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Serena Ferrell
It’s a phone call that distracts me, making me wander around the subway station I usually navigate with ease. A phone call from my boss. On a Friday. On my way home from work. It’s not even been twenty minutes since I last saw him. I stifle a sigh as Todd rambles about things that can wait until Monday or that could be an email, and I’m only half-listening as I maintain a brisk walk, hoping to make my train on time.
A man shoulder-checks me and I stumble, muttering a “watch it” after him and rolling my eyes. When I bring my attention back to where I’m going, I notice a huge poster on the wall advertising Central Park’s fall-colored trees. The massive bold letters yell silently at the noisy passersby, “Saturday, October 28, Height of the Flaming Leaves!”
It’s just another season, I think to myself, shaking my head at the poster. What’s the big deal? I mull it over in my head, knowing that my routine—wake up, go to work, go home, do it again the next day—will keep me in monotony, regardless of the seasons.
“So, Luke, what do you think?” Todd asks, though about what I’m not sure.
“Yeah, it’s great,” I mutter into the phone, scanning the people around me for an opening to get to the train I need. There. There’s a break in the crowd and I slip through it, making my way to the platform where I see my train start its approach.
Movement to my right catches my eye. Further down the platform, a young woman who looks my age whips her head to the side, her short hair twisting to follow the motion. She’s smiling. I frown. No one smiles in the subway.
She scans the platform as if she heard her name and is trying to find the source. I watch as she finally shrugs her shoulders and turns her attention back to the small notebook in her hands, her smile growing as she looks at it.
“Luke? Are you still listening to me?” The voice of my manager drifts from the phone that I forgot I was holding to my ear. I put my phone on airplane mode and the magical words “CALL FAILED” appear. It slides into my pocket as I walk closer to the woman, intrigued.
The woman looks up again from her notebook as an announcement plays in the station. I watch, mesmerized, as she tucks the pink thing into the bookbag that hangs from her shoulder, a bookbag that shows a cartoon cat sitting on a stack of books. I frown at it. She doesn’t notice when the notebook hits the edge of the bag and falls to the subway floor. I cringe, reminded once again of the millions of diseases that live on the surfaces in subway stations, but she moves closer to the tracks, unaware that she is missing the source of the smile still playing on her lips.
The train arrives. People jostle me trying to make it on time and I grumble under my breath even though I face this nearly every day. I gently push my way through the crowd, finally reaching the pink notebook. I snatch it from the ground, immediately regretting it when I see the cover. “Gimme those bright sunshine vibes,” a sun with shades tells me, sporting a thumbs-up. I resist the urge to roll my eyes at it and instead look for the woman until I realize that the train doors are already closing.
“Shoot,” I mutter and take a few big steps towards the train anyway. If I don’t make it on now, I’ll have to wait for the next train. But I can’t find the woman. I stare through the windows to scan the inside of the train, searching for her highlighted hair and the sunglasses that were perched above her bangs. My eyes catch on the bookbag. Behind the doors. Inside the train. The train that’s moving. The moving train that I’m not on.
Inwardly I groan. There goes the hope of returning the notebook. And of making it home on time. A sigh escapes and I run a hand down my face. I glance at the notebook in my hand.
The stupid sun makes fun of me. I decide to keep the notebook with me in case I see her again, but I’m not holding my breath. New York is a big city, after all.
My roommate Max is sitting on the couch when I enter our apartment. His dark curly hair hangs in his face as he types on his phone. He looks up as I put my keys down.
“Hey.”
I nod. “Hey.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Max squinting at me, his thick eyebrows bunching together.
I sigh and turn to him. “Can I help you?”
He makes an offended noise. “Geez, who died?” Then his brown eyes widen. “Wait, did someone die?”
I roll my eyes at him yet feel a smile creeping onto my face. “No one died, Max. I’m just thinking.”
“Oh, good.”
I flop on the couch next to Max and toss my bag onto the coffee table, then immediately regret it as the nuclear pink notebook slides out. Max and I reach for it at the same time, but he snatches it first and leaps up with his prize.
“What’s this?” he says, wearing a mischievous grin. “‘Gimme those bright sunshine vibes’?” he reads, shooting me a look of puzzlement and amusement. He flips it open.
“Don’t—” I protest, but he’s already speaking.
“Wait actually, what is this?” he repeats, frowning at the inside cover. He looks up at me.
“Who’s Kaitlyn?”
“Kaitlyn? That’s her name?”
“Dude, what are you talking about?”
