This was new. The last time he’d been in a bookstore, it’d been one of the big chains where he’d touched a computer screen to find where the book he needed would be. He didn’t browse, he didn’t get lost, he didn’t ask for help. He found the title on carpentry and paid and left. The whole experience was impersonal, and he liked it that way.
Besides, bookstores like that reminded him of a hot summer day years ago when he thought he could reconnect but was sorely mistaken. It’d taken a weekend alone together and a night of drunken fighting to know that breaking up had been the best bet.
Now, he found the messy head of short blonde hair that had called to him just months ago under the glowing blue lights of that new night club a few blocks away. The unnatural color of the lights teamed with her unruly bright blonde hair had caught his eye. She was sitting on a tiny wooden stool, surrounded by a pile of books and reading the first page of each.
He smiled, halfway but with full feeling. She was adorable, sitting on this miniscule stool with a large armchair just a few feet away. She was stuffed into an alcove formed by three bookcases, just how she liked it. “It’s familiar, like a hug,” she told him the first time he found her here.
She was flipping through the pages of some brightly colored paperback, gnawing on her lower lip and looking up at him through her lashes. She smiled, her tiny mouth puckering slightly. He grinned now.
“You finding anything babe?” He whispered, out of habit of being surrounded by books more than respect for his fellow shoppers.
“Yeah, a few things,” she said, gesturing with her head to the pile of books near her foot. It was like this every month. She’d save a part of her paycheck, putting it toward a few new books.
When he first walked into her apartment, about a week after officially dating, he’d been intimidated. This woman, this tiny ball of energy, lived in a library. Each wall had at least two bookshelves, none of which were the same. She picked them up at estate sales, garage sales, flea markets, you name it. Each was crammed with books, overflowing with titles he recognized but mostly those that he’d never heard of. He remembered her face being overcome with embarrassment as he stood there and took it all in.
“I—I kind of love books.” She’d whispered, looking down shyly.
“Have you read all of these?” He’d asked, impressed.
“Every single one.” Her curt nod had been endearing to him, humble. He’d smiled then, asked her if she was ready for dinner, and enjoyed the hell out of himself that night.
She looked up at him now, clutching a shiny new hardcover in her hands. He smiled as he watched her decide which books she’d be keeping and which she’d be leaving this time. He recognized a few covers, books she’d pulled out last time they’d visited the shop, but the hardcover was catching his attention.
The back jacket had a photo printed on it, a black and white, loosely posed but professional nonetheless. The woman in the photo had a familiar smile, and familiar eyes, but he wasn’t convinced.
He reached for the stack of books, helping her up. He pulled her into him, kissing the top of her head while studying the photo.
Suddenly he felt dizzy, and his knees grew weak. His collar grew tight and his neck grew warm. He felt his heartbeat increase.
“You ok babe?” She asked, a smile still playing on her lips.
“Yeah, I will meet you up front like always?”
She always encouraged him to browse the front section, always hopeful he’d find a book. Even if it was on the structure of ancient wooden pipes or the modern woodcarvings that had recently become en vogue. The lack of books in his apartment had been off-putting to her, at first. After a few months together, though, she’d moved over a small bookcase and filled it with books she thought he might like. He’d never taken the bait on a new book, though.
On his way up front, he passed a table full of the same shiny hardcover she was buying now. The jacket was dark blue, and reminded him of her eyes. This made him smile. The yellow name printed at the bottom, however, took him by surprise.
Maggie Jones. Not Margaret. Certainly not Mags, as he’d affectionately called her. Just Maggie, the girl he’d been in love with for twelve years of his life. Just Maggie, the girl he’d moved away from. Maggie, the girl that could still make his heart beat slower and faster at the same time; still make him seethe with anger yet be filled with undeniable love.
He picked up a copy, cradling it gently in his hands. The binding creaked open, and he flipped to the dedication page. He passed a page with the titles of her other novels—she’d written more than one?
And then he remembered their talk.
