Chapter 4 Lila
Lila
The bookstore sits like a beacon at the end of Sunset Boulevard, its windows glowing with warm light against the early evening shadows.
I pull into the parking lot, my heart already lifting at the thought of losing myself among the shelves.
It’s my sanctuary, the one place where Eli’s voice doesn’t follow me, where I can breathe without feeling his eyes tracking every expansion of my lungs.
I grab my purse and practically skip to the entrance, the smell of paper and possibility greeting me as I step inside.
The bell above the door jingles, announcing my arrival, but no one looks up.
That’s what I love about this place. Everyone is too absorbed in their own literary worlds to care who comes or goes.
I nod to the older woman behind the counter, a silent greeting we’ve exchanged dozens of times, and make a beeline for the romance section in the back corner of the store.
My hands tremble with excitement as I scan the new releases, running a fingertip down their spines.
And there it is, the book I’ve been waiting for, its cover adorned with dark colors and the silhouette of a man.
The latest from my favorite author. I clutch it to my chest like it’s a precious artifact, already imagining the hours I’ll spend curled in my library, lost in someone else’s love story.
But one book isn’t enough. Who knows when I’ll be able to visit again?
I need a stockpile, a fortress of fiction, to shield me from the silence of the house.
I move methodically through the shelves, pulling out anything that catches my eye, a historical romance with a defiant-looking woman on the cover, a paranormal love story with a wolf-man whose eyes seem to follow me.
My collection grows in my arms. Each book another night, I won’t have to think about my own life.
“Those are some good choices.”
The deep voice startles me so badly I nearly drop my precious stack.
I turn, finding myself face to face with a man I’ve never seen before.
He’s tall, taller than Eli, with broad shoulders encased in worn leather.
A motorcycle jacket, heavy boots, dark riding leather pants.
His helmet dangles from one hand while the other holds a small stack of books.
I stare at him, unsure how to respond to a stranger starting a conversation. This doesn’t happen to me. I’m not conventionally attractive at all. I’m the weird redhead girl.
“You’re gorgeous, by the way,” he adds, his eyes, a striking hazel I can see even in the dim corner lighting, fixed on mine.
My breath catches. Is he talking to me? I look around, certain there must be someone else, someone who actually deserves that word. But there’s only the empty aisle and shelves of romance novels witnessing my confusion.
“Excuse me?” I finally manage, my voice flustered and shaky. “Who are you talking to?”
“You,” he lightly chuckles. “You’re gorgeous,” he says, his eyes locked on mine.
“You’re calling me gorgeous?” The words tumble out before I can stop them, disbelief making me blunt.
He smiles, and it transforms his face from merely handsome to something that makes my stomach flip. “I call it like I see it.”
“You don’t know me,” I say, clutching my books tighter, as if they might shield me from this strange interaction. “And I’m married.” I don’t know why I add that last part, some ingrained loyalty to Eli that persists despite everything, or maybe just a reflex, a warning to myself as much as to him.
“Are you even buying those books, or are you just trying to pick up random women?” I ask, nodding at the small stack in his hand, trying to regain some control over this situation.
He holds up his selection, a couple of fantasy novels with dragons and skulls on their covers, and at the bottom, peeking out, the corner of what is unmistakably a dark romance novel, its cover featuring a masked man.
I laugh, not at his selection, but at the absurdity of the situation. A smoking hot man, in a bookstore, calling me gorgeous, reading the same kinds of books I do. It feels like a scene from one of my novels, not my actual life.
“What’s funny?” he asks, but he’s smiling too, like he’s in on the joke.
“Nothing,” I say, shaking my head. “I just... I need to check out.”
I turn abruptly, walking toward the front of the store, my heart pounding in a way that has nothing to do with anxiety for once. Behind me, I hear his boots on the hardwood floor, following at a respectful distance.
One of my books, the paranormal romance, slips from my precarious stack and falls to the floor with a soft thud. Before I can bend to retrieve it, he’s there, picking it up.
“You dropped something,” he says, holding it out to me.
Our fingers brush as I take it, and the contact sends an electric current up my arm. I jerk back, nearly dropping the book again. “Thanks,” I mutter, quickly adding it back to my pile.
At the counter, I place my stack down, avoiding the curious look the clerk gives me and the unnamed man, who’s now standing a few feet behind me, waiting his turn. I focus on digging through my purse for my wallet, pulling out my debit card with slightly trembling fingers.
The clerk scans each book, the beep of the register a steady rhythm that helps calm my racing heart. “That’ll be $87.45,” she says, and I slide my card through the reader.