I step over the coffee table and peek over Max’s shoulder, looking at the neatly written name on the first page.
“Kaitlyn,” I murmur under my breath, mentally conjuring an image of the woman from the subway.
“Bro, why do you have some chick’s diary?”
I sigh, then explain to him how I came to possess the notebook. He laughs when I finish.
“Oooooh,” he sings, sashaying away from me to dance behind the couch. “Luke’s in
looooove!”
“Max, I saw her once.”
He just shakes his head and continues singing. I sigh, knowing he won’t stop until he wants to, and that I couldn’t stop him if I wanted to. His biceps alone are bigger than my head, not to mention the broad shoulders he has that are about the size of a typical truck.
“Can I have the notebook back?” I use a calm voice, hoping to de-escalate his excited energy.My request makes him pause and he eyes me from the side. I forcefully keep my eyes from rolling at him before I add,
“Please?”
He laughs and tosses it over the couch. “Kaitlyn and Luke-y sitting in a tree…”
I catch it, then check the small thing for any bends or tears that Max’s carelessness may have wrought.
“K-I-S-S-I-N-G!”
I go to my room and shut the door, but I hear his muffled voice grow louder with proximity as he follows.
“First comes love.”
I ignore Max and set the notebook gently on my dresser, then change into my evening uniform of a T-shirt and sweatpants.
“Then comes marriage.”
I look at the notebook again, and an image of Kaitlyn pokes my mind. I smile, wondering what she was doing, where she was going. You could find out, a voice in the back of my mind murmurs, and I consider reading it.
“Then comes the baby in the—”
“Will you shut up!” I shout at Max. Silence. Then a small knock at the door. “What?” I
snap.
Max opens the door and pokes his head through the gap, his eyes wide. For someone a year older than me, he looks younger. Especially with his delinquent grin that stretches ever wider.
“—in the baby carriage,” he loudly whispers before bolting away, pushing off the door.
“Why you little—” I start after him but the door swings shut in my face. I let it go,
shaking my head and letting out a shaky breath of self-control.
I glance at the obscenely pink notebook resting on my dresser. Maybe she wrote her name or phone number in there, something that can help me find her.
I grab the notebook, trying to ignore the disgustingly optimistic sun and his shades.
Flipped open, the cover reveals neat handwriting.
Kaitlyn’s journal
(because I don’t like the word “diary.” Too middle school-ish)
I snort. So she thinks she’s funny. I flip the page anyway.
June 28, 2023
I would say “dear diary,” however, I happen to despise the word “diary.” So I’ll just get right into it.
Happy birthday to me! As a bday gift, Jenna gave me this lovely journal that my students would totally make fun of me for. So of course I love it!
Anyway, today Jenna and I celebrated by going to my favorite bookstore ever, The Book Cellar, where I bought two books. Let me tell you about this store, because it’s SO CUTE! I could spend HOURS in there, reading, browsing, talking to some of the people there. It’s like a magical place that can take you to different worlds. Gosh, I love books. And there are sooooo many of them! Lots of shelves stuffed full with books! Used, old books, the ones smell fantastic. Old, musty books, that should be a candle. Hold on, let me look up if that’s a candle. Oh my gosh it is I’m gonna order one.
Anyway, speaking of old books, I want to read one that I just got, a copy of Anne of Green Gables from 1963. I‘ve got some time before I need to start grading my students’ quizzes, so I’m gonna go do that. Wait, how do you end a journal entry? Idk
Bye.
I don’t realize I’m smiling until I finish reading. Ignoring myself, I flip a few pages.
August 19, 2023
Today (Saturday), I got coffee with Rachel. We went to Matto Espresso over on 70th and ohmigoodness it was such a cute place. Great atmosphere, great coffee, great everything! 10/10, would recommend.
Anyway, it was so nice to catch up with Rachel after a few years since graduation! I’m so glad she reached out, we had a great time! I had a pumpkin spice latte (I know, basic, but it’s SO GOOD), and she got a chocolate mocha. But the coolest part was I glanced out the windows of the shop at one point, and there was a guy juggling! Can you believe it?? He had five bowling pins and was just tossing them around. He even held a conversation with someone passing by!
While juggling! I wish I could juggle. That’d be so fun.
