More Than Words

Later that day, I was checking out a man and his daughter. They were buying her first chapter book, and she was ridiculously excited about it, bouncing up and down with a huge smile on her face.

“Well, there you go.” I said, handing her the bag directly. “I hope to see you back for more later. I’m sure you’ll do great.”

“Thank you!” she squealed, peeking in the bag to see the book one last time, before tugging on my sleeve and pulling me down to her height so she could wrap her tiny arms around my neck in a tight hug. “You’re awesome, bookstore man.”

I chuckled lightly at my nickname and smiled. “Good luck with the reading.”

“Thanks for everything.” her dad said, wrapping one of her tiny hands in his and starting to walk out the door.

“No problem. It’s what I love to do.” I said.

It really was. I was so happy every time I could help a customer find what they wanted, because I knew that some books will stay in your mind forever and could shape your life. Books have a tendency of sticking in your mind. I can’t remember half the things I learned in geometry or economics, but I can tell you the reading lists for every year of high school English class.

I walked back around the counter and rearranged my desk a little, picking up the various pens that I’d had people signing receipts with and putting them back in the cup next to the computer monitor. When I’d moved on to make sure the money drawer was all in order, with each of the amounts of money in their right place and in neat stacks, I heard the shop bell tinkle and looked up, shocked to see a guy who was probably the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen in real life.

He had dark black hair that shone in the sunlight and deep blue eyes that could be mistaken for black if you weren’t paying enough attention. He was skinny, but you could tell he had some muscle. He saw me at the counter and smiled, nearly making me drop my mouth open in awe. He had the most beautiful smile; it was warm and welcoming and kind, but not fake at all, and there was a hint of mischief behind it.

“Hello.” he said. Oh god, he’s English, too.

“Hi.” I was able to choke out.

“I noticed you had a help wanted sign out front.” he said, pointing to the window.

“Yep.” I said, trying to remain as calm as possible. “My friend, Carly, who used to work here, moved out to New York City with her boyfriend, today actually, because her boyfriend got a job as a sous chef, so I need someone to fill her spot.” Oh god, he probably doesn’t want to know about my personal life.

“Oh, well, that sucks.” he said. “Were you two close?”

“We still are.” I said. “She’s only 45 minutes away, so...”

“Maybe.” he said. “So, the spot’s still open, then?”

“Yeah.” I said. “It’s just for Saturday, from 8 until 4. That’s our busiest time, so I need an extra pair of hands. Normally, I just man the shop myself, since, you know, it’s a small town. Not too many people coming in on a daily basis.”

“Only Saturday?” he said. “Would it be possible for me to work more hours?”

“Are you serious asking for more work?” I asked. “Are you an alien?”

He laughed quietly at that and I almost fainted at how good he looked when he was laughing. “No; well, I guess I am, of a sort. I wasn’t born here, as you can probably tell. I’ve lived in Texas for the past 18 years, though, so I’ve pretty much lost all my English mannerisms.”

“So you won’t be saying bloody hell every time you fuck something up?”

“I wouldn’t count on it.” he said. “The reason why I want more hours, though, is I’ve just moved out here from New York, and I’d like to get a good footing here.”

“All right, well, when are you free?”

“Pretty much all the time.” he said. “Like I said, I just moved here. I have no commitments.”

“Oh, well, do you want to just… come whenever? I mean, it’s a small town, you’ll be able to let me know when you’re coming in and when you’re gonna rest. And then we’ll get a schedule worked out when you see what it’s like?”

“That sounds like a plan.” he said.

“What’s your name?” I said, shocked that I hadn’t asked him this before.

“Nicholas Clarke. Nice to meet you. And you?” he said, extending a hand for me to shake.
“Ellory Nickelson.” I said. “Welcome to The Village Bookshop.”

“You mean I got the job?”

“Well, yeah.” I said. “You can stick around and I can show you the ropes or you can head out and explore the town. If you go out, just be back at ten. That’s when the shop closes.”

“Wow, you work long hours.” he said. “From 8 until 10, it’s just you?”

“Yeah.” I said. “This shop is like my baby. It was my grandmother’s, and then it was my mother’s and now it’s mine.”

“Did your mum retire?” he asked.

“You liar, you said you’d lost your British mannerisms.” I said, pointing out his slip.

“That’s the one I can’t shake.” he said. “My mum is English, and when I’m around her and my dad, my British side comes out.”

“To answer your question, my mom, um, died. Three years ago.” I said, looking down at my shoes. I wasn’t ashamed or afraid of telling people about my mom, but it was always a little awkward.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” he said. “How did it happen? Or, wait, I guess you don’t want to really talk about it. Feel free to change the subject.”

“No, it’s fine. She died of cancer.” I said.

Something in his face changed when I said the word cancer. It was like he knew exactly the kind of pain I was talking about, like he’d experienced it himself. I wonder if he knew someone who died of cancer. Most people do, nowadays. I’m not going to ask about it though, I decided. It might be painful for him to talk about.

We stayed silent for a while, before I hopped up off of my stool and clapped my hands together. “Well, do you want a tour?”