Chapter 18 | Liz

Chapter 18

Liz

T he seating situation at work is slightly better today. Instead of being shoved into a storage closet, I’m in an actual office with a window, a chair that can be ergonomically adjusted, and a standing desk. The space still reeks of old man cologne, as if the stench has latched onto all the things left behind by the former occupant. As an added bonus I can also smell whatever hellish food someone is microwaving across the hall. The kitchen in this suite is mecca. Coffee gurgles all day, milk aerates, the microwave beeps, and people whisper. Closed doors aren’t exactly a thing here. Sure, if you are on a call, but there’s an unofficial—and literal—open-door policy. Still, it’s better than the closet. And after I bought an infuser and attacked every surface with Lysol wipes, it’s doable for now. The admin promises to have the boxes, papers, and other things out in another week. I’m not holding my breath.

People slouch past my office in a steady stream and are always straighter on the return. The magic of coffee. I watch the parade for a few moments, flipping through spam emails. There are so many every day. Half, I don’t remember signing up for, and one, I know I’ve unsubscribed from several times since they email me three times a day. And yet, here is my second email of the day, right above a message from my mother. She probably sent another self-help article. My mom went from never texting during the work day to sending several articles a day by email along with a constant stream of texts. I’m positive if I look now there will be a message on my phone. Something like: Checking in. Still want to see your new place. Pictures only do so much. Stop buying secondhand furniture! I know a guy. If it wasn’t absurd, it would be funny.

I scroll to the offending marketing email, ignoring my mom’s latest intrusion, and click the unsubscribe button a little too forcibly. It feels good. I jam my fingers onto the keys to type in my reasoning.

“I hope I’m not on the other end of that email!”

Great, it’s Angie from HR, a frequent kitchen whisperer. She couches her extended coffee breaks as part of the employee wellness initiative because "breaks and human interaction improve workplace morale.”

“No, no,” I say, sitting back in my chair. “Taking my frustrations out on a marketing email.”

“For real, girl. Some companies are more persistent than herpes.” She steps into my office and shuts the door. Crap . “Anyway, I wanted to check in... I saw your new address come through.”

I expected this to happen, but I’m still not ready for it. The fact that we moved from our house in the suburbs to a popular Princeton complex is a red flag that something’s wrong. Whether it’s Julian losing his job or me moving out. But I felt uncomfortable leaving my old address as my primary address at work. He’s still my emergency contact, so I hope that will squelch any rumor mill gossip. Watching Angie watch me now, though, I can’t help but wonder what it’ll look like if I change my address back in six months? Or what it’ll mean if I don’t have to.

“Everything’s fine.” I don’t put that false brightness into my answer that requires energy I don’t have right now. “Julian and I are...” Tears prick behind my eyes, and my chest constricts. Who would’ve guessed that this would be the hardest part—telling people, admitting defeat. It’s awful. “Taking a moment,” I say finally.

My life feels like a soap opera—the prime-time ones, not the daytime ones, at least. I can see the marketing campaign. Will Julian and Liz find their way back to each other? History says yes, but this time Liz might say no. Where are the #Lilian shippers when you need them? Back in West Dover, believing the fairy tale. But true love’s kiss isn’t going to fix this one.

“I’m sorry, Angie,” I say to her awkward silence. “I think I’m going to get some air.”

B arnes & Noble is quiet this early in the day. The lunch-break browsers are still enjoying their ten o’clock coffees, and the stay-at-home parents already have their kids at music or ballet or pre-K readiness. I let the scents of paper and ink and wood wash over me. It’s soothing for my frazzled soul. It always has been.

As graduate students, Julian and I lived around the corner from a bookstore. It was a small indie and perfect. In the weeks after Julian left me, the crowded aisles became my refuge. It was the one place in all of Philadelphia that calmed me. Jane would find me there and drag me home, forcing meal after meal upon me. The owner would thrust bottles of water at me and let me take home more books than I could carry.

