CHAPTER NINE

Stella

Wanting to do everything on my own has been something that has gotten me into many binds over my lifetime. At this moment, it's the reason there are fifty-seven used books scattered across parking lot behind my store. I refused to believe I needed to wait for help carrying this particular box, even though I'd needed my father's help loading it into the car this afternoon. Did I think I somehow gained superpowers on the drive here? It's more likely my old car has developed some sort of leak and the fumes have gone to my head making good decisions impossible.

"Do you need some help?" Byron asks as he bends down to retrieve a few of the books.

"It's OK if you're too busy. It's totally my fault. I didn't realize it was that heavy and the tape on the bottom didn't hold when I dropped it," I ramble. Something about him makes me do that. Even when it's not out loud, being around him makes even my thoughts run quickly through my head.

"It's no problem. I was just running some trash out. We don't open for a few more hours and my work is done." He holds one title in his hand, examining the cover. "Have you read all of these or do you just plan on selling them?"

He's the first person to ask me that and I realize, perhaps too late, that I've been bursting at the seams to tell someone the answer. "I've read them all! I love romance. It's always been my favorite genre. I read other genres—YA, women's fiction, poetry, but romance is really all of those things and it's an escape. It's the one thing that we as women have taken complete ownership of. Men don't get to put their hands in it."

He's watching me as I deliver that information like a child who's had too much sugar. He slowly places the book very gently on top of the pile I'd been making and then moves his hand away palm open, facing me as a criminal who'd been caught would do.

I laugh. "I didn't mean you." I roll my eyes. "Lots of men enjoy reading romance. Lots of men enjoy when their significant other reads romance," I say with a hint of suggestion. "And some men even write romance. But on the whole, the romance community is a very inclusive, loving, woman-driven community."

"You sound very passionate about it," he says with a smile. He grabs a few more, dusting off the covers and stacking them so they're easier to carry.

"I am. I don't want to put a book on my shelves that I haven't read. My business model is to know each and every one of these stories so I can give personally tailored recommendations to my customers. I hate when I go into big books stores and ask for recommendations and they always just spit out the latest trendy book on the best seller list. I mean, I'm sure it's great, but is it exactly what I'm looking for?"

He grabs a book and turns it over. I watch as his smile falls from his face. His hand brushes the front cover even though I don't see any dirt on it. He holds it in his hand, his knuckles turning white from the way he grips the spine and it's as if the world around him ceases to exist. Our conversation is forgotten as he stares down at the swirling font and glossy photo.

I'm dying to know what it means to him. As a booklover, I too have books that can stop me in my tracks. There are books that mark special moments in my life and some that carry the memory of people either because they gave it to me as a gift, recommended it to me, or because I found them in the characters on the pages. Some books mark the beginning or ending of certain times in my life. I may not know what it is, but there's no doubt that book means something to him.

My eyes move quickly from his face to the book looking for clues. He's barely breathing, it's as if the book causes him pain. My heart breaks for him. I want to take it and add it to my stack. I could just bury it among the others, layering more stories on top until it's out of sight. The problem with that plan is a book is a forever thing, just like a memory. We can tuck it away or leave it somewhere with the hope that we won't ever see it again, but one day when we least expect it we'll come across it just laying around.

Byron's fingers slip beneath the cover and I hold my breath. He's expecting an inscription. I buy many of my books from yard sales and online so it's entirely possible that it is inscribed. I plan to sort through them and remove the ones that are damaged or marked, but I haven't had the chance yet.

My mind can't decide if I should be watching his face or the book for the big moment and my heart beats so quickly I can feel my pulse in my throat. I may not know him very well, but I've come to the conclusion this isn't a happy memory. He almost looks like he's going to be sick. His skin is ashen and his already dark-circled eyes have clouded. His breathing is shallow in the way your lungs tighten when your heart hurts and your stomach has stiffened into a steel ball in your gut.

His eyes close and his breath is released. It's as if the grip the book had on his gaze is unlocked and he tips his head up as his shoulders relax. I look down and see that there's no inscription. I'm relieved and I don't even know what we were expecting. That is the magic of books.

"Um," he says kind of shaking his head, "I usually get my books at this indie book store in LA. It's been there since the twenties. You pay a little more, but I hate the big chain stores too." He puts the book on the stack and then grabs another and places it on top as if nothing has happened.

I stay still for a second, my brain trying to catch up with what just took place. "Do you know that one?" I ask, pointing to the book he'd been holding.

He stops, two books in his hand as he looks at the book in question, buried in the pile now. "I donated a copy of it once, but it had been a gift to my girlfriend so it had an inscription inside. That would have been crazy, right?" he asks. He looks both relieved and sad.

"Crazier things have happened," I tell him. I smile and gather the pile in front of me, standing up so I can carry it inside. Now that the books are in neat piles, he stands up too, but he doesn't grab any of them.

"I guess they have," he replies.

"I buy a lot of books from estate sales and garage sales. I love reading the inscriptions, but I know many readers hate when people damage the books by writing in them. I plan on taking out the ones that are inscribed." I brush my hands off on my thighs.

"I heard once that there are secret codes in books sometimes," he tells me almost wistfully.

"You mean like the ancient texts? Or books in foreign languages from a long time ago?" My curiosity is peaked. I am a sucker for a good mystery and have read multiple articles about codes and deciphering them using old books.

"No," he laughs and rubs the back of his neck. "It isn't that fascinating," he says as if he's ruined something.

"Tell me anyway," I adjust the books in my grip so I can hold them long enough for him to tell me the story.

"My grandma was a librarian at one of the older libraries in New York. She told me about a system the most active readers at the library would use to help keep track of what books they'd already read since back then there weren't computer programs that tracked that for the library patrons." His cheeks lift with the thought.

"Tell me," I say, almost leaning forward to urge him on. I love any information I can get my hands on about books and of course the people who love them or loan them.

"Well, she said that each person would come up with a code to put into the book. For example, this one lady always wrote a line beneath the numeral ten at the bottom of the page if she had read the book. That way if she ever picked it up again because it looked interesting and she couldn't remember if she'd read it, she could check page ten and know."

"That's amazing," I tell him.

"It's brilliant," he agrees. "There were others. One person would leave a heart on the title page, another would put their initials in the back."

"Was your grandma angry about it? I mean she had to love books to be a librarian and some people can be perfectionists when it comes to keeping a book in good shape," I tell him.

He smiles and shakes his head. "No. She thought it was a good idea. I don't think my grandma would have ever judged anyone who loved reading and clearly if you needed a trick to keep track of the books you've read because you have read so many, then they were her people."

"I get it," I say. A car pulls into the lot and I remember I need to get my books inside.

Byron looks at my door, his expression serious and his hands in the pockets of his jeans. "You've got it from here, right?" he asks.

I nod my head, slowly putting the pieces together that he doesn't want to come in. It's certainly been a strange afternoon. "Thanks for your help."

"Sure," he says, clearly frustrated. I'm not sure what happened, and he doesn't give me time to ask. He turns quickly and slings his leg over his motorcycle. In the time it takes me to open my door and set down the books in my arms, I hear the roar of his engine and then he's gone.