Where Nobody Hides

listen

One would think that, by being in college, one would have an ample amount of things to do during the summer—internships, jobs, parties, etc. etc. If that were the case, then I must’ve been in the bathroom when they were handing that stuff out because, so far, all I had been doing was reading book after book, sleeping ‘till one in the afternoon, binge-watching shows on Netflix, and blowing the money that I always seemed to have too much of on choice marijuana and other useless shit.

Undeniably, I lived an incredibly privileged life. With my mother being an established writer and my father a highly successful entrepreneur, I had more money than I knew what to do with. However, I tried actively to avoid the arrogance that came along with being your average rich white dude; most of my clothes and possessions were of good quality but did not overtly exude the fact that I had probably spent a decent amount of money on them, I volunteered at the animal shelter whenever I could and donated money to places that needed it, but most importantly of all I was acutely aware that I really did have it good and would not take it for granted.

As a result of my efforts, I actually did have a few solid friends, and everybody else just felt indifferent towards me. After all that, though, I still preferred the company of myself to the company of others. Which that, and my insatiable need for more books, explained my driving out to this random-ass used bookstore in Menlo after four straight days of holing up in my house doing the aforementioned inane activities. I had heard countless good things about the store, so I deemed it worthwhile to change out of my pajamas and put on some real clothes, gearing up for the just over ten minute long trip out there. After all, it wasn’t like I had anything better to do.

When I arrived it was mid-afternoon, which probably explained why I was miraculously able to find parking in the back of the store. I parked my car and got out, taking in my surroundings: a tiny but beautiful garden to the left of me overflowing with nature—huge, vibrant flowers amongst elegant foliage, yet somehow with enough room to have a few comfy-looking chairs placed amongst it. Behind the garden was a small building with an open door that appeared to have shelves of books inside. I smiled appreciatively—it was already my kind of place and I hadn’t even been inside the store yet.

Excitedly, I walked to the front of the main building and went inside, stopping immediately in my tracks when I first saw the overwhelming amount of mismatched bookshelves crowded together to form a sort of maze with a floor lined by ratty Persian rugs and a nearly threadbare blue carpet. The musty smell of old books was so strong it was almost unbearable, but because of where I was, there was nothing I wanted to smell more.

“Hi, I’m Fiona. Let me know if I can help you find anything,” a voice said to the left of me, shocking me out of my trance.

My head snapped over to look in the direction of where the voice came from, and when I did, my gaze was met with a pair of hazel eyes belonging to a brunette girl roughly my age that sat behind the cash register. She was gorgeous with unblemished, lightly tanned skin framed by wavy shoulder-length hair and had bone structure so good that I couldn’t help but take notice of it. However, the energy she gave off was harsh in a kind of way that rendered her untouchable—someone to be admired from afar, but never up close because you knew the inevitable rejection would hurt more than anything you’ve ever experienced. I couldn’t pinpoint exactly where this impression had come from; maybe it was the way her lips curved into a just barely condescending smirk at the bewildered expression I undoubtedly wore, or maybe the way she sat: leaned back casually in an office chair, with a copy of Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar in her hands, like I was barely worth her attention because she wanted nothing more than to get back to her book. In that sense, she took after my own heart, and I liked that, out of all the things I could have found distinctive in her, a love for reading was one of them.

“Thanks,” I said, smiling brightly at her, hoping she’d show even the slightest bit of interest in me, but she only nodded then continued reading. Yet somehow, that reaction was almost better.

I took a few steps forward, diving into the mess of shelves and books, and realizing, within moments, that I had no idea what I was looking for, or even how to find anything should I think of something. Defeated, I turned around and returned to where Fiona sat, and sheepishly, wanting nothing less than to distract her from reading again, cleared my throat to get her attention. Her eyes flicked up and when she saw it was me, the smirk returned.

“Thought you’d be back,” she said, marking her place in the book and setting it down on the counter. “What can I help you find?”

I shrugged. “I’m not really sure. I kind of just showed up here.”

At my words, her smirk shifted into the slightest hint of an actual smile, making me smile in return at the prospect of actually getting through to her. When I found myself staring at her for a little too long, I ducked my head, embarrassed, and rubbed the back of my neck nervously, hoping she didn’t notice, but I looked back up and saw that patronizing smirk again, so I knew she had.

“Okay, well, what kinds of books do you like to read?” Fiona asked.

“I’m not picky. Anything, really,” I said, shrugging again then letting a sly grin appear on my face. “So why don’t you show me what your favorites are?”

