Figure Eight Read online

  “No, it’s not that.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “I hate first drafts,” I confess. “I understand that they’re the foundation to every story. But they’re riddled with so many errors that it almost overwhelms me. I can only imagine what it’d be like if I ever sent it out to an editor.”

  And because I feel a kinship with Jackson, the last thing I want him to read is a first draft. I want him to read the best version of my manuscript possible. “I need to make more adjustments and—”

  “No, no, no,” he cuts in. “You said you’d send me the next five chapters. No stalling.”

  “Do I need to repeat myself?” I ask with a smile. “I hate first drafts.”

  “Who doesn’t? But then there’s a second draft. Then a third and possibly a fourth and fifth and—”

  “What’s your point?”

  “My point is that you’re a perfectionist. No draft of your book will be good enough.”

  “That’s a fair point. But I think it’s less perfectionism and more me being protective. My stories are like babies to me. I want to hold onto them and never let them go, even though I know I should.”

  “And you should let them go, because you’re a great writer.”

  My heart thumps wildly. “Thank you.”

  If it weren’t so creepy, I think I’d reach across this table and kiss him straight on the lips.

  His phone rings, jolting the two of us. He glances down at his screen, sighs, but doesn’t answer the phone. It stops ringing. He lifts his eyes to mine. “We’ve been here for over an hour.”

  “Hasn’t felt like an hour to me,” I confess.

  His lips kick up into a slow smile. “Me neither.”

  Nervously, I lick my lips. It doesn’t go unnoticed, judging by the way Jackson watches the action. “Maybe… maybe we can meet again soon?” I ask.

  His lips slowly curve up into a small smile. “Absolutely.”

  We stand up at the same time and bundle up for the cold weather waiting for us outside. We throw our drinks away. He holds the door open for me.

  The same cold air that hit me when I first arrived does the same thing, but this time I barely feel it.

  “Where are you parked?”

  I point to the far left corner. “How about you?”

  He gestures to the black BMW parked in the first row. I whistle. “Fancy.”

  “If I told you it’s leased would you still call it fancy?” he teases.

  “Anything is fancier than my little Volvo.”

  Jackson places his hand on the small of my back. An innocent gesture but it’s enough to make the blood roar through my veins. It makes me smile; whether you’re fifteen or fifty everyone wants to feel protected.

  And it sounds crazy. And rushed. And borderline ridiculous but I feel safe right at this moment.

  THERE ARE VERY few places in the world where I feel comfortable.

  Places where I can really be myself. I know I’m not the only one who gets anxiety. It hovers around me the second I step outside, before it slips past my skin and settles in my bones. My jaw becomes clinched and every action feels amplified by a thousand. It doesn’t matter where I’m going, that feeling never dissipates. I accepted a long, long time ago that this fear would always be a part of me. I don’t enjoy having this anxiety, but it does give me a greater appreciation for the places that calm me.

  Bookstores are at the top of the list. It doesn’t have to be a certain bookstore. I love them all the same. Whenever I step through the front doors, I feel the tension release from my body with every breath I take. My steps become lighter. I can think more clearly. I’m just a happier person all around.

  It’s the only place in the world where I can time travel. In one aisle I can travel back to 1920 and solve a cold-case thriller. In another I can feel the agony of a widowed, middle-aged woman as she picks up the pieces of her life.

  Reading is magic and anyone who tells you differently is either one of two things: insane or illiterate. Everyone has a book meant just for them. Think about it: out there, someone is writing a book just for you. I think that’s what I love about bookstores. They offer me thousands of stories to chose from. I’d take all the books home if I could.

  When Jackson suggested we go out a second time around, I said yes. We settled for Friday, the nineteenth. He offered to pick me up but I said no; even though our first meeting went amazingly well, I wasn’t quite ready for him to know where I live. Maybe next time.

  I expected dinner somewhere. Or maybe a movie. You know, all the cliché first and second date locations. I didn’t expect our date to be at the bookstore. Second time being with him and he was well on his way to being my favorite person.

