his chair. “See you, Genevieve.”
By the time I get home, I’m already regretting what I’ve done.Jameson and I are not friends, and we shouldn’t act like it.
As I try to wrangle in my thoughts, I walk up the stairs to my bedroom. Both of my parents are traveling for work, and the house is eerily quiet since Gwen is over at the Callaghan”s house, where she normally spends her time on weekends and almost every day after school.
When I reach my bedroom, there is nothing out of place, exactly how I like it. I place my backpack on my desk chair and open it quickly.
I refuse to let my room be littered with the thoughts of Jameson; I take The Age of Innocence out and I throw it in the garbage can.
I should feel a bit of remorse as I hear it hitting the bottom of the can, but I don’t. A perfectly good book has gone to waste because I can’t control my feelings.
How selfish of me.