The machine beeps, an angry sound that’s different from the scanner. “I’m sorry,” the clerk says, her voice dropping to that sympathetic tone retail workers perfect. “It’s declined.”
Heat floods my face. “That’s impossible. Can you try again?”
She does, her movements more careful this time, like she’s trying to be extra gentle with the machine. Another angry beep. “I’m sorry,” she repeats.
I can feel his presence behind me, witness to my humiliation. The air in the store suddenly feels too thick to breathe. “I... I need to make a call,” I stammer, stepping away from the counter, leaving my precious books behind.
Stumbling toward the front door, pushing it open and gulping in the cooler outside air. My hands shake as I pull out my phone and dial the bank’s number, already knowing what they’ll say but needing to hear it, anyway.
After navigating the automated system, a customer service representative confirms my worst fear.
“I’m showing that you called earlier today and notified us that your card was lost or stolen.
You also added your husband as the account primary.
We sent a notification earlier, ‘If this was not a mistake, please ignore.’ We didn’t receive a response. So, we went ahead with the changes.”
The timing isn’t lost on me. I had just gotten to work and forgot about the bank notification. That wasn’t even 10 minutes after I left the house and I told him I was coming here. My throat tightens as I thank the representative and hang up, then immediately dial Eli’s number.
He answers on the second ring. “What?”
Just that one word, dripping with annoyance, makes me shrink. “My bank card is called in as missing… by me this morning.” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
“Yeah, I know,” he says, and I can hear the smirk in his voice. “I told you no more books.”
“It’s my money,” I say, but the words come out weak, lacking conviction because we both know it isn’t true. Not really. Not in any way that matters.
“It’s my money now,” he says, “and I’m sick of you wasting it on that shit. You’ve got enough to last you a lifetime.”
“They’re not shit, they’re-”
“They’re garbage, Lila. Mindless garbage for bored housewives who don’t appreciate what they have. Which apparently includes you.”
My eyes burn with unshed tears. “I need to buy dinner and groceries, Eli. I can’t do that now.”
“Use my credit card. That’s still open to you. Consider it a lesson in listening to me the first time I tell you something.” He hangs up before I can respond.
I stand there with the phone pressed to my ear, listening to the silence, feeling the humiliation wash over me in waves. My vision blurs as tears finally spill over. I wipe them away furiously, hating that he can do this to me from miles away, hating that I still let him.
I need to get to my car before I completely fall apart. No one here needs to see me cry. I shove my phone back into my purse and start walking, head down, toward the parking lot.
Once inside my SUV, I let the tears come freely, hot tracks down my cheeks that I don’t bother wiping away. I grip the steering wheel, resting my forehead against it, trying to breathe through the tightness in my chest.
A knock on my window makes me jump. I look up to see the man standing there, my stack of books in his arms, his expression concerned. For a wild moment, I consider ignoring him, driving away, pretending this humiliating evening never happened.
Instead, I roll down my window just enough to speak. “Yes?”
“Your books,” he says, holding them up. “Your card went through on the third try.”
I stare at him, knowing it’s a lie. “I don’t like liars,” I say, my voice raspy from crying.
He has the grace to look sheepish. “Okay, I bought them. But they’re yours. You looked like you really wanted them.”
The gesture is so unexpected, so kind, that fresh tears spring to my eyes. “I can’t accept that,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m not a charity case.”
“It’s not charity,” he insists. “Think of it as... an investment. In your happiness.”
“You don’t know me,” I repeat my earlier words, feeling a little more frantic than the last time I spoke them.
“I’d like to,” he says simply.
I look at him, really look at him, trying to find the angle, the hidden motive. Men like him don’t notice women like me, and they certainly don’t buy them books. “Why?”
He shifts the books in his arms, considering his answer.
“Because you look like someone who deserves better than what you got tonight. Because I’ve never seen anyone’s face light up the way yours did when you found that book.
Because I’m curious about a woman who reads romance but flinches when someone calls her gorgeous. ”
His honesty disarms me, but I still shake my head. “Just leave me alone.”
With that, he turns and walks away. I watch in my side-view mirror as he approaches a sleek black motorcycle parked near the entrance, placing the books in a removable compartment and making a phone call.
I half wonder what it’s about, and half don’t care at all.
After a few minutes, he slides his helmet on and swings his leg over the seat.
The engine roars to life, a deep, throaty sound that vibrates in my chest.
The ride home stretches before me, a journey back to reality after this strange interlude. I start the engine but don’t pull away immediately, instead sitting in the quiet darkness of my car, thinking about a stranger who called me gorgeous and the husband waiting at home who never has.