Chapter One #2
My mind immediately went crazy with the million things this could be.
It’s obviously a book, but what kind and why?
I grabbed my phone and Googled. Sure enough, it’s a book written by Tim Bauler called Unspoken Things.
More Googling revealed that it’s a romance book and some plot details which couldn’t really find a place to land in the storm happening in my brain.
Speed-walking back through the train terminal, I ran through my could-this-be-a-killer checklist and it checked out: Maple Leaf Books is a public place, lots of people, someone would certainly help me fight off my secret attacker. And poisoning? Extremely unlikely at a bookstore.
So Maple Leaf Books was my next stop. I found myself breathing heavily all the way back through the train station, most definitely not because of the mysterious envelope burning a hole in my pocket.
Which brings me here: the bookstore.
Turns out, the romance section of Maple Leaf Books is huge, wrapping around several shelves in a way that doesn’t seem very intuitive.
It takes me several back-and-forth trips to orient myself and find the “B for Bauler” section.
It’s been forever since I’ve been in a bookstore, and I’m remembering that the books used to be smaller, and shinier and possibly embossed or something.
And you used to be able to know it was a romance because there were scantily clad people on the front.
But here, if the “romance” sign hadn’t been posted above this shelf, I would’ve never guessed these were romance books based on their cartoon-like, simple covers.
And as paperbacks go, the format is larger than it used to be.
Weird how things like that can change over time. I guess they sell more books this way.
I double-check the gift card instructions for the millionth time to verify the title and author for absolutely certain.
He’s written a lot of books which occupy a large section of the shelf.
I see The Outlier, Wings over Westburg, and Row Champions, but no Unspoken Things.
I take my finger and slide it physically across the books as if that will actually help increase my ability to conjure up this darn book.
It doesn’t. It’s not here. There are no copies of this book on this shelf.
I stand for a minute and let the colorful spines blur together like modern art.
What now? There’s nothing I can do. The book simply isn’t here.
My mind retraces my book-hunt prep. Bauler only writes romance books, so I’m in the right section.
There’s only one Maple Leaf in town, so that’s not a variable.
There’s no date or time on the gift card clue, so there’s not a specific time to be here. There’s nothing to reassess.
It’s moments like these that I begin to reclassify my life as a waste of time.
What was I thinking? Why am I even here at this bookstore?
What kind of loser am I that I actually thought I should follow the instructions on a coffee cup from a stranger or a random message in a train station locker?
I take a few steps back toward the sci-fi section and let my eyes refocus.
I look again on the shelf. Nope, didn’t magically appear like the ketchup in the fridge does sometimes.
I turn and head toward, well, nowhere. I’m just walking away because, um, what else can I do?
I get to the tables in the middle of the store with stacks of sorted hardcover books when it occurs to me just how out of place I feel.
I’m painfully hyper-aware of the people around me.
Is anyone watching? Does anyone avert their eyes quickly when I make eye contact?
Just then, an employee in their perfect black shirt, with their perfect black pants and their perfect gold nameplate asks me: “Is there anything I can help you find?”
It takes a few seconds for me to realize that I’m not responding. He waits patiently, the small stud in his nostril sparkling in the overhead lights.
“I’m just looking, thanks.” I look at the floor.
Muscle memory is taking over. Just as he turns away, I reach out a hand toward him impulsively and make some strange guttural sound.
“I’m looking for a book!” I blurt. Obviously.
The employee turns and looks at me, I guess waiting for me to finish whatever sentence I’ve started, or possibly say something less obvious.
“I’m looking for…” I pull out the envelope and gift card with the sloppy message, showing it to him, referencing it like it has the answer to a math problem that I don’t exactly believe is the actual answer, and repeat the name of the book, “Unspoken Things by Tim Bauler.” The employee smiles for a moment, looks from the blue scrawl on the card to my face as I breathe a giant sigh.
Why am I so nervous? Can he tell that I am nervous?
Did I just breathe in his face? Does my breath reek? My hand involuntarily covers my mouth.
I turn on my heels as he makes some noise that I translate as “follow me” and he heads directly back to the section of the bookstore I was at previously.
“All of Bauler’s books will be right here,” he says, sliding his similarly-unmagical finger down the spines of the books, much like I had.
“But it appears that we don’t have any copies of that one.
” He tilts his head and looks at the ceiling through the top of his eye sockets.
“I could’ve sworn we had two copies this morning.
” He returns his gaze to me with a smile.
“I can see about ordering you a copy. Would you like me to do that?”
I smile politely. “No thanks.” I’m not sure if I actually say the words, sigh them, or just think them, but he smiles, turns, and heads away, his hefty shoes clunking the floor in a way I hadn’t noticed before.
I stand frozen, wondering what to do. Is this the end of this whole crazy adventure?
Does this, whatever I have built this up to be, come to a crashing halt right here?
I immediately begin trying to talk myself down from this stupid ledge I apparently put myself on.
Worst case scenario is that I’ll have to wait for another secret message.
Actually, worst case scenario is that it’s over, and I’ll never know what happened or who this was.
Or why I’ve made this to be so important to me.
I watch my feet begin to head toward the door.
They are moving slowly, I notice. In the subconscious eye of my mind, I see the coffee-shop guy staring at me through his dark glasses.
What must he be thinking? I see the manga lady.
Does she track my movement toward the door?
Does anyone else care that I’ve hit a dead end and there’s nothing I can do?
I’m left wondering if this dead end doesn’t transcend every aspect of my life.
I notice my feet have quickened their pace, and I catch another vision of something subconsciously: The bookshelf, it had gaps.
In my mental replay, I recreate my magical finger-tracing of the shelf looking for titles, and it’s clear to me that, right where my book was supposed to be alphabetically, there had been a definite gap where the noticeable cattywampusness of the nearby books highlighted the negative space that used to be my book. Which means…