Page 51 of The Book Swap

Swallowing down all the responses trying to compete to come out of my mouth, I take a moment to calm myself. This all feels so fragile. I’m worried if I show the level of enthusiasm I’m currently feeling, it could all come crumbling down. “Yes. Please. That would be great.”

She mutters, “Cool,” and turns to leave the room.

“Right, Savannah, we have just weeks to make you an expert before your exams start. I’m banning all Harry Styles chat from this lesson.”

She turns around and rolls her eyes at me before stomping up the stairs.

It would be way too fast, but I still feel a wave of disappointment when I walk home from Savannah’s via the library and my books aren’t there. I’ve stopped caring about what he’s written about the books themselves. Now all I can think about is his answers to my questions. I just want to know him. I took a photo of the questions I asked him, and I bring it up on my screen, trying to remember whether I’ve written anything offensive. Anything that means he might not write back.

16. How did you know you wanted to be a writer?

17. Do you have brothers or sisters?

18. Are you close to your parents?

19. If you could live anywhere else in the world, where would it be?

20. Who is your favorite person in the world?

I can’t see anything that might upset him, but there’s so much I don’t know. Maybe he has a sibling who died, or he hates talking about his family? Maybe he’s married and doesn’t want to answer who his favorite person is, in case he hurts my feelings? Or maybe—which I’ve only just thought about because I was so focused on Bonnie—I’ve terrified him by giving him a book called Beloved. I know I’m being ridiculous for thinking any of this. It’s been three days. The chances are he’s still reading. It’s just that last time he put it back so quickly, I thought maybe he’d do the same thing again.

My mind starts to spiral. What if something happens to him and I never find out because I don’t know who he is? The books might just stop coming one day, and I’ll never know why. I should have asked for his number. Or given him mine. I’m just afraid of what that would mean.

It would be one step closer to meeting Mystery Man in person and the thought of that terrifies me as much as it excites me, if not more.

For the first time I’m starting to understand what Cassie means. Why she’s so desperate to have that connection with a person. I want it too. I just want it with Mystery Man and no one else.

20

JAMES

Elliot opens the door to his penthouse apartment, and I laugh as I take in the panoramic views of Manhattan from his living room. You can see everything from the Hudson River to the Empire State Building, all set as a backdrop to some of the most luxurious (and least child-friendly) furniture I’ve seen. A navy blue velvet sofa, red suede chairs around a giant glass dining table. The least child-friendly, that is, until Jordan barges past me and dives onto the blue sofa, bouncing up and down.

“Not now J.J., it’s bedtime,” Elliot says and my heart jolts. I didn’t know my nephew had the same nickname as me. That Elliot’s carried it on with his son.

The warning falls on the deafest of ears as Jordan keeps launching himself higher and higher. Elliot shakes his head at me and checks his watch—something so shiny it distracts me, for a moment, from the view.

“Is that a—”

“Rolex? Yeah. Gift from Carl.” He glances toward the sofa. “Better get that tub running.”

“You mean bath,” I shout after him, before walking toward Jordan.

“Reckon if I take one of these fancy cushions off and put it on the ground, you can jump from the arm onto it?”

Jordan nods, his floppy light brown hair dancing in and out of his eyes, a big grin breaking across his face.

I take off all the back cushions, placing them on the ground, a safe distance from the glass table.

“It’s pretty hard,” I say, as he climbs onto the arm. “You sure you’re ready?”

“Yeah,” he shouts, and before I can even start a countdown, he propels himself into the air, landing with a squeal of delight on the pool of cushions beneath him. “Again!”

“Bath time, buddy,” Elliot says, reappearing, causing Jordan to break into tears so dramatic you’d think all his favorite toys had been taken from him and destroyed. “We try to keep it pretty low-key from six o’clock onward.” He glances down at the cushions and back at me, causing heat to rush to my cheeks. If I saw them more, I’d know that.

“Got it.” I pick the cushions up and throw them back onto the sofa as Elliot collects a kicking and screaming Jordan and carries him through to the bathroom. Minutes later loud cackles of laughter are coming from the same direction, and soon after that Jordan bursts back into the room, dressed in Spiderman pajamas.

“Will you read me a story, Uncle James?” he asks, and my heart fills with love as I remember that I’m not just here because I’m running away from my problems. I’m here to get to know my nephew, and there’s no better way of doing that than by sharing my favorite activity with him.

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