  “Hey. What are you reading?” Jackson nudges me with his boot.

  I look at him from above my book. “It’s rude to bother people when they’re reading,” I whisper.

  He smirks and then places his book in his lap. He’s leaning against the bookshelf opposite me. His legs are extended in front of him, crossed at the ankles. My leg rubs against his. I gave up thirty minutes ago trying to pull away. His eyes have that glazed over look that people get after sex or drugs. I want to lean forward and frantically ask him if the words on the pages give him a high like they do to me.

  I think he would say yes.

  We’ve been here for over an hour. When we walked in, we took our time moving down the rows and rows of books, talking about which stories seemed good. We picked out books that we thought the other should read. I picked out Transformations by Anne Sexton. He said he loved that I didn’t pick out the latest Stephen King or Nora Roberts novel.

  He chose The World Before Us by Aislinn Hunter. I wordlessly made my way through the store and made my way to the H’s until I found his book. I plucked it from the shelf and started reading. My ass started getting numb thirty minutes ago but I don’t plan on getting up unless I’m forced to; this is the calmest I’ve been all week.

  Before I left to meet Jackson, I told Mom a handful of times that I was going out and that if she needed anything to call me and I would come home as quickly as I could. She shrugged off my words, but I went as far as to write my phone number down and put it on the end table, like she was an elderly woman with dementia.

  I thought that action might put my fears to rest, but as I drove to meet Jackson guilt and worry festered inside of me like an infected wound. What if she was gone when I came home? I told myself that I was overreacting but if the past has shown me anything it’s that you can never let your guard down. Not even for a second.

  “Okay. Books down,” Jacksons commands.

  I arch my brow but follow his lead. He crosses his arms over his chest. I do the same, which makes him smile.

  “If you could meet any author, which one would it be? And,” he quickly says before I can speak up, “you can only pick one.”

  “Oh. You fight dirty, Jackson.”

  “Answer the question, Selah.”

  I close the book and place it in my lap, sitting up straight. “Just one?”

  He nods.

  “Hmm…” I stare up at the ceiling as I think of one good author. Seconds tick by and I still remain silent.

  Jackson smirks. “This isn’t a life or death question.”

  “Well to me it is. I can’t just pick one.”

  “Try.”

  “I am!” I insist. My voice slightly rises, earning a glare from a lady one aisle down from us. Jackson and I wince at the same time. And then we smile at the same time and share a look. My smile slowly fades as my pulse thrums wildly against my wrist. I don’t know what’s happening between us. This goes beyond sexual attraction or having the same hobbies. It feels like someone’s tying an invisible string around my neck, deliberately guiding me forward, whispering in my ear, ‘This is where you belong.’

  Nervously I clear my throat and stare down at my hands in my lap.

  “I’m still waiting for an answer,” he says.
/>   I lift my head. “Fine. If I have to pick one—which, by the way, I find completely unfair—I’d have to pick Sylvia Plath.”

  “Plath!” Jackson smiles knowingly. “I fucking knew it.”

  “But it must be said that Paullina Simons was a close runner-up. Can’t forget Melina Marchetta. Or—”

  “You could go all night, couldn’t you?” Jackson asks with a bit of awe in his voice.

  I blush underneath his scrutiny. “About books? Absolutely. Now it’s my turn: if you could meet any author, which one would it be?”

  When he doesn’t answer instantly, I smile broadly. “Ah. It’s not as easy as it looks now, is it?”

  “It really isn’t,” he concedes. There’s a beat of silence that follows. Then he says, “I have to go with Julian Barnes.”

  “Barnes! I fucking knew it,” I say, repeating his words from earlier.

  Again we smile at each other. And again something passes between the two of us. That same feeling flows through me, but it’s not as foreign as before. In fact it feels excellent, like the sun warming my skin. I’m not a spontaneous person but if I were I’d kiss him right here, right now, just to see how he responds. Just to see if he’s experiencing the same thing I am.

  I think he is.