The other passages contain much of the same thing: Kaitlyn reporting little excursions or something small but out of the ordinary that happened. I find myself puzzled by her ability to find wonder in everything. She sees life so differently than I do. Where I see people who simply take up space she sees individuals who have so much to offer the world; where I see a drab sky that will only make the day grey she sees the potential for rain to bring new life; where I see a stupid, mocking cartoon sun she sees a smile that can make someone’s day. It’s fascinating. Compelling. One journal entry dated a week ago records a normal commute home from school (of course she’s a teacher, I had thought) where she danced as she passed by a woman playing the saxophone. Just right there on the sidewalk, with people all around. She danced.
“Hmm,” I hum aloud. Maybe she’s crazy.
A knock at the door interrupts my thoughts and I toss out a “yeah?” while continuing to
read.
“You’re reading it?” Max’s non-believing voice jolts me from Kaitlyn’s thoughts.
“What?” He stares at me for a moment, hanging through the threshold with one hand on the doorknob and one on the frame. “Dude, you picked up a random chick’s diary and now you’re reading it?” He pauses before adding, “Are you a pervert?”
“No! Oh my gosh, no! I was trying to see if there’s any contact information or a way I can find her!”
“Okay,” he acquiesces, but his eyebrows stay raised. I glare at him. He turns to go. I swallow my pride for a moment.
“Hey Max,” I catch him before he’s out the door.
“Yeah, man.”
“Do you want to go to a bookstore with me tomorrow? There’s a place I wanna check out. I’ll buy you coffee while we’re out.”
He eyes me suspiciously, then shrugs. “Yeah, I’m down. What time?” “Leave at eight?”
“Done.”
Saturday mornings typically aren’t too busy, but that’s not saying much for New York. As Max and I make our way through the city, walking the not-even 10 blocks, I’m shoulder-checked by four different people. I grumble about it to Max, but he chuckles at me.
“Well, Luke, I guess it’s time,” he says, and I regret mentioning it even before I hear his next words. “You should start going to the gym with me!”
The appearance of the Webster Library allows me to ignore him. I point it out to Max slightly behind me, my thinner but longer legs covering more ground.
Max frowns at me. “You said we’re going to a bookstore.” He pauses, but I’m too busy observing the architecture. It’s a small building, simple and rectangular, left a basic sandy color. “That’s a library.”
“There’s a bookstore inside it.” I climb up the four flat stairs in two steps and pull open the bright red door, holding it open after I pass for Max as he follows me inside.
Apparently, The Book Cellar really is a cellar, one full of old books and people. The tiny room sits tucked into the basement beneath Webster Library, accessible through a narrow staircase. It takes Max and me several minutes to find the entrance. Once we do, the smell is overwhelming and I know we’re in the right place. The scent of musty covers and aged pages—along with the faintest trace of lysol—bombard my nose: the very distinct bookish smell. Not exactly my favorite, but I can understand the appeal.
Besides Max and myself, there are only a few other people, all at least thirty years our seniors, except for one little girl reading in a chair near the check-out counter. In my initial scan of the space, I see five narrow aisles between tall bookshelves filled with volumes and volumes of ancient tomes, worn and faded with time and love. The faded colors of the covers under the sterile fluorescent lights bring about a muted and gloomy atmosphere, amplified by the lack of windows. It’s a quiet space, the only sounds coming from shuffling shoes, old pages rustling, and someone with a cold sniffling every few minutes. The thin carpet offers no padding to muffle the footsteps as Max and I peruse the shelves.
“Why did you wanna come here?” Max whispers, his breath hot on my cheek. I shrug away from the weird sensation.
“What do you mean?” I mutter back defensively. “I read.”
He scoffs at me, earning a rude stare from an elderly lady not far from us.
“Yeah, geometry books maybe. You don’t read things like”—he grabs a book from the shelf and looks at the author, wrinkling his nose—“Nora Roberts.”
I roll my eyes at him, pushing past his bulky frame to look around. I really don’t know what I was expecting. Was I hoping to find Kaitlyn here? Did I want to see how something like a stuffy bookstore could inspire so much wonder? Did I want to find that for myself? I shake my head, clearing my mind and taking in the hundreds of titles in front of me. After some searching, my eyes land on a small book wedged between two massive volumes. I grab the worn paperback, gently prying it from its spot on the shelf. I can’t read the spine because it’s so broken.
“What’s that?” Max’s whisper comes up behind me. He has two books in hand, one a MASSIVE PROTEIN COOKBOOK FOR DUDES with a palette of colored stains on the cover, the other a beautiful big book bearing the title The Wizard of Oz and Other Classics.
