Or breathe, for that matter.
Just as I was starting to flounder inside my head, he ran a hand through his bangs, smoothing the escaped strand back into place.
He cleared his throat. “You have two copies?”
“Huh?” I was clearly related to Shakespeare or some other great literary genius, because honestly? My talent for words was inspired.
Alec smiled and pointed atTo Kill a Mockingbird, which I’d tossed next to the napkin dispenser.
“Oh, right! Actually, I have three. The one you saw yesterday is a first edition, so I never take it anywhere. This is my travel copyso I can read it whenever I want, and I think Asha has the third one. She has a bad habit of borrowing things and forgetting to return them.”
“Asha?”
“My best friend,” I explained. “She was the one who was supposed to give me a ride home from the charity ball.”
Alec nodded as if this was interesting information. He took another sip of his milk shake and said, “Can I borrow it?”
“What?”
“Your book. I promise I’ll return it.”
His question sent a jolt through my body, and I didn’t know which I found more exciting: the fact Alec was interested inTo Kill a Mockingbirdor his promise. Probably the latter, because in order for him to keep that promise, we’d have to see each other again.
“You really want to read it?”
“You took the time to listen to my music,” he said, as if me cozying up to a mysterious masked stranger at the ball had beensucha chore. “I want to read your favorite book.”
My stomach flipped. I knew he was only being friendly, but still. It was possibly the most romantic thing a guy had ever said to me, that he wanted to read the book because it wasmyfavorite.
Alec must have mistaken my astonishment for reluctance, because he played nervously with his headphones. “If you don’t feel comfortable loaning—”
“No!” I blurted out, quickly finding my voice. “Not at all.” Before he could change his mind, I shoved the paperback across the table.
His eyes searched mine momentarily, looking for any signs of doubt, but then he smiled and picked it up. “I should warn you. I’m a slow reader. You might not get this back for a while.”
“That’s fine,” I told him, “as long as you don’t mind my notes. I’m a notorious margin scribbler.”
“Margin scribbler?”
“Yeah, like I leave notes in the margins of the book? Mainly thoughts and questions I have while reading.”
Alec immediately flipped through the pages to see what I was talking about, and something came loose and fluttered out. We both looked down. Resting on the table was a piece of paper the size of my palm, and it was folded into a delicate heart.
Air whooshed out of my lungs at the sight of the origami folding. I blinked. And blinked again.
“Felicity?” Alec looked from me to the paper heart and back to me again, his eyebrows creased together. “Do you need your bookmark back?”
Unable to respond, I shook my head. All I could think wasRose, Rose, Rose.
“Are you sure?” he asked, doubt layering his words.
My throat was thick, but I forced myself to swallow the lump that had risen there. “Yeah, it’s fine. I have about a million of those.”
“Yes, but it’s important to you.” His response wasn’t a question, but a statement.
Was it that obvious?And, more importantly, what was I supposed to say? While I didn’t have any issues talking about my father, Rose was a different story. She was still an open wound—too raw,too personal—even after four years. I ducked my head, needing a minute to collect my thoughts.
“It’s not the heart that’s important,” I said at last, “but the memory behind it.” Hopefully, I sounded removed, as if I wasn’t on the edge of tears.