  Someone loudly clears their voice. Jackson and I turn our heads to the left at the exact same time and find one of the clerks staring down at us. It’s some pimply boy who looks like he’d rather be at home smoking weed with his stoner friends than working here.

  “Uh… we’re closing,” he says dully.

  Jackson hops up first and extends a hand toward me. I grab my purse and book and take his hand.

  “Well that went fast,” I murmur to him as we move toward the cashier.

  “It really did.”

  We wait in line behind a woman who’s decided to go on a Liane Moriarty reading binge. Normally I would be impatient, counting down the seconds until I was home and could finish the book that I’d started. But tonight I happily wait by Jackson’s side.

  Truth be told I don’t want tonight to end.

  Moriarty’s future biggest fan finishes paying and heads to the exit. We step forward and I hand my book to the clerk, a woman in her mid-twenties who’s the complete opposite of stoner boy. She looks at the title of my book and something tells me that she does this with every purchase. She smiles up at me as she scans it. “Is this any good?”

  “I’m only three chapters in but so far so good.” I pull out my wallet to pay and Jackson moves in next to me.

  “I got this,” he says.

  With my elbow resting on the counter, I face him. “You don’t have to do that.”

  “I do.” He leans in and says, “Considering I didn’t take you out to eat and all.”

  The cashier stares between the two of us, waiting for our decision. I put my debit card back in my wallet. “Well, thank you for my meal,” I say, putting air quotes around the last word. “It’s the best meal I’ve had in a while.”

  He pays for the book and when the cashier bags the book she hands it to me. Together we walk out of the bookstore, our shoulders rubbing. By now the parking lot is almost completely empty.

  “I’m over here,” I say, pointing to my car.

  “I’ll walk you to your car.”

  “Afraid I’ll get jumped in a bookstore parking lot?” I tease.

  “You never know who’s waiting to pounce,” Jackson retorts.

  I give him a smile. I want to tell him that I never smile as readily as I have tonight. I want to tell him that lately I have to force my lips to pull up into a smile. In fact I’m certain that if I had to count the amount of times I’ve smiled tonight I’d fail. Jackson has set a record that I doubt will be broken any time soon.

  I press my key fob and the front lights of my car blink once. I put my purse and book in the car and turn back around to face Jackson. “Thanks for the most unexpected date I’ve ever had,” I tell him. It’s so cold that my breath appears between the two of us like tufts of smoke.

  “I knew you would like this,” he gestures behind him.

  “I did. It was a well played move on your part.”

  Jackson tucks his hands into his front pockets and rocks back on his heels. “Maybe I’ll think of something even better for our second date.”

  My lips pull up into a smile. “How can you top the bookstore?”

  “Are you doubting my talents?”

  “I think I am.”

  While we’ve been talking Jackson’s been inching towards me in small increments. I look at him through half-shut eyes and watch him arch a brow. He’s waiting for the green light. If I give it to him he’s taking his shot.

  I give him a small nod. I tell myself that I want to wait a bit longer, muddy the waters before I kiss him. But what harm can a single kiss do? If the past has shown me anything it’s that first kisses always have a tendency to be awkward and sometimes a bit… sloppy. Doesn’t matter how old you are. It’s the ones after them that always count.

  Yet with Jackson it’s different. He tilts his head the right way, doesn’t get pushy. I feel the cool surface of the car door behind me. It touches the skin between my shoulder blades. I press myself up on my tiptoes. His hands curl around my waist before they run up my back. He kisses me with an intimacy that comes over time. The kind most people have to work for.

  I’ve never been one for public displays of affection but I forget we’re standing in a parking lot where everyone can see us. The only thing I’m aware of is the little distance between our bodies and how I can eat it up. I suck gently on his lower lip. Jackson groans.

  I feel a sudden possession over him. I want to stake a claim in what’s mine. I want to drag my nails down his back so hard he bleeds. So hard that I leave scars. So hard that any woman after me knows that he belongs to someone else. What I’m feeling becomes so overwhelming that my hands suddenly curl around Jackson’s wrists. Gently I push back until our lips are inches apart.