I stifle a laugh at his bipolar selection and take a look at what I picked up, surprised to see the familiar cartoonish face of Harry Potter looking at me. It brings me back to my sixth grade English class, my teacher demanding I find a “fun book” for individual reading time. I had angrily stomped over to her little bookshelf and grabbed the first book I saw. Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. The same book I had in my hand now. It wasn’t life-changing, but I do remember being awed by the world of magic and the courageous characters within those pages. I had even dressed as Harry Potter for Halloween that year. I wonder what sixth-grade me would think of me now.
I shake the unsettling thought away and ask Max if he’s all set. We purchase our books—a whopping $6.34—then make our way back up the small staircase and out onto the busy street. The air is full of the sounds of car engines and the occasional angry shout from an impatient driver. It’s not too crowded, but it still takes nearly 15 minutes to walk the eight blocks to the next stop.
“Matto Espresso?” Max reads the sign when I stop in front of the door. He frowns at me, but I’m frowning at the small storefront’s starkly different aesthetic from the library. Where Webster Library presented a classic facade, Matto Espresso screams modern contemporary, sporting gold lines that form windows in geometric shapes. Perhaps Kaitlyn just has an eclectic taste. I file away the observation for later and push open the door, the bell above the door announcing my arrival, much to my dismay.
“Good morning, welcome!” the barista greets. She pauses behind the counter to smile at us, then continues her work beneath fake vines snaking along the ceiling and dim lighting that promotes a relaxing atmosphere.
I order my usual plain latte with a hint of vanilla and look at the menu, considering what Kaitlyn would order. On my right, Max orders some abhorrent creamy rainbow drink with “extra protein powder, if you have it, please.” I sigh and pull out my card, selecting a generous tip option for dealing with the musclehead I brought.
There’s a table near the back wall that I lead us to. I slide into the seat while Max loudly scrapes his chair back and plops into it.
“So,” he begins, fixing a serious gaze on me. A piercing gaze that he doesn’t often use.
An intimidating gaze makes me squirm. “What exactly was the reason for our little date?”
I shift in my seat. “I heard of the bookstore and wanted to see what it was like,” I explain.
Not the whole truth, but not quite a lie.
“Where did you—” An employee sets down our coffees and we both say thank you.
“Where’d you hear about it?”
“I read about it.”
“In what?”
I take a long drink, burning my mouth but postponing my answer. Noting my stalling, Max squints at me and scans my face, mentally putting together the puzzle of clues I’ve unknowingly left. Suddenly his eyes widen as his trademark mischievous grin appears.
“She wrote about it, didn’t she?” I choke on my coffee. He laughs.
“You totally went to a tiny bookstore just because you read about it in some chick’s
diary.”
“Journal,” I mutter, then immediately regret it when his look becomes quizzical. “Kaitlyn doesn’t like the word ‘diary,’” I explain quickly. “So she refers to it as a
journal.”
Max squints at me. “You’re totally obsessed.”
I tip my chin to his coffee. “You gonna drink that?”
He brings the cup to his lips without breaking eye contact and takes his first sip, which leaves whipped cream and a single sprinkle sticking to his face. Gross, I think.
“Did she come here too?”
I sigh in defeat. “Yeah.” I feel defensive. Max’s prying eyes probe my face. “But I swear, I’m not obsessed.” He waits for me to explain, a single eyebrow raised. I sigh and continue. “I’m not obsessed. I just really… admire her perspective. She seems to find wonder in all these ordinary things. Like when she wrote about The Book Cellar, she went on and on about how fun it was to be there and how awesome it smelled. Something about the old books. And she wrote about coming here and getting coffee and there was someone juggling! She loved it!” I pause taking a breath, surprised at my finally articulated feelings. “I want to feel wonder like that.”
Max remains quiet, waiting to see if I want to keep talking, but I’m done. He nods. “Yeah, I can understand that.” He glances out the window behind him. “I don’t see any
jugglers today,” he begins, his serious expression quickly melting into his sly grin. “But I do see a very attractive barista who keeps blowing her bangs out of her face in the cutest way.”
I laugh, grateful for his lack of judgment after all the teasing, and for the change of subject.
This marks one week, I think, finding myself in the metro station at 77th again, beginning my commute home from work on Friday evening. I wonder for a moment why she was here, that if this were her regular commute I would’ve seen her on other days. I loiter a bit, scanning the faces around me and leisurely making my way to the platform I saw her on. Just in case she’s here, I think, patting the bag hanging from my shoulder that holds the pink notebook. I miss two trains. Finally, a third one arrives and I still haven’t seen her. I sigh and step through the doors.
