It's not a person. It's a book with legs.
Small legs. In white Mary Janes.
The book is held up in two hands at roughly chin height, which means I can't see the face behind it, just the cover—my cover—clutched in fists so small the spine bows slightly under the grip. The queue shuffles forward and the book wobbles. I smile, my heart wanting to burst as I take in this perfect, little girl.
I press my lips together to keep my face even.
“Hi, there,” I say to the book.
The book lowers by two inches. A pair of familiar eyes appear over the top. Zach's eyes, in a face that is somehow entirely her own, under a red bow that is slightly sideways because she did it herself this morning and wouldn't let anyone fix it.
She stares at me very seriously.
“Hi,” the little girl says back.
“Would you like me to sign that for you, sweetheart?” I point to my newest book in her hand.
The Last Time We Jumped.
She considers it for a second, then puts the book on the table and pushes it forward.
I hold back from laughing at her cuteness.
“There,” she says proudly.
“Thank you.” I open the cover, smoothing the title page. “Who should I make it out to?”
She watches the pen with total focus. “Me.”
“And who are you?”
Her brow furrows as her gaze connects with mine. The bow is very sideways now. “Merritt.”
“Ah, Merritt. That's a good name,” I say.
“I know,” she says with the same confidence as her father. The girl has only just turned five. What on earth is she going to be like when she's a teenager?
I sign it and then write underneath:For Merritt. The best thing.
I slide it back across the table. She picks it up with both hands again, immediately, and the cover goes back up in front of her face.
“Did you get the signature, baby?” A hand lands on Merritt's shoulder, and she glances up at my husband.
Zach lingers behind her in a Carolina Catfish cap pulled low over his face, clearly under the impression that wearing baseball merch makes him unrecognizable. Never mind the fact that he openly hates the sport.
What he fails to account for is that he’s six-four, built like a brick wall, and won the Super Bowl last year. People are going to notice him regardless.
He nods at the book in Merritt's hands.
“She wanted a signed copy,” he says with a smirk. “She's been asking since we left the house yesterday.”
“She can't read that yet.”
“You sure? She's pretty advanced.” He lifts her onto his hip with one arm, and she goes still holding the book in front of his face. He tilts his head around it to see me. “I also spilled coffee on mine. Can I get another one?”
As if he needs another signed book from me. He’s got every single one I wrote sitting in his office, clearly visible whenever he does any Zoom calls.
“Pretty please,” he asks.
