The Echo of Old Books

by Barbara Davis

She worked quickly, careful not to hold on to any of the books for too long, but it was hard not to pick up subtle vibrations as she returned them to the carton. They had belonged to someone who was sick and afraid, someone worried about running out of time. A woman, she was almost certain.

Books were safe. They had plots that followed predictable patterns, beginnings, middles, and endings. Usually happy, though not always. But if something tragic happened in a book, you could just close it and choose a new one, unlike real life, where events often played out without the protagonist’s consent.

Two parents gone in the space of a month, and both had chosen to leave her. Surely the fault lay with her. Something she’d done or not done, some awful, unforgivable flaw.

If someone, somewhere, was interested in a subject, no matter how obscure, there was a book about it. And if there was a book about it, someone, somewhere, wanted to read it.

But then I suppose when you’re as rich and handsome as young Teddy, you needn’t be clever. The world will always be forgiving for an Adonis with a trust fund—however thickheaded.

It was an intriguing concept and might explain the lack of a publisher’s imprint on both books. Experimental fiction of the quirky, rule-breaking variety was still a heated topic among the literati.

But I’ve always wanted more for myself. I imagined a life that actually counted for something, left something worthy in its wake.

Books are rib and spine, blood and ink, the stuff of dreams dreamed and lives lived. One page, one day, one journey at a time.

“Like a bedtime story,” Ethan supplied. “Except those never worked for me. My mom used to read to me when I was a kid, but I’d fight falling asleep in order to keep her reading.”

“No secrets,” Ashlyn said wistfully. “What must that be like? To share everything? My parents weren’t big on talking. Unless you count screaming at each other. And then with Daniel . . . Let’s just say he did most of the talking in our relationship. He was the smart one and I was just expected to do as I was told. The sad part is, for years I did. I was—” She stopped abruptly. “Sorry. Overshare.”

It’s like watching a train wreck in slow motion, only one of the trains is you.

I’ve heard people say that at the most terrible moments of their lives, they felt as if the ground had been yanked out from under them. I always thought it a hyperbolic turn of phrase. Now I know better. That moment on the platform, when the train pulled away and I was left standing with the cases, I felt as if I’d been dropped into some bottomless abyss, all my tomorrows black and empty. There’s no forgetting a moment like that—no forgiveness.

“We can make scrambled eggs if you want.” Ashlyn frowned at him. “You’re hungry?” “No, but that’s what couples always seem to do in the movies late at night. Make scrambled eggs together. Plus it sounded safe, and I want you to feel safe.”

Being in the presence of so many new books felt strange. Shelves and shelves of volumes without pasts—without echoes. They were blank slates now, but one day they would have histories of their own, lives quite separate from the stories captured between their covers.

I had convinced myself that I was seeking closure, a tidy end to a messy past, but as Hemi pulls me into his arms, it doesn’t feel like closure. It feels like a beginning, and I’m suddenly reminded of another kiss, one that happened a lifetime ago, on a rainy day in a stable. That had been a beginning too. Hemi smiles, as if reading my thoughts, then pulls me into the circle of his arms. This is what it’s supposed to be like, I think as his mouth closes over mine. This. This. This.