Page 71 of Second Quarter Comeback
Afterward, we walk hand-in-hand through Washington Square Park, stopping near the arch where a jazz band plays a lively tune. Camille sways gently to the rhythm, her fingers snugly laced with mine. The warmth of her touch, the music, the way she loses herself in the melody—it all feels timeless, like something I’d never want to let go of.
Next, I surprise her with a visit to The Strand. The moment she spots the iconic green awning, she freezes mid-step before turning to me with wide eyes.
“Are you serious?” she asks, her voice a mix of disbelief and glee.
“Dead serious,” I reply, grinning.
She doesn’t wait for further confirmation. She’s practically halfway through the door before I can say another word. By the time I catch up, she’s already staring at the endless rows of books like she’s walked into heaven’s library.
“This place is incredible,” she says, her fingers skimming the spines of the nearest shelf. “It smells like paper and dreams.”
I chuckle, stuffing my hands in my pockets as I follow her. “So you like it?”
“Like it?” She spins around, her face lit up with excitement. “If you tell me there’s a coffee bar in here, I might actually cry.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I tease. “You’re already at risk of moving in.”
We start weaving through the shelves, her pace quick and purposeful, like she has a plan—or at least a very long mental list of books she needs. Every few seconds, she stops, tilts her head, and pulls a book off the shelf with the kind of reverence usually reserved for priceless artifacts.
“Pick something,” she says, holding up a copy ofThe Great Gatsby.
I raise an eyebrow. “Trying to impress me with the classics?”
“Maybe,” she replies with a wink. “But if you’re really offering to buy me books, I might just pick one. Or ten.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Pick as many as you want. But if you can’t carry them, don’t look at me to play pack mule.”
Her eyes narrow mischievously. “I see your challenge, and I accept it.” She grabs a basket from the corner like a gladiator arming herself for battle.
For the next half hour, she darts between shelves like a woman on a mission. Every few minutes, she holds up a book for me to inspect. A thriller, a romance, a cookbook titledDeath by Chocolate.
“Do you bake?” I ask, holding back a laugh.
“I could learn,” she replies, tossing it into the basket. “For science.”
By the time we get to the checkout, her basket is packed so full I’m worried the handle might snap. She hesitates, glancing at me like she’s bracing for me to call off the deal.
“You sure about this?” she asks, biting her lip.
“Of course,” I say, smirking. “But if you’re expecting me to build you another bookshelf, that’s going to cost extra.”
She snorts, handing her books to the cashier. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it, Crawford.”
When the total flashes on the screen, I swipe mycard without hesitation, though I make a show of pretending to wipe sweat from my forehead.
“This might be the most expensive date I’ve ever been on,” I say as we walk out, the bag of books weighing heavily in my hand. “Worth it, though.”
“Thank you.” She kisses my cheek.
“For you, anything, baby.”
We head down the street, her bag of books swinging in her hand like it’s filled with treasure. She glances up at me, her smile contagious.
“This was perfect,” she says softly, her eyes sparkling.
And as I watch her, happier than I’ve ever seen her, I know I’ll be taking her to every bookstore in New York if it means I get to see that smile again.
The last stop is the one I’ve been saving, knowing full well how much she loves churros and ice cream. It’s practically her kryptonite.