She slowly shook her head as if acknowledging that she should have seen that one coming, and the ever-present smirk deepened. Motioning with her hand for me to follow her, she headed down one of the aisles formed by the bookshelves, stopping when she got to the end and pulling out a book. She tucked it into the crook of her elbow then continued on to another bookshelf and pulled out another two books. However, when she got to her last stop she groaned in annoyance, anxiously brushing her fingertips over the spines of books as if she hoped that if she did it long enough, the one she wanted would suddenly appear. After another moment, she sighed in defeat then turned to face me, holding out the stack of books for me to take, and I did. I sifted through them curiously, finding that she had given me two Vonnegut books, Cat’s Cradle and Slaughterhouse Five, both of which I was ashamed to admit, knowing of how brilliant the author was, I hadn’t gotten around to reading yet. Fiona had also gotten me a copy of The Bell Jar, which somehow didn’t surprise me.

“I’ve read all of these multiple times, if that says anything,” she said, eyeing the books in my hands with a sort of adoration. “I was going to give you this other one too, but we don’t have it unfortunately. You should have enough there, though.”

I shook my head, giving her a half-smile. “You don’t know me. This’ll probably last five days max.”

“Wow, you must really have no life then, dude,” she said, raising an inquisitive and, again, condescending eyebrow, but her eyes betrayed the newfound respect she had for me as an avid reader.

“You’re right. I actually don’t because I’m lame as shit, but I wouldn’t have it any other way,” I said, chuckling. “Anyway, what was the other book? Maybe I can get it somewhere else.”

“The Book Thief by Markus Zusak. It’s not a classic, nor is it eloquent, sophisticated literature, but the story is beautiful and, in some ways, better than any of those,” she said, inclining her head to the books I still held.

“Damn, you can’t just tell me that and then not have the book,” I said in a somewhat pained voice. “You’re lettin’ me down, Fiona.”

She rolled her eyes, but she paused, thinking for a moment before going behind the counter and crouching down to search for something. When she stood up again, she was holding a book, and she came back around from behind the counter to hand it to me. I looked down at the cover, my eyes widening a little when I saw that it was The Book Thief, but the pages were so soft and worn out that I knew that it had to be her own personal copy. I flipped open to the middle of the book, intrigue consuming me at the sight of a page covered in her annotations, and the rest of the book looked just the same. I wanted more than anything to be able to get a glimpse of her thoughts, especially those towards a book she spoke so highly of, but I knew that I couldn’t accept it from her. I could never forgive myself if something happened to it under my care.

“I don’t know what is possessing me that’s making me trust you, a complete stranger, enough to give you one of my own books,” Fiona said, shaking her head, and the patronizing demeanor had left to be replaced by a kindness that seemed almost alien to her judging by the way her forehead was crinkled. “But here it is. My phone number is on the inside cover, so just call me whenever you’re done so I can get it back.”

“Are you sure?” I asked, now holding the book so gently that it might as well have been a newborn baby. “For all you know I could be a serial killer. Or a drug dealer. Or an arsonist who uses the pages of books as kindling.”

“Are you?” she asked, raising that eyebrow again.

“No, but . . .” I begin.

Fiona interrupted me. “Everyone needs to read this book, and I’m doing you a favor. Case closed.”

I nodded in solemn acceptance, bringing the stack of books closer to be pressed against my chest as if they were the most precious things I’ve ever had in my possession. She watched as I did that then nodded once briskly as if my action affirmed her decision and returned to the register so she could ring up my purchase. I followed her, placing the books down on the counter when I got there. Wordlessly, she scanned the barcodes, placed them in a bag when finished, then announced my total as being thirty-two fifty. I pulled out my worn, borderline trashed leather wallet, removed the necessary bills, and handed them to her. Still without speaking more than what was necessary, she handed me my change and the bag full of books with a brief smile before sitting back down and picking up her book again. I stuffed the change into my back pocket and began walking to the door, but she called out to me before I could make it there.

“Hey,” Fiona said. “Never got your name.”

“Dave,” I answered, pausing with my hand on the doorknob, but not turning around in fear of her seeing the heat spreading across my cheeks. I didn’t know how I could have been incompetent enough to fail to tell her my name.

“See you around, Dave,” she said, voice trailing off as-- I assumed-- she turned her attention back to the book.

As I continued outside, a smile spread across my face. As premature as it was, considering that I barely even knew her, I couldn’t believe that I was fortunate to cross paths with a girl like Fiona, and although my intuition was infallibly wrong, I just had a really good feeling about her.