He reaches for another basket with a smile, apparently not at all disturbed by my display of enthusiasm. “Here. I’ll carry an extra basket in case you need it.”
I stare at him for a second, fighting the urge to get down on one knee and propose. He’s carrying an extra basket for all my books. I just… can’t. This is game over.
He gestures for me to explore and I shoot him a huge grin, turning back to the stacks of books. The first thing I do is find the writing section, and we spend a good chunk of time looking through the different writing books. Michael checks out a few, then says he’s going to have a look upstairs.
After the writing section I find the romance section and, well, let’s just say I could die right here and I’d be happy. I’ve never seen so many romance novels in one place—and not just new, but secondhand, too. We have a decent selection at Between the Lines, and we had a handful in the shop back home, but most of the time I bought the titles I wanted online. This is the first time I’ve seen so many in one place, begging to be bought and read and treasured.
I’m about to reach for one when an uncomfortable feeling prickles across my skin, making me hesitate. I know I’m writing my own romance novel—and I borrowed those books from work—but I haven’t actually bought a new romance novel in a few months. Every time I wanted to, I’ve resisted, remembering Mum’s heartless words. I’ve been mocked for reading them for years, so they’ve always felt like a guilty pleasure, but for some reason her words the morning after my birthday hurt so much more.
It’s not just that, though. Ever since things ended with Travis, I’ve felt so jaded. It’s like I’ve just given up on the idea of true love. In a way, I almost feel like romance novels have betrayed me. Mum’s right—they’ve given me this ideal view of the world, this hope that I could meet my soul-mate and live happily ever after. And that’s just left me disappointed.
But… as much I hate to admit it, I miss them. It’s almost like a part of myself disappeared when I let go of the thing I loved.
I run a finger over the beautiful spines, feeling a pang in my chest. I’m here in this paradise and I’m denying myself the thing that has always brought me happiness. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to indulge myself.
With a quick glance over my shoulder to check Michael isn’t around, I grab a stack of novels and carry them over to a chair. As soon as I sit down and start looking through the vibrant, candy-colored covers, I feel my heart piece itself back together a little bit.
Then, before I know what I’m doing, I go back for more, pulling one after another off the shelf and hoping I have enough self-control not to buy them all. I feel like I’ve just been offered a feast after nearly starving to death.
In the end I manage to cull my selection down to just five novels, which I think we can all agree shows extreme self-control. Combined with the four writing books I found, I’m only buying nine books in total. The old credit card is going to take a bit of a beating, but I haven’t treated myself like this for ages.
I heave my basket down the aisles, wandering for a while, looking for Michael. Eventually, I find him down a small, narrow aisle, tucked against the back wall. It’s a section with poetry, and there are a bunch of old, antique books. I run a finger along their ancient spines, inhaling their musty smell and smiling to myself.
Michael grins when he sees me.
“Hey,” I say, setting my basket down. I’ve done my best to arrange the books so that the romance novels are tucked behind the writing books. I don’t want a repeat of what happened when he caught me at work.
His eyes flick to my basket then back to me, and there’s a twitch in his lip. “Just a few books there?”
I giggle. “I know. I have no shelf control.”
“Did you just make a book pun?”
“I did,” I say, grinning. “Because, look!” I pull a book out of my basket and hold it up. It’s a collection of jokes for writers, which of course I absolutely must have.
A smile hints at Michael’s mouth as he eyes the cover.
I flip it open and scan for something to read aloud. “Ha ha, listen to this: The past, the present and the future all walked into a bar.” I pause, glancing up at him, then add, “It was tense.”
A laugh rumbles from his chest and I giggle again, looking back down at the book.
“Oh, here’s another one: I’ll never date another apostrophe. The last one was too possessive.” I chortle again as I place the book back into my basket.
Michael is quiet and I feel a spasm of self-consciousness, glancing up at him. His eyes are sparkling as he gazes at me, deep creases around the corners. For a second I think he’s amused by me like he always seems to be, that he’s going to say something about how silly these puns are—how silly I am.
But he doesn’t. Instead, the corner of his mouth lifts into a smile as he says, “You’re so cute.”
My heart stumbles, tripping over itself at his words. He thinks I’m cute? He doesn’t think I’m silly—he thinks I’m cute.
I stare at him breathlessly. What am I doing? This man thinks I’m cute and I’m choosing not to be with him? Why am I—
“Well, this looks interesting.” Michael pulls a book from my basket—one of my romance titles.
Instinctively, I grimace, feeling embarrassed. But then I remember what I decided: I’m not trying to impress him. I’m just being myself. I’ve been denying my love of romance
