Page 22 of The Words of Us

And for your love song tone their rumble down.

I could take the Harlem night

and wrap it round you,

Take the neon lights and make a crown."

The words hang in the air, filling the space with their rhythm, their music. I feel the connection in the room deepen, a shared appreciation for the simple beauty of the poem, for the way it captures that feeling of new love, of excitement, of something just beginning.

As I finish, there is a soft, appreciative murmur from the crowd, and I close the book with a contented smile. The night has begun, and with it, the promise of something more—more stories, more voices, more moments of connection.

But then my eyes drift to the back of the room, where the shelves are a little more organized than they’d been this morning. I don’t even notice the door open, don’t hear the bell’s soft chime in the midst of my reading. But there she is, leaning casually against the very shelves where we’d tangled ourselves up the night before, where books had fallen around us like confetti.

Sasha.

She watches me with a look that’s a half-smile, half something deeper—something that makes my heart skip and my breath catch. She stands there, almost like she’s meant to be part of the bookstore’s rhythm, fitting seamlessly into the scene. She is so effortlessly attractive, I almost can’t bear it. Her eyes meet mine, and in that instant, the noise of the crowd fades, and it feels like it’s just the two of us, connected by the invisible thread of last night and whatever is building between us.

The moment hangs there, suspended in the soft light, as she gives me that crooked, teasing smile I’ve come to love. It’s the kind of smile that says a thousand things at once—I’m here. I’m with you. Let’s see where this goes.

I can’t help but smile back, the unexpected thrill of seeing her standing there, in this place that meant everything to me, sending a rush of warmth through my veins. It’s a small, quiet moment in a room full of people, but to me, it feels like the start of something big, something that can grow into whatever we are brave enough to let it be.

As I step off the stage and the next performer takes their place, Sasha stays by the shelves, her gaze never leaving mine. I make my way through the crowd, weaving between the chairs, laughter, and buzz of conversation rising around us. When I reach her, she leans in, her hand reaches for my cheek and I feel the cool touch of her fingers, her voice stays low, just for me.

“That was beautiful.” Her words are like a soft note against the music still playing in the background. “But I think you already knew that.”

I laugh, feeling that familiar, easy connection between us. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Sasha’s smile widens, her eyes sparkling with mischief and something gentler. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

Her hand casually drops, lingering just a second as the pad of her index finger flicks over my lips.

And just like that, the night feels a little brighter and the bookstore a little warmer with her standing beside me.

12

SASHA

Ihadn’t planned on reading tonight. In fact, as I walk into the bookstore, all I want is to slip into the comforting anonymity of the crowd, to blend into the buzzing atmosphere of Saturday night poetry at Evie’s. I’ve spent the day trying to shake off the tension of that unexpected message on my phone, telling myself over and over that the past can’t touch me here. And when I see Evie up on stage, reading that poem, the way her voice carries softly through the room, I know I made the right choice to come.

The bookstore is more alive than I’ve ever seen it. Chairs fill up quickly, the low hum of conversation mixing with the strumming of Mr. Dupree’s guitar. Wine flows, laughter bubbles up, and there is this infectious energy in the air that makes everything feel just a little bit brighter. It’s the kind of night that makes me think anything is possible, and Evie is at the center of it all, orchestrating the magic like she was born to do it.

I linger by the back shelves, watching as the night unfolds. Performers come and go, each leaving a little piece of themselves on the stage. There was a young woman with a trembling voice who read about first loves and heartbreaks; an older man with abooming laugh who spun stories like they were old jazz records; and Malik, who stood at the mic with his head down but his words sharp and clear, cutting through the noise with a quiet confidence that I admire.

I should be happy just to watch, to take it all in from the safety of my corner. But as the night goes on, I can’t shake the restless feeling in my chest. My fingers keep finding their way to the crumpled notebook in my bag, tracing the edges of the pages where I’d scrawled bits and pieces of a poem earlier in the week. It isn’t finished—not even close—but it feels urgent, like something I need to say, even if I’m not sure who I’m saying it to.

I glance at Evie, who is leaning against the counter, smiling at something Kenneth has said. She looks so at home, so effortlessly part of this place, and when her eyes meet mine, I feel a jolt of something I can’t quite name. It’s like she can see right through me, past all the walls I’ve built, and in that moment, I want nothing more than to be part of her world, to step out of the shadows and into the light she seems to radiate.

Before I can talk myself out of it, my feet move toward the stage. My heart is hammering, my palms suddenly slick with nerves, but there is no turning back now. The next reader has just finished, and the mic is open, waiting for the next voice. My voice.

I hesitate at the edge of the stage, feeling the weight of every eye in the room on me. I don’t do this often—not like this, not without preparation. But something about tonight, about this place and these people, make me feel like maybe I can. Maybe I need to.

Evie catches my eye again, and she gives me a small, encouraging nod. It’s all the push I need.

I step up to the mic, my throat tight and dry, and adjust it to my height. The room falls quiet, a silence that’s both terrifyingand exhilarating. I glance down at my notebook, the messy handwriting staring back at me, and take a deep breath.

“Uh, hey,” I begin, my voice cracking slightly. “I wasn’t planning to read tonight, but...I don’t know. There’s something about this place that just pulls you in, right? So, I figured I’d share something I’ve been working on. It’s, well, it’s still rough, but it’s real, and I guess that’s what matters.”

I can see Evie from the corner of my eye, her expression warm and attentive, and it gives me the courage to start. I look down at the page, and as I begin to read, the words feel less like mine and more like something that has been waiting to be spoken.

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