From When We Meet Again

LUKE

Le Labyrinthe Littéraire, Paris

Summer, 2014

My mother fixed her dark red lipstick and snapped the small round mirror shut, thrusting it into her purse a moment later. "That's settled, then."

My heart leaped. It was all I could do not to grin like a little boy who was promised he could eat as much ice cream as he wanted. You are eighteen, Luke, I reminded myself in a voice that did not sound eighteen at all. It would get there. I had only been eighteen for three days.

"And don't be late for dinner," Mother warned me.

"Of course not," I promised. I had never been late for anything in my adult life, not that it was a particularly large dataset. Well, I had never been late for school, at least. Or dinner, for that matter.

"We will have to get extra luggage, I think," Mother said in a quieter voice, making a note to herself. "And with Lucy's shopping, I dread to think."

Lucy rolled her eyes. "You're letting Luke search for books he can find back home."

It's not the same, I wanted to say. I had an entire shelf of books from every city I ever visited. Almost all of them were from independent little bookstores, and one from a small town in Kansas was a guidebook I picked at a gas station after our brief trip. I never returned from a trip without a book.

"It's his birthday, darling," Mother explained. "And I never said we wouldn't shop, did I?"

Lucy rolled her shoulders in the nondescript way of a sulky sixteen-year-old who got her way but wasn't ready to give up the fight. It would have annoyed me at another time, but I was too excited about my gift to let this get in the way.

I drained the remains of my iced coffee with cream through a wide black straw, wiped my lips with the back of my hand, and gave in to the urge to kiss my mother hard, my left arm wrapping around her shoulders and pulling her in. "Thank you." The words were too small to match what I felt.

As I stood up, Lucy thrust her tongue at me behind a hand protecting her from our mother's lecture. The spark of mischief in her big blue eyes was a call for a truce, so I winked my acceptance and waved at them both.

As I navigated the busy Parisian sidewalk, dodging cafés, bakeries, and cocktail bars with chairs set up along the streets, I allowed myself a deep, victorious breath. As far as birthday gifts went, a no-questions-asked visit to a bookstore easily climbed to the top spot.

The aromas of coffee and croissants mixed in the air and tickled my nostrils invitingly, but I resisted. I was not an impulsive person. Even through the wild years of puberty, I had always been the quiet, calm, unproblematic one. The last time I got into trouble was in eighth grade when I was caught letting other students copy my homework. "In life, we reap what we sow," my mother had taught me. After that, I never let myself be caught again. But aside from letting friends get away with not doing their homework, I could hardly be labeled a rebel.

My pace picked up when I passed the most crowded parts of the sidewalk along Avenue Franklin Delano Roosevelt. I turned into Rue du Colisée, a one-way street with cars parked along one side and traffic moving in a slow, clogged-up manner down the other side. The heat of the day made the scent of dust and dryness fill the air, and some less than pleasant, stuffy smell of mold and piss made me glad to reach the other end of the narrow street.

I had passed a nearby bookstore yesterday, lingering at the window while Lucy and Mom waited for me to catch up. To know Mom had remembered how inviting the window had been made me happier than I strictly should have been. And as I walked, I calculated how long I would stay. It would take me slightly over fifteen minutes to get back to our hotel. A few minutes of gushing over my new book haul, fifteen minutes in the shower, ten minutes of putting on my clothes, changing my mind, and putting on something else, fifteen to get to the restaurant…

I decided I had well over two hours to inspect every shelf, every hidden, secondhand copy, every rare first edition, and all the latest, hottest titles. With this in mind, I slowed down, my light cream hemp shirt sticking to my back. As I caught my breath, I looked around. Corner buildings with narrow fronts expanded along the organically built streets, trees provided the much-needed shade, and the hum of traffic from several streets away faded to mere background noise.

When I found Le Labyrinthe Littéraire, I paused at the window, not unlike an urchin on a cold winter night gazing at the unreachable warmth on the other side in some Hans Christian Anderson story. My eyes grew big with wonder, and my heart tripped several times. The window itself was framed with dark wood along the bottom third. The name of the bookstore was pasted across the glass in blocky, aged gold lettering. Inside the window, the scene was richly decorated with a dark brown drape as a background to a plethora of things one might find in a Victorian library. From a faded brown globe to a library stool to a lineup of clothbound hardcovers, I could have spent the entire two hours I had daydreaming about my future home office. Not that I knew what exactly I would be doing in said office. Or why I would have one at home. My mother didn't love the idea of my studying English literature. I switched my phone to silent mode so I wouldn't be disturbed while I was in heaven.

