25. Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Five
Elowen Briar
Car Status: Alive, Well, Repaired, and Offended
Plus, the only solid flirting I can get out of him is when I send a photo of myself.
Maybe, I’m fishing for him to request to see me.
Maybe, I’m debating where the line is and whether or not I need to cross it first. If there were a competition for superiority between his attractiveness and mixed signals, they would have to call a tie.
I slide my seatbelt across me as the engine purrs.
It’s the first time I’ve heard it in weeks, and the sound is weirdly satisfying.
Turns out it wasn’t just a dead battery.
If I knew any better, I would say they swindled me, but I double checked with Imani’s dad.
He said he stopped by and verified everything I had been told.
Now, $1,400 later, I have my rinky-dink vehicle back.
Good ole Oscar. I tap the steering wheel with my thumb.
Not nervously. Just thoughtfully. The destination on my GPS is still open from the mechanic: HOME.
And, I am home. Technically. But my fingers hover over the dashboard screen like they might reroute me if I let them.
The bookstore is already open for the day.
I check their hours one more time. I want to see Beau more than I would like to admit.
Plus, Imani isn’t answering my “I’m officially mobile again” text, which means I have no distractions.
It’s just me, Oscar, and the growing curiosity I haven’t been able to shake since the night I met Beau.
Three weeks of texting. Three weeks of riddles, little jokes, and late night questions that skirt the edge of something personal.
He’ll ask about my favorite place to read, and I’ll send a picture of my couch.
I’ll ask about his first favorite book, and he’ll quote something I have to Google. But he hasn’t asked me out. Not once.
He doesn’t flirt like other guys. Just inching closer and closer to a line that it seems he doesn’t have any need to cross.
He doesn’t usually double-text for a reply.
Not that I give him the chance. If he texts, I answer as soon as the notification pops up on my phone.
He doesn’t drop compliments like bait. Everything about him is subtle.
Easy. Which, of course, makes it infuriatingly complicated.
Friends miss each other. Friends compliment one another. Friends tread that line of who’s going to do it first. Right? I glance at the clock. 9:53 a.m.
He’s working at the store by now. Probably already alphabetizing something by hand. Or reading six things at once. He probably isn’t thinking about me at all. I sigh and turn off the engine. Then, immediately turn it back on.
“This is stupid,” I mutter to no one.
What if I play it off like I just was in the area and figured I’d stop by for something to read? That wouldn’t be a total lie. I do need a new book.
But my hands are already adjusting the AC down, shifting into drive. Because I’m not going there to see him, obviously. I’m going to buy a book. Maybe two?
Definitely not hoping he’ll lock eyes with me and take me right there in the middle of the lobby. Just a book. And maybe, running my eyes over his body a few times. I don’t want a sure sign from him. Okay, that’s a lie.
My thumb hovers over Beau’s contact for a second too long before I scoff at myself and tap Imani’s contact again instead. Two rings and she picks up.
“Please tell me you got your car back,” she answers. “Because I cannot emotionally handle watching you brood in my car ANYMORE.”
“Oscar is alive and well,” I say, smiling despite myself. “And slightly insulted.”
“Where are you, El?” She inquires with a questioning tone.
“In my car…” I reply.
“Doing what exactly? Sitting in front of your house like a weirdo?” I can hear the cock of her brow through her tiny ear piece.
“—Yes. How the fuck did you know?” I hesitate.
She laughs. “I will never tell. What if I’m the lurker after all?
” She manically laughs, but realizes her mistake quicker than I could point out.
“Okay, that was too far. I’m not the one you think is creeping around.
Anyways, congrats on getting your wheels back.
Are you celebrating with a joyride or just mentally debating whether to go see your bookish boyfriend? ”
I blink rapidly. “He’s not my—”
“Elowen.” Imani demands.
“What?”
“Don’t insult me by pretending you don’t see what’s going on there.” I can feel her stare through the phone. Witch.
“I wasn’t pretending. I was…redirecting?” I steer the conversation.
“That’s not how conversations work, especially for therapists.”
I sigh, letting my head fall back against the seat.
“Okay, yes. I’m debating it.”
“Girl. You’ve been texting this man for weeks and he still hasn’t asked you out? What is he, a ghost?” She chuckles. I kind of like the sound of that. What if he can turn into fog and smother me out of passion?
