Page 57 of The Book Swap

Reaching back into the library, I pick up the Jack Kerouac book and flick through it, grinning as something falls out of the back, landing at my feet. It’s a postcard with the words “New York” on the front in a retro font, and when I pick it up and turn it over it says, Really sorry this is late. X

So he does think about me as much as I think about him. He’s even written me a postcard. I look down at the page it was tucked into and see lines underlined in red.

A pain stabbed my heart, as it did every time I saw a girl I loved who was going the opposite direction in this too-big world.

All I can focus on are the words in the middle: “...a girl I loved.” Did he place the card there on purpose?

Flicking through the rest, it’s as though he’s added extra messages to make up for how late it is. Normally his margins are fairly sparse, but now he’s filled whole pages.

Do we really think this is based on a true story? One man can’t have gone through this much on a single road trip? Dean gets married THREE times. I’ll be lucky to get married once.

There’s a lot of rain in this book. Rain reminds me of some pretty bad times, so I just imagined it sunny. Recommend you do the same.

Switching back to Beloved, I turn over the last page, ignoring his answers to the questions for a moment and scanning right to the bottom. Mystery Man is no longer Mystery Man.

Mystery Man is called... Edward.

22

JAMES

“Edward?” Joel asks, standing in front of me with pads on his hands as I slam my fists repeatedly into them.

I’ve filled him in on what happened on the bus, my trip to New York and my decision, after that trip, to lie.

In the end, after talking it through with Elliot, it was simple. I couldn’t lose her.

“No offense, mate,” Joel says, letting out a breath each time my boxing glove makes contact. “But James...is quite...a common name. Not sure Erin...would have presumed...you were the same person.” He forces the last words out as quickly as possible, putting his hands down.

I keep my arms up close to my body, the way we’ve just been taught. Another class Joel has hunted down in his efforts to try new things.

“I couldn’t risk it,” I say, nodding for him to put his hands back up. “Not after the bus. Anyway, it’s not like it’s an actual lie.” I slam my glove into his pad in an effort to escape his judgment, as well as my own. He stumbles backward, eyes wide before regaining his balance.

I was actually christened Edward James Parr, but when Mum became unwell, she apparently took a real aversion to calling me Edward, and so I was always known as James. I reminded myself of this as I put the book back in the library, around 11:00 p.m., when I was sure Erin wouldn’t check. Then I walked around the park back to my flat, and to distract myself from the dishonesty, I sent the first three chapters of my book to Sophia Lindsay, the literary agent. This morning, I can’t stop thinking about what she might reply. I’m hoping something along the lines of them being the best chapters she’s ever read, and a desperate plea to see the rest of the book, to which the answer would be...no.

With just twenty thousand words left, all I can do is stare at the white screen until it’s not white anymore and my eyes are stinging. How can I write a book apologizing for the past when I’ve just created a whole new reason to be sorry? It’s as though I need Erin’s forgiveness in order to continue, and I know I can’t get it. Especially now.

As I move one fist after another as fast as I can into Joel’s pads, a wave of sickness hits me. I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid. If she finds out it’s me, she won’t just hate me for lying. She’ll know that I’ve had to lie for a reason. Because I know that Margins Girl is Erin.

Sweat’s dripping from my head but I can’t stop my arms from moving.

“Jesus, James, chill,” Joel’s muttering, keeping his hands up in front of his face as I slam another right hook into him. How could I not have thought about that? I’m so fucking selfish. Slam. Slam. Slam. All I thought about was buying myself more time.

I’ve still got it, somewhere. The letter I was going to give Erin the day she screamed at me in the rain. I was being selfish then too. Thinking Erin would care that I’d fallen in love with her when her life had just been torn apart. I always get it so wrong.

“Okay. Time to swap over,” the coach shouts, but I can’t. I don’t want a second of thinking about what I’ve just done. Ignoring the protesting in my lungs and the burning in my arms, I keep hitting. I know I deserve all the pain I’m feeling and more. I’ve let her down again. It’s like no matter how hard I try, it’s all I’m capable of doing.

My ears are ringing by the time I stop. My cheeks are burning hot as bile shoots up into my throat and I turn toward the floor, vomiting onto the ground. I gasp for breath, bent over as my whole body threatens to collapse right there, and I stumble, allowing myself to fall. Lying back, I throw my arms above my head, chest heaving as I stare up at the ceiling, covered in dark brown stains.

I wish I was like Jack Kerouac. Then I could leave a city, not worrying for a moment about the pain I’d left behind. There was a grotesqueness to the way his characters Sal and Dean lived, but right now I envy it: the freedom there is in continuing to escape your life.

“Fucking hell, mate,” Joel says, appearing over me. “Are you trying to punish yourself?”

He has no idea.

The following week Dorothy calls me into a meeting, landing it on me the second I walk through the door. She wants to reduce her workload by the end of the year, and asks me to become a director.

“You’d be taking over the reins, really,” she explains. “You’d be the face of Big Impressions.”

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