Hearts Like Ours

The next morning dawned uneventful, the way Harry preferred it. He awoke late enough to miss breakfast, but early enough to be productive for the day. He dressed, pulling on a sweater, jeans, and a beanie. He wasn’t really sure what he had planned until he was reaching for the journal, turning back to some previous pages instead of reading on from where he had left off the night before.

He tried to block out the images Charlie had left in his mind from her last entry. Stubborn, he wasn’t about to admit jealousy to himself over an American girl he’d never met, let alone laid eyes on. Instead, he flipped through the pages until he found the one he’d been looking for, a list she’d written, doodles of books around each title.

The list began with Tales of Mystery and Imagination by Edgar Allan Poe and ended with The Virgin Suicides by Jeffrey Eugenides. Between those two titles were others, including a book on the assassination of John F. Kennedy, The Fault in Our Stars by John Green, and others he assumed had been required reading for school at some point, but she had enjoyed enough to want to buy. He thought he recalled seeing the movie version of One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest.

He took a photo of the list on his phone before shoving it in his pocket. The journal itself he gently sat back down in its rightful place on his bedside table. He grabbed his wallet and keys from where they were thrown on his bed and made his way out the door, nearly running his mother over in the process.

“I didn’t realize you were up,” she told him after he’d caught her balance.

“I decided to go out,” he told her, matter-of-fact. She appraised him, giving a slight nod.

“Where to?”

“I want to buy some books.”

Anne started laughing. She wasn’t mocking him, simply surprised. Harry cracked a smile, patting his mom on the elbow before he turned to leave. He bounded down the stairs, mumbled a goodbye to Robin, and was out the door and in the car. The directions his maps app gave him took him to a small downtown area, quaint shops and cafes lined the streets, proudly displaying their individualism and private ownership. The bakery where he had once worked was somewhere near here, though he’d never taken the time to fully explore the hidden gems in his home town. Now seemed like the perfect time, he thought as he pulled up to the address he’d typed in his phone.

The Dusty Bookshelf smelled just as he’d expected it to, doing its title justice. There was a lone man sitting behind a counter situated in the middle of the store. He sat in a rocking chair, his head down as he focused on the book in his hand. The man looked up to meet Harry’s eye as he heard the bell to the front door ring. He was dismissed quickly, written off as a bored college kid exploring on a day off.

The store was unique, a mixture of new releases and old used novels. The books were arranged by genre, alphabetically sorted by author. Thirty-year-old crumbling paperbacks were rested beside deliveries from last week, New York Times bestsellers thrown in with the rejects of elderly women with nothing better to read. He opened the photo on his phone as he cautiously maneuvered through the shelves and stacks of books piled from the floor up. Every now and again, he’d stumble upon a stool or an inviting recliner, carelessly placed throughout the store in the most random of places. They were antique, springs and coils springing from here and there. Harry decided he liked this place and its character, out to impress no one. That, he supposed, was the job of the books.

His eyes trailed the shelves, reading titles and taking in artwork on the covers. The section he was in was horror, and he stumbled upon Edgar Allan Poe, as well as a Stephen King book that had been on her list. He picked these up, examining them. He’d never been big on reading, but that was quickly changing. This would be a new way to get to know her, to elongate their affair. He could read these books, see what she saw, try to find her between the lines of these other authors she loved. What kind of fantasies did she have? What kind of legends did she long to be a part of? What far off places did she yearn to visit? He hoped these books would hold the key, tell more about her and what she was like.

In total, Harry spent about an hour in The Dusty Bookshelf, picking up the books he’d found on Charlie’s list. The old man had seemed surprised when he saw Harry’s haul, almost too much to carry to the register. An orange cat licked itself, eyeing Harry judgementally while he paid. The fall air hit his face full force and he breathed in the smell of it. It was a pleasant contrast to the musty scent of the book store, but not quite as comforting. He deposited his two full bags of books into his passenger seat, but paused as he eyed the cover of one. It was <i>On The Road</i> by Jack Kerouac. This book he picked from the pile and tucked beneath his arm, slamming the car door shut behind him.

A pleasant, deep smell was wafting over from one of the nearby cafes. Following the scent of the coffee, he entered one and studied the menu.

“Harry Styles,” came a voice ahead of him. He looked over, startled, but smiled when his eyes fell on a tall brunette, hair tucked behind her ears.

“Sarah Anderson,” he responded, moving toward her. She leaned over the countertop, allowing him to kiss her cheek. He felt the warmth beneath his lips as they brushed her skin, knew she’d be flushing scarlet from the contact like she had so many years before when he’d kissed her for the first time. It was one of his favorite things about her, always had been, and he wasn’t disappointed when he leaned back and admired the flush of her cheeks.

“I didn’t know you were back in town,” she said, beaming up at him.

“Not for much longer, actually. Just a few days. I’m off to London again next week,” he responded, watching her as she tucked her hair behind her ear, always compulsive about it.