  He stares down at me with a slightly dazed expression.

  The wind picks up, sending my hair in different directions. Strands cover my eyes. Before I push my hair aside, Jackson reaches up and tucks my hair behind my right ear. And right then I try to pinpoint exactly when I fell in love with him. Was it when he was just now staring down at me or was it earlier, between the bookshelves with thousands of characters and stories waiting for us to pick them up?

  I think it was the latter.

  I think it will always be the latter.

  I LOVE WINTER.

  I love the atmospheric conditions. And I love the charming aspects of the season. Like standing in front of a window late at night, watching the snowfall, a cup of hot chocolate in your hand. Or, as a child bundled up to the hilt, walking around like the Michelin man, throwing snowballs and making snow angels.

  But doing real life activities? Say, dragging your garbage container down the driveway? Not so pretty.

  It’s only half an inch of snow but it feels like twelve feet. Both of my hands are curled around the blue container unit. They feel like icicles but that’s simply because I had to take off my gloves because they gave me no traction. The snow has been shoveled and salt has been scattered so many times on the driveway that a nasty, hard brown slush has formed, causing the wheels to get stuck every other minute. It’s really, really starting to piss me the hell off and ruin the start of a good day.

  After days of coaxing Mom, she finally relented to meeting Jackson. It felt like a victory of epic proportions. There is no way around this meeting. It has to happen.

  We had our third date mere days after our second. It was at a restaurant in downtown Decatur. It wasn’t as creative as the bookstore, but at this point I think I’d enjoy doing anything with this man. We spent the whole dinner pouring our hearts out to each other.

  In texts I had given him the Cliffs Notes version of my mom, but during that third date I told him just how depressed Mom was. He listened the entire time w
ith those big, honest eyes of his and never said a word. It’s like he knew of the frustration and worry building inside me, needing to come out.

  When I was done pouring my heart out, he reached across the table and linked his fingers with mine.

  And now he’s coming over in less than forty minutes. Because Mom’s a recluse we are going to have lunch at home. I refuse to have any expectations for the meeting. At least that’s what I tell myself. There’s a picture in my head though, on constant repeat, of things going bad. Of a lunch filled with awkward coughs and silences. Maybe I’m just so used to things going wrong that I’ve become a perpetual pessimist. You never know. They might actually get along.

  The wheel gets stuck on a small but stubborn piece of ice, making the garbage can jerk to a halt. I let go of the handlebar. “Stupid piece of shit.” For good measure I kick the garbage can.

  “Need help?”

  The deep voice behind me makes me raise my shoulders to my ears in surprise. Noah. Of course it’d be him. I slowly turn and see him standing there. If it weren’t for his rosy cheeks you wouldn’t know he’s been outside. He’s holding a shovel that I wouldn’t mind borrowing and bashing my garbage can with.

  “Nope,” I breathe out. “I’m fine.”

  Yet my words mean nothing because he drops his shovel, walks over, and helps push the garbage can down the driveway. I’m not all I am woman here me roar but having his help does make everything go faster.

  When we reach the end of my driveway he dusts his hands off and smiles. This happy-go-lucky act grates on my nerves. He acts like an F-5 tornado could blow through here and instead of taking cover he’d drive after it—just to capture its beauty. For the millionth time, I wonder one thing: what is he like behind closed doors? Because it’s a known fact that everyone, including me, is a different person the minute the doors close and the blinds are shut. In the end we’re all made up of secrets.

  I’m dying to expose him, just so I can magnify everything he wants to hide from the world. In plain sight I’ve yet to catch him being anything other than a perfect citizen. Tricia stares at him with a half-glazed, ‘I want to jump your bones’ expression. In the past week Noah has shoveled her driveway and poured salt on her sidewalk twice. If I were handing out Boy Scout Awards he’d win the Good Citizenship badge. Yet for all his wonderful doings the small, still voice in my head tells me not to trust him. I feel partially bad, but it feels good following my gut.