Page 11 of The Words of Us

I don’t overthink it. Before I know what I’m doing, I walk up to the counter, my feet moving before my mind can catch up. I feel that familiar flutter in my stomach as I get closer, but I push through it.

When she looks up and sees me standing there, her eyes brighten. I can see the recognition, that same intensity flickering in her gaze, and for a moment, it feels like the whole room has disappeared, like it is just the two of us.

“Hey,” I say, my voice a little quieter than I intended. “I just wanted to say thank you. For the space, I mean. For the chance to read. It meant a lot.”

Her smile widens, and it’s warm, genuine. “I’m glad you did. Your poem, it was beautiful. It really resonated with me.”

I feel a rush of heat rise to my cheeks. Compliments on my poetry always hit me differently than anything else; they felt personal, like someone was seeing a part of me I didn’t often reveal. But coming from her, it feels even more intense.

“Thank you,” I reply, not quite sure what else to say, but not wanting the conversation to end. “I’ve been writing for a while, but it’s rare that I get the chance—well, the courage—to share. This place feels special.”

She nods, her eyes softening. “That’s what I hope for. My grandmother always believed that words had the power to connect people, to heal, even. I’ve tried to keep that spirit alive here. I am Evie. Evie Rousseau.”

I lean against the counter, feeling the conversation start to flow more easily. “Sasha Bennett.” I offer my name, gifting it to her, as she did to me. “It definitely feels like that. This city has a way of drawing people in, doesn’t it? Like it’s full of ghosts and stories that are just waiting to be heard.”

She smiles again, this time with a hint of amusement in her eyes. “Yeah, something like that.”

The conversation keeps going, and we talk about poetry, about the bookstore, about writing and words. We’re chatting like old friends, the back-and-forth coming so naturally, that I barely notice the time passing. Every now and then, someone approaches the counter, looking for help or to make a purchase, but Evie barely notices. She glances over at them and offers a quick smile, but her attention keeps returning to me, her eyes locked on mine as we talk about everything and nothing all at once.

At one point, I hear a soft cough, followed by a subtle throat clearing. It snaps us both out of our conversation, and I turn tosee a small line of people waiting at the counter, looking a little impatient.

“Oh.” Evie’s eyes widen as she realizes how long we’ve been talking. “I’m so sorry,” she says quickly to the customers, her cheeks flushing a deep shade of red as she steps away to help them.

I can feel my own face heating up, a mix of embarrassment and amusement washing over me. We have been so engrossed in each other that we haven’t even noticed the world moving on around us.

I linger near the counter for a moment, waiting for her to finish with the customers, trying to decide if I should leave now or stick around. Part of me doesn’t want the night to end, doesn’t want to walk away from whatever this is that has started between us.

When she finishes helping the last person, Evie turns back to me, still looking a little flustered but smiling. “Sorry about that,” she says, laughing softly. “I guess we got a little carried away.”

“No need to apologize,” I say, smiling back. “It was nice talking with you. Really nice.”

There’s a beat of silence, a pause in the air between us, and I can feel the question forming in my mind before I even realize what I am going to say.

“Would you…” I hesitate, suddenly nervous again, but I push through it. “Would you like to continue this conversation? Maybe over coffee tomorrow?”

Evie’s smile softens, and for a second, I think I see something flicker in her eyes—something that makes my heart skip a beat.

“I’d like that,” she says, her voice soft but certain. “There’s a cafe just around the corner. How about noon?”

“Noon sounds perfect,” I reply, feeling that flutter in my chest again, but this time it’s mixed with excitement.

We exchange a few more words—small details about where to meet—and then, with one last smile, I make my way to the door. As I step out into the warm night air, I felt lighter, like something inside me has shifted, cracked open in a way that I wasn’t expecting.

7

EVIE

The night is quiet, but my mind won’t stop racing. I’m lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, but all I can think about is her—Sasha. The conversation we had after the poetry event plays over and over in my head like a song stuck on repeat. The way she smiled when she talked about writing, how her eyes sparkled when she mentioned New Orleans, the way her voice dipped slightly when she said my name for the first time. It’s all there, vivid and insistent, tugging at me in the stillness of my bedroom.

Usually, after these poetry nights, there’s a sense of closure. The words have been spoken, the poets have left, and the air in the bookstore is heavy with a kind of lingering calm. Spoken poetry has always had a special appeal to me because of its transience. It’s fleeting, something that happens in a moment and then vanishes, like smoke dissipating into the night. You can’t keep it. You can’t hold it. You can only experience it as it happens and then let it go.

But tonight feels different.

I can’t let go of Sasha’s words. I keep replaying her poem in my mind, trying to recall the exact phrasing and the rhythm ofher voice as she spoke. Her words were like glass—delicate but powerful, fragile but cutting. She talked about walls, about love breaking us and rebuilding us, and there was something so raw, so intimate in the way she shared that part of herself. It wasn’t just the poem itself; it was the way she delivered it, the way her voice trembled ever so slightly at the beginning but grew stronger with each line.

I wish I had the paper in front of me now, wish I could trace the ink with my fingertips and memorize every word. I want to hold onto it, to keep it close, to let it wash over me again and again. But more than that, I want to hold onto how she made me feel. There was something electric between us, something I haven’t felt in a long time. It was like being struck by lightning, the intensity of it both exhilarating and terrifying. I’ve spent so long keeping my heart guarded, afraid of letting anyone in again, but with Sasha, those walls I’ve built feel like they’re crumbling. And for the first time, I’m not trying to stop them from falling.

I roll over onto my side, pressing my cheek into the cool pillowcase. My thoughts keep drifting back to the way Sasha looked tonight: her dark hair falling in loose waves around her face and her lips curving into that soft, almost shy smile whenever she caught me looking at her. She was confident on stage, but there was also a vulnerability there, something that drew me in even more.

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