The similarities between myself at twenty-four and myself now are heartbreaking. And next time, because I’m coming to accept that there will always be a next time with Julian, will it be an actual physical betrayal? I’m not sure I’m willing to live my life waiting for a next time anymore.

Fuck. I swipe at my cheeks. So much for the calming effect of books. With a sniffle, I turn down another row of shelves. The book I was reading—a slow-burn romance about daemons, vampires, and witches steeped in a mystery about a missing book—still sits on my bedside table in West Dover. It’s going to stay there for the next six months, if not indefinitely, which means I need to buy it again because I must know what happens. Will the vampire return from Oxford to confess his forbidden love for a witch?

Except ten minutes later, I still can’t find it. It has to be in stock. It was recently given the television treatment and became quite popular. I know it’s sitting on a table in plain view—they always are—but I can’t do another lap of the store, and I have a meeting in fifteen minutes. I glance at the man leaning against the help desk. Khakis and a polo, what looks like a phone strapped to his belt loop, a jawline for days. He has to work here.

“Excuse me,” I say, walking toward the desk, “can you help me find a book?”

The man looks up with an easy smile, amusement coloring his gorgeous golden eyes. Good god, I will buy a book every day for the rest of my life if he works here. Soft eyes, five o’clock shadow at midday, lips that tease me with their suppleness. I try to calm the burning I feel crawling up my neck. Calm down, body! It’s not like we’ve never seen a hot guy before today.

“I’m happy to try.” His voice is as smooth and lust-inducing as his body.

I hold my phone up to show him the book in question. He nods, and instead of walking around the desk and typing something into the computer, he heads off toward the cash registers.

“I’m pretty sure I saw this on the table up front with the other books that made the leap from page to screen. ”

Oh my god. He does not work here. It’s obvious as he scans the store for the table rather than walking right to it.

“Oh,” I say, my voice high and slightly manic. “I thought... You had that phone. I’m sorry.”

He smiles again, unconcerned, and pulls the phone off his waist. “Bravo delta, what’s your location?”

It’s a freaking walkie-talkie. “I’m so sorry.”

He laughs, his eyes trained on the table in front of him. He turns and hands me my book. “Not a problem at all.”

My cheeks burn, but there’s no helping it now. “Thank you.”

“I don’t know why they don’t leave any on the shelf when they put them out on these tables. It’s infuriating and confusing.” He holds out his hand. “I’m Spencer.”

The walkie-talkie streams static before I can answer. The high-pitched voice of an adolescent boy comes through. “Bravo alpha, the target has been located.”

I watch their exchange warmly, unable to ignore the fact that Spencer’s eyes never leave mine as he handles the walkie-talkie. After a moment, I turn to my book. I could get lost in those eyes forever.

“Good work,” he says into the device. “Bring her in to the checkout line, captain.”

“Yes, general, sir.”

I look up again as he hooks the device back onto his pants. “My son forgot his copy of James and the Giant Peach at camp and seemed to think he could get away without doing his weekend reading.”

I nod as if I know anything about children. Sure, I’m the cool aunt to Jane’s kids when I need to be, but by definition that makes me too cool for summer reading lists.

A child, maybe eight or nine, walks up to us then. He clutches two books to his chest, the Dahl and a manga with a name I vaguely remember— Naruto . “Dad, can I get this too?”

“Sure, buddy. Can you say hi to...”

“Liz.” I offer the boy a smile. “And you are?”

“Ryan.” He points to the book I hold. “My mommy has that book.”

“All right, bud,” Spencer says, and I swear a look of chagrin passes over his face. “Let’s go pay and get through these chapters. I don’t want to spend our whole weekend together reading about an orphan who lives in a magical peach.”

Ryan sighs dramatically. “No spoilers, Dad. That’s like the first rule of life.”

Spencer rolls his eyes and gives me one last smile, his eyes locking on mine. “Enjoy your book, Liz.”