I triggered an antique bell above the door when I entered Le Labyrinthe Littéraire. I found myself blinking like a mole at the dim interior after the bright daylight outside. It took my eyes a few moments to adjust. To my right, extending from the corner near the door three long paces out, was the heavy wooden counter with an old-fashioned cash register I swore was there for decorative purposes. The wooden paneling made the counter feel completely solid, immovable, built into the store's very skeleton. It was cluttered with sepia postcards, expensive pens, and bookmarkers of various sizes and designs. I had my eye on the particularly interesting clip-on bookmarker with a magnet to secure it to the page. It bore a print of Van Gogh's self-portrait.

Behind the counter were shelves with literary magazines, books waiting to be shelved elsewhere, and various notebooks and merchandise with the store's aged gold lettering on them. Finally, there was movement on the curtain, which concealed what I imagined was a storage room behind an arched doorway. A middle-aged man with black hair combed back and a touch of silver on his temples pulled the curtain aside and stepped behind the counter. "Bonjour," he greeted me.

I replied, my French bearing more than a little of my American accent. It made me wince to hear myself, but the man smiled politely.

"Welcome," he said, his French accent sounding much more pleasant to my ears than the other way around. "Ah, are you lookin' for anythin' in particular?" I could have listened to the way words rolled over his lips for a day and I wouldn't get bored.

"No. Nothing specific." I glanced ahead to where the riches of the bookstore were. "I'd like to explore for a bit."

"By all means," the man said. He tapped a bell on the counter, illustrating the exact way in which I should use it. "If you need me, I will be right 'ere." He gestured at the curtain and the arched doorway behind his back. With another smile, he turned away from me and disappeared into the back room.

I turned on my heels, inhaling a deep breath rich with the scent of leather, cedar, ink, and paper. Hints of bergamot and orange peel were also present, and I picked out the faintest notes of sea breeze and pine cones. My gaze flickered across the ground floor, where the small foyer with gift items led to a long rectangular room with bookcases from wall to wall. In the center of the room were long, low tables with the same deep brown cloth covering them, stacked with more clothbound hardcovers. The classics of French literature in their native language as well as dozens of translations from various publishers across the world. I entered the room and dragged my gaze carefully across them all, folding my left arm for the lack of a shopping cart. One by one, I failed to resist the books, aware that even the no-questions-asked policy had its limits. Besides, I had only spent twenty minutes in here so far. So I carefully picked up one book after another, weighing, measuring, judging, imagining them on my shelves, and, as discreetly as I could, inhaling their scents.

I lost track of time in this wonderland.

After returning two-thirds of the books I had, at one point or another, swore I couldn't live without, I carried the must-buys with me up a wooden spiral staircase to the loft, where even more titles awaited. I had picked up Le Père Goriot bound in beautiful burgundy cloth with gold details, a trade paperback of Madame Bovary, and a massive hardcover of Les Misérables with a glossy dust jacket to start with.

Up in the loft, the scent of pines was a little stronger, but the dominant aromas were something resembling a reclusive wizard's home in the woods. There was, I noticed, someone else up there, and a strong scent of coffee drew my attention to the person sitting in a corner, his back turned to me. Lamps were the only source of light up here, and they were especially sparse in the reading nook. The patron was in a low armchair with a book in his hand and a coffee in a small cup on the table in front of him. Dark, cropped hair and a long, tanned neck were all I saw of him before slipping between the bookcases. As I stalked between the shelves, I marveled at the editions of familiar titles and those I had never seen before.

I was often precise and methodical in the things I did. Piling books into the fold of my left arm was not one of them. As my burden grew heavy and so tall that I could press it safely in place with my chin, I spotted a very vintage copy of The Iliad in English on the top shelf. Holding my haul as firmly as I could, I lifted my right hand to the top, rising to my toes. The pile in my arm was starting to wobble when someone appeared next to me, frightening me instantly with French words spoken in a soft tone.