Since it’s a bit later than the afternoon rush there are plenty of open seats, and I sit in the closest one to the doors. The train starts moving and I rock a little, shifting a bit in order to stay upright.
My phone starts ringing until I check and see that it’s not my phone but someone else’s with the same ringtone. A man a few feet away pulls his phone out of his pocket. He beams as he sees the screen, his whole face lighting up.
“Hey,” he says, using a casual tone despite his bright expression. “Yeah, I’m on my way now. I’m on the train.” He pauses, then laughs. “Yeah, I can’t wait either.” Another pause, another chuckle. “I’ll see you in a little bit. Love you. Bye.” He puts the phone back into his pocket and resumes staring around the car with unseeing eyes, a smile still on his face.
I finally look away, feeling a mixture of longing and resentment. I know it’s unreasonable to be jealous of his joy with another person, the knowledge doesn’t make the feeling go away.
My eyes fall on my bag resting next to me, and without thinking I pull out Kaitlyn’s notebook and flip to a random page. It’s blank. I blink at it for a moment before flipping a few pages back to find the last entry dated October 15. Only a few days before I came to possess her notebook. I read the neat writing:
October 15, 2023
I am currently writing at Central Park. I love coming here on Sunday mornings, it’s not as busy as other times. I’m sitting on a bench along the Literary Walk, which is my favorite place in CP. It’s so lovely, especially right now. Most of the leaves have begun changing and they’re beautiful! Stunning! Gorgeous! I realize I sound like a thesaurus. But they really are something to behold! I should bring some work to do, too. Or a book! What a lovely setting to read in!
A snicker from somewhere brings my attention away from Central Park and to the train I’m in. My eyes fall on a teenager sitting with her friends, all of them sneaking glances at me and giggling. I’m puzzled until I realize it’s the notebook. The stupid bright pink thing that I’m holding up and reading like it’s no big deal.
Heat rushes to my face and I go to shove the stupid noxious thing in my bag again, but a thought stops me. Why do you care?
I pause. Why do I care? Some teenage girls who I’ve never met and will never meet again are laughing at me because I’m reading a notebook that’s pink. Big deal.
I ignore them, shrugging off my embarrassment and opening the notebook again, getting “those bright sunshine vibes.” I find the entry I was reading and continue where I left off.
What I’d really like is to come back next week when the leaves are super bright, all the yellows and oranges and reds and purples flashing together in the wind. They were advertising the official “Height of the Flaming Leaves!” in the station at 77th. Maybe I’ll go next weekend. I could even do some writing, that would be good for me. Get those creative juices flowing. Oh my, there’s the English teacher in me coming out! But really, there’s no better way to spend a weekend, in my opinion. Or any day.
Maybe I can set up for a field trip for my students! It is a Literary Walk, after all. I could squeeze a lesson out of it. Plus the fresh air is always great for students, cooped up as they are all day. Perhaps I’ll have to arrange that for next year’s class!
An announcement jolts me from my reading, and I realize the train is stopped at my station. I rush to get out the doors before they shut, then I’m standing on a mostly empty platform.
I pull out my phone and dial Max as I start the walk towards our apartment.
“Yeah?” he answers.
“Hey, are you doing anything this weekend? Like Sunday morning?” I ask.
He laughs. “Funny you should ask, dude. Remember that cute barista from Matto Espresso?”
“Oh my gosh, you did not.”
I can hear his grin. “Just call me the Rizz-ard of Oz, because I’ve got a date.”
“Nice, dude, nice.” I shake my head, knowing he can’t see it.
“What did you wanna do?”
“Ah, nothing. Doesn’t matter.”
“You sure, man?”
I chuckle. “Yeah, I’m good. I’m almost back by the way. You home?”
“Yeah. See ya?”
“See ya.”
That weekend, I wake up early on Sunday and get ready to head out. I won’t kid myself, there’s almost no chance of finding Kaitlyn again, but it will be nice to experience what she did. Perhaps I can find some of the wonder she sees in the ordinary.
It’s been a long while since the last time I found myself in Central Park, never finding the time—or perhaps, never making the time—but it’s exactly as Kaitlyn describes. The late October breeze wraps around me, but my light coat is the perfect barrier. The trees are flaming in the growing sunlight, their rich red and gold and orange hues illuminated from nearly a horizontal angle as the sun’s rays just begin to weave their way across the sky. I stroll leisurely along the Literary Walk, ignoring the literary part and simply enjoying the walk. I keep my eyes on the spectacle of colors above me, feeling my way along the worn concrete.