I choke on a laugh. “Jesus. Don’t say ghost. I think he’s just super into consent or waiting for me to initiate, I don’t know.”
“—Wait. Are you serious?” Imani full stops, but I can tell she is smirking at my suggestion that he might be submissive.
“No. Maybe. I don’t know. He’s just weirdly polite, seems old-fashioned, and occasionally talks like he has a landline phone as his primary form of contact.”
“Okay, fine. Which, for you, is like… crack. Tell me I’m wrong, Elowen.”
“Okay, rude, but accurate.” I cross my arms and lean against the back of the seat.
Imani hums like she’s thinking. “So, are you going to walk in there and throw yourself at him, or are you just going to attempt to buy another book and spiral in slow motion? Didn’t he say a while back that he had some books coming in you might like? That was an invitation to me.”
“Honestly? Probably, both. And that is soooo not an invitation.” I shrug at her question, still not opening up about my feelings for him.
“Do me a favor, love?”
“What is it?”
“If he doesn’t flirt back, you ask him out.”
“Imaniiiii.” I drag my sentence.
“No! Be bold or at least confusing enough that he has no choice but to ask for clarification. That's kind of on-brand for you.” Imani attempts to keep the conversation light, trying not to push me to admit that I like him out loud.
I smile. “You’re the worst and the best.”
“I’m the best of the worst, and you love me for it!”
“Painfully true.” A beat passes. I stare at the GPS still glowing on my screen. “I’m going,” I say finally.
“Damn right you are,” Imani shouts, “Sorry, Richard. Didn’t mean to yell like that.” She apologizes to her coworker, but it confuses me for a moment. “And if he says something poetic and makes you fall in love, you can blame me.”
I place my head on the steering wheel, “I hope you mean that. Holding that statement against you.”
“Put it on my tab. Now, go get your weirdly hot literary hunk.” She chuckles over the line.
I throw my car into gear for the second time and quickly back out of my driveway. No going back now. I will figure out today if Beau is falling for me just the same as I am for him. Even if that means I have to be the one to take a leap of faith.
I enter the never-changing store. It smells like old paperbacks, sandalwood, and something much wealthier than I have ever known.
Maybe whiskey, too. Beau has a tendency to smell like whiskey.
Red flag? The light inside is golden and soft, filtering through stained glass transoms that throw muted colors across the very obviously new hardwood floor.
No flickering fluorescents or buzzing bulbs.
It’s just antique lamps and candles in sconces, glowing.
This place is a headache-safe space. I could spend hours here pain-free.
The space is tall and narrow, but it somehow feels infinite, like the walls shift when you aren’t looking.
Very Haunted Mansion. The shelves stretch nearly to the ceiling, dark-stained wood lined with books in every imaginable size.
Some new, crisp, and catalogued. Others look worn at the edges like they’d been alive longer than anyone in here.
Speaking of, I still have no idea how old Beau is.
I actually don’t really know much about him.
Yet, here I am falling head over combat boots for him.
The only difference between these books and I is that their spines have been cracked with love.
Each section is labeled in neat, hand-lettered script, no printed signage.
“Dreams,” one says, instead of fantasy. “Sorrows & Survivals”, where I guess famous memoirs live.
Beau has rearranged the world of literature by feeling instead of genre, and somehow it makes perfect sense.
A wrought iron spiral staircase climbs up the back wall to what appears to be a loft.
I’ve only seen it once from a distance. The seating area seems to be for more casual reading, decked out in deep velvet materials and what looks suspiciously like an armoire with clawed feet.
I read a good book that mentioned getting freaky and breaking an armoire once. Wonder if Beau wants to reenact that?
This is the first time I’ve been allowed the time to actually survey my surroundings. Although, I can tell things have been moved since my prior visit.
Near the counter, a vintage phonograph sits quietly beside a stack of poetry chapbooks.
As I scan the building, soaking in all the beautiful knick-knacks, I notice no one has looked up.
All the patrons are reading or conversing.
Minus two younger girls who can’t stop staring at Beau as he stands behind the counter with his back to the door.
His broad shoulders are cloaked in that same dark leather jacket I remember from the night we met.
He is both tall and still, like a painting.
Kai stands in front of him, leaning against the counter like he owns the place.
As if he didn’t just rent space in the same reality as everyone else. Neither of them acknowledge me.