"Ah!" I jumped back, bumping into the stranger with my right side as I protected my left against an avalanche of books that tumbled out of my hold.

"Excusez-moi," the stranger said hurriedly. "Je suis désolé."

"I'm so sorry," I blurted, moving away from the person I had just leaned against. As I stepped away from him, my heel landed on one of my hardbacks, and I tripped backward, yelping in panic until a pair of strong arms grabbed me.

"You speak English," the stranger stated in a native-like accent. "God, I apologize. I only meant to get that book for you. I didn't want to scare you." His arms were still around my torso, and my legs were numb as the adrenaline wore off. With his help, I straightened a little and stood on my two feet. It was only when I was safely upright and the other guy backed one pace from me that I realized several things. Firstly, the pine cone and sea breeze scent I had been following throughout the bookstore belonged to him. Secondly, he was not French. And thirdly, he was the best-looking person I had ever seen in my life. From the stylishly cropped, nearly black hair to his big, dark eyes to the perfect nose and defined lips, this person was crafted by angels in heaven. With strong eyebrows that matched his hair and ears pierced twice each, not to mention the fact that he was taller by a couple of inches, the stranger had the good looks that intimidated me more than anything else. It took me a moment to process the fact that he was smiling, eyes wide and pupils dilated in the dimness of the loft, his body language open and a little awkward. "Let me help you with that," he offered in my stunned silence.

Bending down, he began picking my books one by one, handing them to me while crouching, and later kneeling, by the pile. When he finished, he held my copy of Le Père Goriot instead of adding it to my armful. "Ah, I remember this one. Such a frustrating read."

I resisted narrowing my eyes at him, but I strongly disagreed. In fact, I could do very little between holding the books and fighting the urge to moon over him like a frog-eyed, smitten boy. He must have noticed me bristling at his unsolicited review of De Balzac's classic novel. With another toothy smile, the heartthrob wiped away whatever sting his comment had left.

"I only mean that those daughters needed a good spanking." He surrendered the hardcover over to my pile. "That's a lot of books."

"It's my birthday." I blinked and imagined that explained everything.

The angel-faced book critic arched his eyebrows. "Is it? Happy birthday." He had a soft way of speaking as if every word was precious and worth saying. "This is your birthday gift to yourself, then?"

"Sort of," I replied.

His eyes narrowed in thought. "It's a very deep collection. Don't you want to have fun while reading?"

Now he was just getting on my nerves. He might be heart-stoppingly handsome, but I wouldn't stand for rudeness. "I have lots of fun." My voice had dropped an octave lower from the last time I spoke.

The stranger's lips formed an O, and his eyebrows quirked upward. "I've struck a chord, eh? Let me make that right." He turned away from me and slipped between the bookcases and out of sight. If it was some kind of game, he won because I couldn't resist following him. I trailed the fresh, exciting scent of his cologne and found him inspecting a row of graphic novels.

He picked up a few, measured them against each other, replaced them, and repeated the process a few times. At one point, he considered the fantasy aisle, murmuring something like, "Not there yet," while holding a pristine copy of Assassin's Apprentice in his right hand. He looked at the cover of that book so lovingly that I felt something in the pit of my stomach that couldn't possibly be jealousy.

I was sure it was a practiced look. It must have worked on girls all the time. He had probably broken a million hearts.

His sun-kissed face pulled on a satisfied expression. When he directed his warm brown gaze at me, I was light-headed. Pull yourself together, I snapped at myself internally. I had come across countless good-looking guys since first realizing that guys were the ones that made my heart grow. Nobody knew the truth, of course, and I was very good at keeping my head cool around attractive boys. In school, at the pool, at the beach, or on any trip Mom had taken Lucy and me, I could ignore the fact that pretty boys made me want to look twice.

And yet, this confident, smiling guy looked at me, and I wanted to giggle behind my hand.

"That's the one," he said with a pleased nod, returning the rest of his options to their places on the shelves. He hurried away from me again, the sea breeze and pine cones washing over my face. I couldn't lie; I drew a deep breath just as he passed me.