I keep walking, taking deep breaths, inhaling the distinct scent of fall, and letting my thoughts wander along with the tuneless melody I hum. Something jostles my arm and I glance down in time to see the woman that ran into me.
She gives me an apologetic smile.
“Sorry, I was looking at the trees.” A tiny red leaf rests in her hair.
“No worries,” I assure her, returning her smile. “I was too.”
She turns away, focusing on the fireball of leaves around us once again. I look after her for a moment. She’s a few inches shorter than me but taller than average and thin. Her brunette hair doesn’t quite reach her honey-colored coat, instead ending in a blunt cut just shy of hershoulders. She turns her head, sharp chin tilted towards the canopy of gold and red above, and I see her profile. Now that I can see it, her face is familiar, but I don’t place it until I see the book bag hanging from her shoulder. A cartoon cat, sitting on a stack of books.
“Kaitlyn?”
I don’t realize I’m saying it out loud until she turns her head, scanning the people in my general direction, having heard her name but not knowing it came from me. My breath catches. I stand there for a moment trying to process that she’s here, she’s right here! I don’t know what to do. I told myself there was a chance to find her. I never actually believed it.
I smile, the impossibility of it all now completely insignificant because oh my gosh, she’s right here.
“Kaitlyn!” I call again, raising my hand to get her attention. Her eyes snap to me, and she eyes me warily, but she stays where she is as I take the few steps to her.
“I’m sorry, do I know you?” she asks politely.
I clear my throat to buy myself a moment, realizing I may be coming across as creepy but so thrilled I can’t help it.
“Um, no,” I begin. Smooth, I think. “Sorry, my name is Luke. I saw you last week at the subway station on 77th.” I pause to take a breath, noting that she looks less confused but more suspicious, her dark eyebrows pulling together in a frown over narrowed eyes. I reach into my satchel and continue.
“I saw you drop this,” I say as I pull out her notebook. The little sun stares out at us, giving us “those bright sunshine vibes.” But this time I don’t roll my eyes. Instead, I regard it fondly: a weirdly fitting reflection of a woman who loves life.
I glance back at her to see that the frown is gone but her eyes are still slightly narrowed as she studies me. I shift a bit under her gaze. Suddenly her squint disappears as she smiles and takes the notebook from my outstretched hand.
I watch as she carefully tucks it into her bookbag. Unlike the sky above, the notebook makes a tiny sunset of the now-familiar sun disappearing behind the canvas material. A leaf falls right behind her, a golden flash that vanishes beyond her shoulder. She stuffs her hands back into her pockets.
“Did you read it?” she asks,
“Um.” I clear my throat again. “I—a little bit. I tried to find any contact information to get it back to you,” I clarify.
Instead of turning awkward, the mood becomes more comfortable between us as Kaitlyn’s smile widens.
“I know the writing isn’t good and my thoughts are sporadic, but it’s a fun read, isn’t it?” I nod, my own smile appearing, relieved I don’t have to explain myself.
“Like, The Book Cellar. Did you read about that?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I went there a few days ago. My first time.”
Kaitlyn’s eyes grow round. “Seriously? You’ve never been before?”
I laugh in answer. She laughs too, bringing her hands out of her pockets to gesture wildly. “But isn’t it so much fun? Doesn’t it smell good in there? With all the old books?”
I nod, still grinning. “It does. Hit me like a truck when I first went down the steps.” I pause. “I actually bought a book.” I glance around, then decide, what the heck, and push forward. “An old copy of Harry Potter. Took me back to middle school.”
Why are you telling her about middle school?! My thoughts yell, making me more nervous, but her open expression silences any critical thoughts.
I didn’t think it would be possible, but her smile grows again. My body tingles a bit at the sight, but I ignore it. At least for now.
“Aren’t books amazing like that?” she says. “I tell my students the same thing—I’m a teacher—and I try to get them to read as much as possible. I usually stock my classroom shelves with those lovely used copies. They’re just more fun!”
“Absolutely,” I agree.
She pulls out her phone and glances at the time. She lets out a breath and looks back up at
me.
“Do you wanna grab coffee?” For the first time, she seems unsure of herself.
I smile at her, optimistic about the future for the first time in a while. “I’d love to. Do you know this place called Matto Espresso?”
Kaitlyn beams—not unlike the sun on the notebook—and a small voice in the back of my mind mutters something about wanting to never see that smile fade.
“I’ve heard of it.”
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