Page 36 of The Book Swap

I always have. Don’t you think books would go way closer to the edge of the page, if they didn’t want us to write in them? I always think of the author, and how sad it must be to have someone read your words and then move on, as though they meant nothing. I can’t do that. Books teach us, and I want to make sure I’m learning everything they’re offering. I write in the margins to remember the book. To keep the words in my heart.

2. Is it better to listen to other people’s opinions of you, or your own opinion of yourself?

I laugh at this one, wondering where it came from. I think about the way I’m living right now. Ignoring all of my own instincts to live my life more like Bonnie would have pushed me to.

Oh, definitely other people’s. I think they’re probably kinder about us than we are to ourselves.

I get the feeling that isn’t the answer he wanted. I don’t know why, but I also know that he wants honesty from me.

3. Why Wuthering Heights?

It was the only choice that made any sense after Dickens. Estella and Pip vs Heathcliff and Cathy. Dickens vs Bronte... “You are part of my existence” vs “He’s more myself than I am.” Passion vs unrequited love. I think both books, while so different, teach us everything we need to know about love. That no matter the setup, it involves either heartbreak or optimism. Sometimes both. I hadn’t realized how similar they were. Or, rather, how similar the response was that they provoked in me.

Why do I find a love like that so terrifying? That’s a rhetorical question. If I don’t know the answer, I’m fairly sure that you—Mystery Man—won’t know either.

4. Do you ever feel like this is the only thing in life you have to look forward to?

The answers have come easily until now. At this one, I hold Wuthering Heights toward my chest, pressing it hard against me. I’m surprised he’s written it, but mostly I’m relieved.

You have no idea. There’s so much more I could write, but those four words say it all.

5. Do you use the word “dreamboat” often?

Clearly, he was trying to lighten the mood, and I’m glad.

Only for Atticus. He’s the only man who will ever deserve that title.

I tap my pen against the book, staring at the space beneath, which is crying out for a few more questions. I decide to add some of my own.

6. What kind of person do you think Eileen was?

It’s something I’ve thought of often and I wonder if he even knows who I mean. If he’s even noticed the plaque on the library.

7. If you could be a character from any book, who would you be, and why?

8. How often do you visit the library?

9. Do you think, in real life, we’d get on?

10. Do you ever wonder what the hell you’re doing with your life?

Well, he’d been vulnerable, so I may as well match him.

When I return to the library, I crouch down and place The Great Gatsby on the ground while I flick to the back of Austen, running my eyes over the answers I’ve given, and the questions I’ve written beneath them. I want to check I haven’t completely embarrassed myself, but then I realize it doesn’t matter. I don’t know this person, so I can be exactly who I am. There’s such a freedom in that, that I pick up Fitzgerald and scribble on a blank page at the end. I write, Thank you for giving me the freedom to be myself.

Georgia’s booked Megan’s in Clapham for Mum’s birthday. I arrive late to find them both already seated. Mum’s all dressed up in her London get-up. Jeans with a shiny belt, and a hot pink top tucked into them. Her freshly colored hair falls in waves around her face, which lights up the moment she catches sight of me. She’s obviously changed her mind on growing out the gray. I want to comment on that. To ask why. The gray suited her, but I like it both ways. In the past, she’d have come to me first. Asked my opinion before going to the salon. It stabs at my chest that she grew out her color, and then dyed it again, all without me knowing.

She holds her arms out for a hug and a wave of guilt hits me, because I haven’t brought a card or a gift. At the time I decided it was a good idea. Another way to hurt her, but now, seeing her across from me, all happy that I’ve even bothered to show up for her birthday, I think a small present might have been the right thing to do. When we were little, I used to go to so much effort for her birthday. I’d make Dad take me to Anokhi, her favorite shop in Bath, so I could pick her a necklace or something to wear. She cried every time. I think the belt she’s wearing might even be one of the gifts I got her.

“Happy birthday,” I say, leaning into her hug without raising my arms, before I grab Georgia, whispering in her ear, “Yes or no? It’s the only reason I came.”

She hugs me back. “Yes,” she whispers, and my heart surges at her answer. I hadn’t realized how important her answer would be. I squeeze her tight before sitting down opposite them both.

“Had a nice day in the big smoke?” I ask Mum, staring at my menu.

“We ordered for you, given your tardiness,” Georgia says, forcing me to put my menu down and look at Mum.

“Lovely, thank you. Matilda was brilliant. It’s a shame you couldn’t make it.”

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