I followed, as that seemed to be the role he had assigned to me.

He dropped into his chair, picked up a ballpoint pen, stuck it between his teeth, and pulled the pen out of the lid, which he bit firmly while scribbling inside the book.

"What are you…?" My breath hitched as he underlined something sharply and handed me the graphic novel.

Happy birthday! This will sprinkle some joy throughout your reading list.

P.S. Sorry about scaring the soul out of you.

Rafael

He took the book back. "It's a birthday gift."

"I don't read comics," I said in no particular tone.

Rafael grinned. "You're a bit of a snob, aren't you?"

The frown that creased my brow made him chuckle.

"God, you're adorable. I'll forgive it." After those words left his curved, red lips, his gaze dropped to the cover of TheSandman graphic novel. He looked at me again, a little more guardedly, and winced. "Was that too forward?"

The heat that soared into my face must have been a telltale sign. And if it hadn't been, then the choked breath I dragged into my burning lungs was.

"I usually speak without thinking," Rafael said. "It's very off-putting, they say."

"I don't think it's off-putting." The soft tone I used was out of my control. My ears were still ringing with the word he used to describe me. Straight guys didn't tell other guys they were adorable, right? The fondest words a straight guy had directed at me had been "You're kinda cool, man." Not this. Never this.

"It's my lucky day, then," he said and hesitated, possibly waiting for me to say something else. I wanted to, but I wasn't exactly sure how to bridge the gap between my heart and my tongue. "Well…" He rolled his shoulders. "It was nice meeting you."

I pressed my lips into a tight smile and nodded. I had this distinct feeling of standing on the precipice; either step forward and claim the gift fate had given me or step back and forget this had ever happened. Years later, in a hotel room on Piazza Navona, I would gaze out at the crowds of people who looked for some respite in the cool evening air. Standing on the edge of the abyss, I would remember this moment. Though a decade had passed since he scribbled his name inside a book I had no plans on reading, I felt the same sense of gravity and fate and sheer importance of having run into Rafael. There, in a hidden bookstore in Paris, I was knocked out of my orbital path by a fraction of a degree, and the impact rippled throughout my life.

I blinked. "Won't you buy me that book?"

"Oh." His smile broadened as visible relief washed over him. "Right. I would love to. Not that you read comics, of course. They are for children, am I right? Not for serious people like you and me." He wore a cheeky grin that morphed into a genuine one when he offered to take some of the books from my armful as we neared the dangerously swirly stairs.

Although I wasn't in the habit of being teased, it didn't bother me coming from Rafael.

"I'm Luke, by the way. Whitaker." I looked at him, then at the stairs, and began descending them.

"It's nice to meet you, Luke Whitaker. I'm Rafael Santos." His voice was softer again, words a little more measured. He seemed to move between blurting out big statements about someone's adorableness and carefully constructed phrases like a qubit in a state of superposition; both things were true at the same time.

We found the middle-aged man writing something down in a large, leather-bound notebook on the counter. He looked up at us and exchanged a few words in French with Rafael, whose accent, to my ear at least, was indistinguishable. "And for you, monsieur?"

Rafael and I unloaded the pile of very important literary masterpieces onto the counter. The man scanned them using a modern cash register, packed them in two paper bags with the store's unique lettering, and gave me the change. As I started for the door, my heart tripped. Rafael was following me. He had his own copy of Royal Assassin by Robin Hobb under his arm, and he carried The Sandman for me. The bell above the door escorted us, and we stood in the bright sunlight of the outside world on the sidewalk. Here, he was even more beautiful, the tawny complexion lighting up under the sunshine.

"Listen," he said, fiddling with the copy of The Sandman. "Since it's your birthday and I basically knocked you over, called you a snob, and made you blush, I was wondering if you'd let me make it up to you."

I swallowed. "Um…how?"

Rafael pointed down the street in the opposite direction from which I had come. "There's an ice cream parlor around the corner. You can't leave Paris without trying it."

I only had a little over an hour until dinner. Ice cream was not a great appetizer. I had to get back to the hotel to unpack, shower, and change. Mom didn't like tardiness. I knew it then, just like I knew it ten years later when I remembered the events of this evening—I had already crossed the precipice.