“Sounds fascinating.”
“It really is.”
She takes it from me and stacks it on top of the Sunny Palmer book. “Any others?”
“Uh, sure,” I say as I reach out and grab another book off the shelf. “This one right here is a breakout sensation.” I hold it out toward her, the words breakout sensation in bold at the top.
She looks down at it. “The Love Hypothesis?”
“Yes. It’s by—” I pause to search the cover. “Ali Hazelwood. It’s a New York Times bestseller.” I point to the gold sticker with the white lettering stuck to the front of the paperback. Why do they put stickers on paperbacks? I’m pretty sure everyone hates it.
“Sounds interesting. What’s it about?”
I look down at the illustrated drawing of a man and a woman kissing on the cover and then awkwardly back at her. “It’s definitely a page turner. It’s about people who . . . hypothesize about love.”
She smiles now, lovely, bright-white teeth on display. “Sounds like a good one.”
“Oh, it is,” I say.
“You haven’t read any of them, have you?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head.
She giggles at that and my stomach does a weird dipping thing, a feeling I haven’t had in forever. It’s almost foreign.
A little voice in my head, one that has been quiet for a long time, nudges me to ask her out, or at the very least ask for her number. It’s been a while since I’ve had that thought. This time is unfounded, because even though she looks familiar, I can’t place how I know her. Plus, she might not even be single, or even be interested. Not to mention, I’m in no place to date. Not with the back-to-square-one turn my life has taken.
“Well, I’ll take them. All three.” She holds out a hand, and I give her the third book, which she stacks on top of the others.
“Excellent choices,” I say.
We stand there again, and I rack my brain, still trying to figure out where I could possibly know her from. Was it here on the island? During college? If she’d take off the sunglasses, that might help—they’re keeping me from getting a good look. All I’m basing this off is a perfect button nose and full lips in a lovely shade of pink. Why can’t I figure this out?
“Can I . . . buy them?” the woman asks, snapping me out of what might have been a short trance. Good hell, was I staring at her lips? I think I was.
“Right,” I say, berating myself for acting like a fool. I feel disarmed around her. It’s a strange feeling.
She follows me to the front of the store, and once I’m behind the register, she hands me the books. I ring them up while she peruses the odds and ends my mom has for sale on the front counter—small notebooks, a variety of pens, and some gimmicky books of questions.
She hands me cash from a black cross-body bag once I tell her the total. I’d hoped for a credit card so I could see a name to help jog my memory, but no such luck. I guess I could just ask her, but it feels like I’ve missed the timing on that. I bag up the books and hand them to her.
“Thanks for the help,” she says as she takes them.
“You’re welcome. You’ll have to let me know if you enjoyed the books.”
“Rules and hypotheses—how can I not?” She gives me a smile.
“Have we . . . met before?” I finally ask. It’s taken me too long to ask, but I’ve already made a fool of myself—might as well run with it.
She shakes her head. “No,” she says definitively.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure,” she says.
“You just look so familiar.”
“I have one of those faces.”
“I don’t think that’s it,” I say, shaking my head. “Do you live here? On the island?”
“No, just visiting.” She slides a hand through the handles of the bag of books, looking like she’s about to make a run for it, her demeanor changing to something more anxious, which makes me even more curious. I may lack a lot of things in life, but reading a room has always been a talent of mine, and this room says, Stop asking stupid questions.
“Thank you for these,” she says, with a head bob toward the books.
“Of course,” I tell her.
She turns and leaves the store, the bells jingling as she exits.
I stare at the door after she leaves, still trying to work out how I might know her. After a minute, I give up and busy myself with organizing a stack of notebooks on the counter.
It doesn’t matter anyway; I’m not trying to see people on this island besides my mom and Scout. I can’t get around running into people when they come into the shop, but other than that I’ve been hiding in the apartment above the store that my mom kindly offered when I told her I was coming back. It’s a small, one-bedroom place, and it’s got some interesting decor. But I’m grateful for it.
It’s not that I’m avoiding particular people—I just don’t want to see anyone. I don’t want to have to answer questions about why I’m back, what happened, what I plan to do with my life, how I’m going to get back on my feet . . . I don’t even know the answers to the last two questions. I’m giving myself the summer to figure it all out. And hopefully I will.
The bells on the door ring as it opens, and I can instantly feel the warm, humid air that’s slipped in, fighting for dominance with the air-conditioning. My eyes dart toward the entrance, hoping she—the mysterious, yet familiar, woman—might come through the door, back to tell me who she is and put this unsolved mystery to rest. Instead, my mom enters the bookshop, carrying a bouquet of flowers in one hand and a canvas tote full of who-knows-what in the other.
“Hello, Mom,” I say before giving her a faint smile.
