Page 74 of Lovesick
He studied me, but I quickly moved on to the middle-grade section. I’d read a decent number of those in elementary school. After half-heartedly giving him a brief tour of the best titles, we turned down horror lane.
“You like horror?” he asked. He studied a cover with a demon and its spawn crawling out of a dark hole.
“Not particularly.”
“Did you want to go check out the new romance titles?” He hooked a thumb back that way.
I waved a hand airily. “In a moment.”
“Lizbeth...”
“Oooh, new cookbooks!”
That would distract him and buy time for my heart to stop pounding. For my breath to catch up with my body.
My plan worked. He eagerly perused a few titles, mumbling aboutpatisserieandchoux pastry.In the cookbook aisle, I took a few deep breaths.
I could do this.
I could go back there and face those books without thinking of the Frolicking Moose. Without thinking of everything I’d lost that, until this point, I’d avoided thinking about. But now it slammed into me all at once.
Allthose books.
By sheer force of will, I swallowed my tears. Sweet baby pineapple, this place smelled like my attic room. Like books. Like paper and safety and home. Like I’d steppedintoa story and wrapped myself in its pages. The attic room that would never be the same.
The books. My room. Even my laptop, clothes, phone with the sparkly cover. It was allgone. Not only had I lost my books, I’d lost my friends. Those books had gotten me through Mama’s death. Dad’s drinking. The escalation of his abuse.
Now they were ash.
Like a vengeful ghost, another memory of Mama whispered through my mind.“The books have it right, Lizbeth. If you can find a man in real life that’s just like the ones in the books you and I read, you snatch him up. He’ll keep you safe forever.”
“Lizbeth?”
I jerked, startled by the sound of JJ’s voice. He peered at me, a French pastry cookbook in his hands. He set it aside and closed the space between us in two strides. All of a sudden, he was there, hands on my shoulders to ground me.
“You all right?”
“I can’t go back there,” I whispered.
“Why?”
“Because ... I can’t see all those books. They remind me of home. Of...” A sob peeped out of my throat. He reached up, fingers threaded into my hair as his hand pressed against my cheek.
“Of all you lost in the fire?”
“So many books, JJ.”
“Nine hundred fifty-seven,” he said softly.
Tears filled my eyes, and I nodded. How did he remember that number? How was that the most perfect response?
“Books I can never replace.” I still couldn’t raise my voice above a whisper. “They’re worn in the right places so I can quickly find the best scenes. They were with me in the worst times of my life. Now they’re justgone. Along with everything else. Just ... not there. They were ... they were my friends.”
JJ looked over at the shelves and back to me. His hands tightened, giving me a comforting squeeze. “Then don’t go back there. Stay here with me.”
My heart stumbled over itself. Why did it feel like he meant more than that?
“Okay.”