“Maggie, I think you could write a book someday.” He closed the notebook in his lap, looking to the sheet of brown hair that was hiding the face of the girl he loved.
“You are only saying that because you have to.”
“No, I am saying it because it’s true. And ten years from now, when you have a book sitting on a table in a bookstore, we will go out for an expensive dinner and celebrate.”
“Stop saying that,” she said, but she looked at him now with a grin. “You know, you will be buying dinner that night.”
“You mean we can’t live off your royalty checks?” He pouted.
“You know writers don’t make that much,” she blushed and rolled her eyes, but smiled sweetly at him. “And what do you mean, ten years from now?”
They were just 19 then.
“I mean, when you and I celebrate your first published book ten years from now.”
“You want a ‘ten years from now’ with me? Are you sure about that? I hog the bed, remember?”
“Yeah, I remember, but I don’t mind.” He had grinned like a fool then, so sure of their future.
“If you’re sure…”
“Mags, I promise. I have ten years.” His cocky grin said it all. Maggie smiled, realizing this was a challenge for him now.
Those words had been so easy, just 6 years ago. He’d been so sure of what he wanted. Maggie.
The dedication page was simple. A few words in the middle of the otherwise clean page.
best friend,
pseudo-sister,
and drinking partner.
More than a decade and
still going strong.
Love You.
Rachel. Her best friend. Still, clearly. The thought made him smile. He’d always been an unpredictable force in her life. He came and went as he pleased, never really stopping to wonder how that must have felt for her. When he was young and in charge, like he felt he was, it hadn’t mattered. But now—
“Baby, where’d you go? You look like you’ve been daydreaming,” her playful voice pulled him out of his reminiscing.
He blinked once and shook his head, putting the book back on the stack where he found it.
“Sorry, sweetheart, just spaced out.” He wrapped his arm around her. “You ready to go?”
She nodded, and they walked the few blocks to his apartment.
It was Sunday morning. The light was pouring through his cracked curtains, casting it’s warmth on the beautiful woman curled up next to him. Her cheeks were rosy with sleep and her hair was splashed crazily on the dark pillowcase underneath. She started stirring, and woke up with a smile.
“Good morning baby,” she whispered, stretching and yawning. He would never tire of her good moods in the mornings. Maggie had always been grouchy for at least an hour until she fully woke up. Where did that come from, brain?
He shook thoughts of Maggie out of his head, and tickled her stomach. She giggled. He loved that sound.
“I’m gonna make tea and read, you gonna stay here a few more minutes?” She asked.
He nodded, rolling over to her warmth as she walked to the kitchen. He liked the nights she stayed at his place. As comfortable as he was in her apartment, he liked to feel like he had more to offer her than silly dreams of the future. He had a substantial wager on the table when it came to their future, not dreams of a perfect life that would be put on hold—perpetually.
Ever since seeing Maggie on that book, he’d been thinking back to another time in another place—an entire other state—that he’d really stopped thinking about years ago.
Moving had been rash. He’d never really planned any grand escape like that before. He and Maggie had “broken up” again, and he was determined to make this the last time. He knew the only way that would be even remotely possible was for one of them to leave. And because she was going to school and had responsibilities that would tie her to the area for at least a few more years, he decided to pack his meager room and take a few things from his parents basement and strike out on his own. Thousands of miles from everything and everyone he knew.
Life in a new city, especially at 21, had been hard. But four years later, he had a career, an apartment, and a girlfriend. Carpentry had never been an interest of his, but when he moved the only work he could find was an apprentice job with a local shop. They built typical pieces of furniture—tables, chairs, counters. But he’d found a niche an hour south in a town filled with retired seniors—“near deads”—, opened his own business, and had been making a more than decent living for three years.
He rolled out of bed now, stretching his back and pulling on a shirt. She was curled up in the corner of his sofa, wrapped in a blanket with a book propped on her legs. He smiled.
“What are you reading?”