Sarah had been one of the first girls he’d ever seriously dated. They’d been together for a good year and a half when they decided to break it off. It was a mutual agreement by both parties, but Harry knew there was something in her that wouldn’t allow her to let go of him so easily. They’d been friends, though not very close. He no longer had her number, though he was happy to see her.

“You just finished tour, yeah?” she asked. He nodded, taking his lower lip between his teeth.

“What about you? What are you up to?”

“Nothing exciting, though I suppose nothing is compared to what you do. I’m just here at the cafe, trying to afford uni and a semi-social life.”

“Semi-social life?” he asked with a laugh.

“Yeah. I’m dating this guy and hanging out with a few friends, but it’s difficult to find that balance between it all,” she told him with a small smile. He returned it, looking down at his hands. He wished his life were as simple as that.

A small cough came from behind him, an impatient customer anxious for an afternoon caffiene fix. He watched Sarah transform before his eyes from nervous ex-girlfriend trying to impress to professional barista.

“Anyway, it’s good seeing you. You look great. What can I get you to drink?”

He sighed, giving the menu one last good look over. “I’ll just have a caramel latte,” he told her. She nodded, marking this on a cup and ringing him out. Sarah sent him one last smile before moving on to her next customer.

Harry turned and surveyed the dining space in the cafe. He chose a seat near the window at one of the smallest tables and pulled On The Road from where he’d been carrying it beneath his arm. He opened to the first page but was interrupted by Sarah, carrying a cup of coffee he recognized immediately as being a size larger than he’d paid for. He opened his mouth to say something to her, but she cut him off.

“I didn’t know you read,” she said, surprise obvious in her tone of voice. She sounded like his mother.

“New hobby,” he responded. “How much more do I owe you for this cup of coffee?”

Sarah rolled her eyes at him, turning on her heel to walk away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said over her shoulder as she made her way back behind the counter. He watched her go, catching her eye as she began to make her next latte. She winked at him and he smiled in gratitude before turning back to the book.

”I first met Neal not long after my father died... I had just gotten over a serious illness that I won’t bother to talk about except that it really had something to do with my father’s death and my awful feeling that everything was dead. With the coming of Neal there really began for me that part of my life on the road. Prior to that I’d always dreamed of going west, seeing the country, always vaguely planning and never specifically taking off and so on...”

-

Harry wasn’t sure how much time he had passed in that cafe, his nose in a book, his mind engulfed in Kerouac’s straightforward, yet wistful storytelling. The light outside was beginning to dim and he jolted up, surprised at the time on his watch. He’d finished his latte long ago, the empty cup sitting before him with dried drops of coffee at the edges where his lips met the ceramic.

Sarah was still there, cleaning and taking care of the few customers that were still around. He pulled out his wallet and left her a generous tip, glad to have run into her again. She was talking with a customer, a regular by the looks of it. The woman had short sprouts of graying hair and spoke softly, kindly to Sarah. Sarah glanced Harry’s way, drawn to the movement. He waved at her as he exited. He caught her returning smile just as his feet hit the pavement outside.

The drive home was short and quiet, his mind still lost somewhere in the American countryside along with Keruoac. He admired Charlie even more now for having loved this book and introducing him to it. He grabbed his haul of books from the passenger seat and made his way into the house. Greetings from Anne and Robin could be heard as he opened the front door. He hollered back at them before bounding up the steps and into his room, where he deposited the books before joining his parents in the living room.

They were sitting on the couch, side by side, watching some sitcom he’d heard of but never found the time to invest in. He sat down on the floor, his back resting against the bottom of the couch. The floor was his favorite place to sit when he was at home, something Robin teased him about endlessly.

“You were gone for a while. What were you doing?” Anne questioned absently. He looked over at her. She had opened her iPad and was scrolling through some online article.

“I bought some books. Went to a cafe and read. Lost track of time,” he replied absently, watching her.

“Where was your mobile? Your sister tried to phone.”

Harry reached in his pocket, pulling out his black iPhone 5s. He pressed the home button in an attempt to light up the screen but was met by an empty battery icon. He flashed the screen at his mother who shook her head, as if disappointed in him for forgetting to charge his phone.

“She wants to know when she should expect your company,” she said.

“Thursday, I think,” Harry responded, turning back to the TV.

“You’re driving?”

Harry paused, contemplating his options. He did usually drive to London, but the thought of the three hour ride to the city made him nauseous when he thought about it. He wasn’t particularly fond of being in a car alone for that long and had no one to take with him and keep him company.

“No. I think I want to take a train,” he responded, making up his mind. He could feel Anne’s eyes on him, but he pretended he couldn’t sense it, instead focusing on the tv.

“You’re different,” Anne finally said. Harry looked up, meeting her eyes. Robin was also staring at his stepson as if something was off.

“Am I?” he asked in a hushed whisper, afraid of the answer.

“Absolutely. But I like it,” she responded with a wink. Harry smiled back at her and returned his eyes to the tv. That was something he could live with.