We—as if we’re in on this together—stop at a local bookshop. It’s not the one where we first began whatever this is that we’re in. This one is well lit and lively. No cavernous twists and turns in which to hide. Oliver hesitates at the door before going in. I try to read something into that pause, but I don’t know what it means.
I know if I go in after him there will be no good place to hide in the intimate interior of the bookstore. I hesitate for a moment myself, letting him move deeper inside the store before I follow. I can still see his back as I open the thick glass door. He is so close that one glance over his shoulder and my acting skills will be tested. He moves to the left toward the small café, and I go around to the right to duck behind the new releases. He goes to the counter, and I think he’s going to order a coffee, but then he changes his mind and comes back toward my hiding place. I hurry into the depths of the store, trying to remain unseen, and I lose track of him. It would be smart of me to slip out, but I don’t. I ease through the rows, peeking around corners, until I catch sight of him and stop short.
He’s in the small Philosophy and Religion section. He’s standing very near the shelves, holding a large book not unlike the philosophy tomes I’ve seen at his house. I want to slip up to him and make a joke or something to break the ice. Doing a little light reading? But I stay put. I can see his face in profile, and I watch him turn the pages of the book. He looks surprisingly peaceful.
We’re both startled when one of his friends from the restaurant comes around the corner and punches him lightly on the shoulder. Oliver closes the book like he’s been caught with something illicit.
“Dude,” his friend says, “what was that about?”
“What?” Oliver says, shaking his head.
“I know you’re having troubles with that lady friend of yours, but you gotta snap out if it.”
At the mention of me, I slink back just enough so that all I can see is the friend’s profile and Oliver’s feet as he shuffles his weight back and forth.
“Sara throws herself at you, and you just get up and leave.”
“Sorry, man,” Oliver answers, but his voice doesn’t indicate that he is.
“At least you’re predictable, and I knew where to find you,” his friend huffs. “We’re all going over to Flannigan’s—you coming?”
“I don’t think so, thanks.” Oliver’s voice sounds young and casual, but also serious and sad.
“I don’t get it,” his friend says, lifting his hands in disbelief. “Sara is practically a sure thing, and instead I find you reading the Bible or something. What section is this anyway?”
I see his friend look around like he’s just discovered he’s lost.
“Dude,” he continues. “If you’re not interested in her, I am.”
“Go for it, man,” Oliver says from just out of sight.
“Whatever,” his friend says and slaps him on the shoulder, bringing the conversation to a close. “I’ll see you around.”
“See you,” Oliver says.
His friend steps out of view and Oliver comes back into it. He opens the book he still has cradled in his hands and resumes reading, oblivious to me or anyone else around him. I watch him for a few minutes. He closes the book and puts it back on the shelf. He picks up another, much smaller book and tucks it under his arm without opening it. He goes up to the counter and pays for the book. I follow him toward the door, but hold back and let him leave me there.
Once I exit, I hurry onto the sidewalk without much regard to being found out. The streets are busy, and I’m lost in the crowd of late-July tourists. I look this way and that, trying to spot him. He’s walking more briskly this time, and I duck and weave through the foot traffic to keep up with him. I don’t know how to judge where he’s going, but when he stops, I understand. We’re across the street from my old office building. He doesn’t know I don’t work there anymore.
Twice, he steps forward to cross the street, but stops both times. He takes out his phone, and I know if he calls me he’ll be close enough to hear the ringtone that he assigned himself to my phone. I panic and dart back through the pedestrians, reaching for my phone as I run.
It rings. I don’t answer. I hold the phone pressed between my hands and rest it against my lips like it’s Oliver himself. When the phone chirps at me, I listen to the message.
“Nina.” Oliver’s voice is a strange mix of lightness and resignation. “I need to give you something. It can’t wait. I need to see you.”
Then he leaves me an address, asking if I’ll meet him there the next day.
I watch him cross the street toward my building, and I think he’s going to go in, but he turns back down the street and I know he’s heading home. He’s got the little book clutched in his hand.
20
I recognize the street from Oliver’s voice mail as being downtown. It’s not too far from my old office, but I can’t image why he wants to meet at that end of town.
I park at work, my old pass still letting me into the garage for now, and walk along the busy street. I go all the way to the end of
