Page 18 of The Book Swap

I shrug. “I’ve been thinking...” I try to think of the words to admit the truth to Bonnie about something that’s been distracting me. This is the longest I’ve been without some kind of boyfriend in years, and I don’t like the feel of it. “I might get in touch with Dylan. I haven’t met anyone else since him, and—”

Bonnie slams her hand into her forehead, running her long, slender fingers down her face.

“You’re just bored.”

I down some more wine. “I think I’m lonely.”

The moment I say it out loud, I realize it’s true. It’s the same feeling I have every time I don’t have someone in my life—and yet when I do have them, I’m in a constant state of panic. It was always that way with Dylan: Who’s that messaging him? Why isn’t he replying? Is he late or is he not turning up at all?

As if he can read my mind, Callum appears in my doorway. He went into work today, so instead of the usual red tracksuit, he’s sporting navy jeans, a T-shirt that says, “The sea isn’t real—it’s so big it makes no sense” and a beanie. He’s got a silver snake chain bracelet around his wrist, and his eyes are slightly bloodshot, like he went for a pint or six after work.

He hasn’t done this in a while. Not since the night after Bonnie’s memorial. I thought maybe he was seeing someone, and was growing panicked as to what that meant for me. What would happen to this arrangement I’ve come to rely on if he met someone?

He doesn’t bother with small talk, or pretending like there’s any other reason that he’s appeared in my bedroom close to midnight.

“I saw your light was on,” he says, and I move to put my wine on my bedside table, which is the only sign he needs in response.

He reaches for my hips, pulling me toward him. I can smell the night on him. The pints of lager, followed by something stronger. A whisky or two.

“I thought about this all the way home,” he says, pressing his lips hard against mine.

I reach up, pushing the beanie off his head. His lips move down my neck, his hands pushing their way up the inside of my T-shirt.

He moans when he finds I’m not wearing a bra, and bites me, gently, on the flesh between my neck and my collarbone.

He doesn’t ask where I’ve gone or for me to let him in, the way Dylan used to. He doesn’t care about any of that. All he wants is this moment with me, and that’s something I know I can give.

I turn, quickly, to check Bonnie’s chair, and when I know for sure that she isn’t there, I pull Callum onto the bed.

In the morning he goes to work and I’ve got three hours before my trial shift starts at Just Stitch. The woman I’d spoken to in the shop called to offer me a paid afternoon and everything in me wanted to say no, but Bonnie would have said yes, so that’s what I did. Reaching for my shelf, I bring down Great Expectations. I’ve been trying to take my time reading it because it’s the thing that’s been giving me the most joy. Mystery Man’s notes are sparser than my own. Sometimes whole chapters go by without a comment, but when there is one, I leap on it, hungry for more. It isn’t just comments; it’s an insight into his life and I think it’s for my benefit.

He’s highlighted one quote, which says, “The broken heart. You think you will die, but you just keep living, day after day after terrible day.”

Beside it he’s written:

I mean, I do agree, Dickens—but I’d also like to add that the days get better. Might we want to include a little bit of hope in here, for the optimists?

I involuntarily run my finger over the words that have made me laugh out loud. I hope he’s right, because so far, every day without Bonnie has felt terrible.

Later, beside a line about Pip being washed by his sister, he’s written:

Unfortunate love from a caregiver. If ever I complain about my mum, please remind me that she at least didn’t aggressively bathe me.

I think back to one of my favorite memories of my own mum, who used to take me out of the bath and roll me up in a towel, then pretend to post me through the side of the bath as though I were a letter. The memory fills me with an unwelcome sense of guilt. I’ve ignored every call she’s made since I came back to London. When I’m there, I feel like I lose all the power. That all the indifference I feel when I’m apart from her disappears, and I’m back to being the child who loved her. Who thought she was the best person in the world.

I’m not even reading the book anymore; I’m just flicking through it and trying to find more comments. On one page, there’s a quote he’s underlined, and the margin beside it is covered in writing. The quote reads: “Pause you who read this, and think for a moment of the long chair of iron or gold, of thorns or flowers, that would never have bound you, but for the formation of the first link on one memorable day.”

Finding your book in the library was a first link for me. These margins don’t give me the space I need to explain how significant it was. It lit a fire in me. It reminded me of who I am. It woke me—argh, damn these thin margins!—up. I don’t know who you are, but thank you. Thank you, kind stranger, for forming this link I so desperately needed. I will never, ever forget that moment. It is memorable, and therefore, so are you.

If I hadn’t put the book in the library by accident, this would never have happened. For whatever reason, it was meant to be.

I reach the part of the book I always remember. Pip returns to Miss Havisham’s house and learns that his childhood love, Estella, is to marry someone else. She tells him not to worry. That she’ll be out of his thoughts in a week. “Out of my thoughts! You are part of my existence, part of myself. You have been in every line I have ever read...” he says in response, and continues on with a speech that, to me, encapsulates the sheer terror involved in loving someone. That by loving them, you absorb them. Mystery Man’s just drawn a box around the passage, with the words Holy shit!! And it’s such an accurate summary, I laugh. Does he think the same as me? That the very thought of being so wrapped up in someone else is a reason never to love someone at all?

I know exactly what book I’m giving him in return. Just wait until he sees what Catherine says about Heathcliff. I’ve even got a copy on my shelf, notes included. Like Great Expectations, Wuthering Heights is about how all-encompassing love can be. I read each of them with a combination of envy and terror. Is it brilliant to love in that way, or does it destroy you?

Whereas before, I was embarrassed that a stranger saw my innermost thoughts on a book, now he’s shared his own, I don’t mind. I more than don’t mind. I’m excited to share the next book with him. Maybe he’ll see it differently. Maybe, given he’s clearly an optimist, he can reassure me that the love within these books isn’t as scary as it seems.

Pulling a pen from the drawer beside my bed, I turn to the back page of Great Expectations and write in my neatest handwriting, Meet me in Wuthering Heights?

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