She wordlessly held up the book, the one written Maggie, and set it back down.
His head was spinning again, but he hid it by sitting on the couch.
“So, is it like a series? I think I’ve seen you read books by her before.” He was trying his hardest to keep his cool.
“Uh huh,” she flipped the page. “The first one is in your bookshelf.”
He looked over to the bookshelf—made out of hideous laminated wood—and searched from his spot on the couch. He finally stood up, and investigated more closely.
Sure enough, bottom shelf, third from the right. Maggie Jones. It’d been in his apartment all this time, and he never noticed. He pulled it out, the shiny book jacket sliding easily. This cover was green, with dark blue writing. Green was Maggie’s favorite color, naturally.
The book seemed a little thinner than her most recent, which made him smile. He could remember her being worried about that.
“I don’t have enough to say, I don’t think.”
“Sure you do, Mags. Everyone has a story to tell.”
“Well, maybe I will just say everything I want in one book, and then I can go on with my life.”
“Whatever you think is enough, babe,” he’d said with a smile. After that exchange, he’d kissed her for about half an hour. A week later they had made love.
He cracked the spine now, opening to the front page. His hands were shaking.
“I’m gonna dedicate my first book to you,” she had whispered the last time they’d seen each other. She was shivering on a plastic slide at the park. He was standing in front of her, her knees between his. Her face looked different then. More angular, less like a child. She’d lost a little weight and cut her hair. She looked wiser. She looked like someone who had experienced every tragedy life could throw their way. It had only been a few weeks after her cousin’s funeral, and a year since they’d spoken. Enough heartbreak can age anyone.
“You don’t need to dedicate anything to me; I’ve only ever hurt you, Mags.” The night sky was opening the doors of honesty.
Maggie simply shook her head no. “You loved me for years before that, though. The hurt only lasted for a little while, compared to the love we had.”
He kissed her then, full on the mouth and passionately, like he used to.
Now, in his warm living room with his pixie blonde sitting behind him, his hands were shaking. Her first book. Her first dedication page.
I have a hard time
breaking promises
I have always intended to keep.
Where ever you may be,
I hope you are happy.
I love you.
And I expect that celebratory dinner.
The last line made him smile, if only out of nostalgia. He flipped to the summary of the book, scanning quickly.
He stood up, returning to his spot on the couch, and began reading.
Maggie’s first book was face down on his coffee table, finished. He’d read it in a few days, neglecting his housework to read.
It’d been about him. The entire book, was about their relationship.
And now he had to have the others.
The phone rang on her desk. She looked at it, menacingly. Phone calls were not allowed during her writing time. She had been having a hard enough time concentrating lately. This was the last book in the series. This was the ending. This was going to be the most emotionally draining part.
She closed her eyes and ignored the phone. When it stopped ringing, she took a few deep breaths, concentrating on the large handcrafted book case that had been shipped to her from thousands of miles away, from a one-man woodworking business.
Her typing began again, at a ferocious pace. She fell into a rhythm, found her ending, and sent a copy to her editor two weeks later.
A letter came for her, to her personal address. Most times, letters were sent to her publicist who handled the fan messages. Only her family and friends sent letters to her house, but many didn’t resort to that anymore after realizing email was more efficient for her.
There was no return address—the sender was obviously confident it would reach her—but she recognized the stamp. A “forever” stamp, one that would be accepted by the post office no matter how high they raised their prices. She’d given a set to him as a joke, months before they broke up.
The lump in her throat grew, and her hands shakily opened the flap. She hadn’t even bothered walking back inside.
To my Mags,
Your fans may write to a P.O. box, but I still know how to reach you. And apparently I always will. I read your books. I am anticipating the last in the series. I really hope Jake gets the girl, but if I am guessing right, he will probably move thousands of miles away to try and find happiness in the sun and the warmth.
I hope this finds you well. I have a hard time breaking promises I always intended to keep.
I still have four years, but I hope it won’t come to that.
Always,
Your B.
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