Jack laughed brightly enough to fool most people, and he flipped through the book, showing me other funny bits I hadn’t even noticed myself. But I knew he wasn’t as into it as he was trying to appear.
Then it was his turn, and he hesitated before pulling the book out of the bag.
“I’m afraid I didn’t go for the humorous angle,” he said, which of course confused the hell out of me given his previous comment. But I didn’t have long to contemplate it, because he placed the most perfect book ever on the table in front of me.
I ran my hands over the green spine, the circular illustration in the middle surrounded by runes, the gold foil printed signature from J. R. R. Tolkien. It was an illustrated version ofThe Hobbit, and a beautiful one at that. Thumbing through it, I was captivated by Tolkien’s illustrations – paintings, maps, sketches.
“What was funny about this?” I asked, a bit breathless, unable to take my eyes off the pages as I flipped through them.
“Sorry?”
“Before. You said it was actually really funny.”
“Ah, yeah, sorry. This is a used copy, and the previous owner wrote their name inside the back cover. Check it out.”
I flipped the book over and opened the back cover, and there, in childish, unsteady handwriting, was a message:
This is my very favourite book. My granny bought me a new one, and I’m too old for picture books, so I don’t need this one anymore. I hope you love it as much as I do.
Sinceerly,
Morgan, aged 9
I gasped in delight when I saw the name. I looked up at Jack, so excited that I had tears in my eyes. He looked more pleased than I’d ever seen him.
“Thank you, Jack,” I said, my voice dripping with sincerity. There was no room for sarcasm or emotional distance or stoicism right now. This was a magnificent gift. I grabbed his hand on the table between us and gave it a squeeze. His smile faltered slightly as he stared down at it, so I pulled my hand back, but I didn’t even have the mental capacity to be worried or embarrassed.
Until I remembered the actual joke of a book I’d given him, and then suddenly embarrassment was the only thing I could feel.
“Jack, I’m so sorry,” I said, my eyes going wide and my shoulders drooping forward. “I wasn’t sure if you were going more for a joke or something genuine. I only gave you the grumpy old hermit book as a joke.”
“I know,” he said, his smile a bit halfhearted. “It’s okay. I’m just glad you like yours.”
“Iloveit,” I said, “but I also have another one for you.”
He frowned. “Why did you get me two?”
“Like I said, I didn’t know which direction you’d go,” I said as I went rummaging in my rucksack once more. “It’s nowhere near as amazing as the book you got me, but this one should be a bit more up your alley.” I placed the gold foiled book directly into his hand.
It took a moment for him to look away from me and down to what I’d given him, but when he did, I finally got the expression I’d been after all along. That crinkly-eyed grin, and a bit of astonishment for good measure. He pulled the book closer to inspect it, running his finger along the deckled edges just as I had.
“Amazing,” he said, flipping through the book and pausing on key pages; I, too, had chosen one with sketches. Perhaps all adult readers came full circle to liking illustrated books again. I wished I could tell nine-year-old Morgan that one was never too old for picture books, but then she might ask for her book back, and that would be a tragedy.
“Better?” I asked, but I hardly needed to based on his reaction.
“Definitely,” he said, still combing through the book, but then he looked up at me suddenly. “Not that I didn’t appreciate the other one, of course. It’s funny in its?—”
I shook my head and held up a hand to interrupt him. “It was a joke that was funny for exactly five seconds when I gave it to you. I’m sure you’ll get lots more enjoyment out of this one.”
“Definitely,” he said again with a nod, and he was right back into the book. I stared flipping through mine, too, and we both stayed like that, admiring our gifts, until our food arrived.
* * *
After lunch,we wandered through the town together, dipping into the shops we hadn’t been in earlier. It turned out we’d gone into almost all the same ones before lunch, and even bought each other’s books – the real gifts, not the joke one – in the same place. We bought each other books again at the outdoor honesty bookshop just inside the castle walls, with the brief of finding the most ridiculous, unhinged novels possible for each other. He found a copy of a famously deranged science fiction novel, but I found him what appeared to be a why-choose, enemies-to-lovers erotic romance between Mothman and two World War II deserters from opposing sides. We both agreed that, whilst his find might have been iconic, I’d definitely won on novelty.
Once we’d been into all the shops, we circled the castle again and then stopped at a sweet shop for fudge, which we ate on the riverbank as we watched people in canoes and kayaks paddle around. My shoulders and cheeks were pinking up in the sun yet again, like they seemed to every time I was with Jack, as if it was his presence giving off light. But I didn’t care about a slight sunburn. Sitting next to him, filling up on fudge and sweating in the sun somehow felt like heaven. My favourite flavour was the Irish cream; Jack’s was the maple nut. And when I was so full I thought I might be sick if I took one more bite, Jack suggested we walk back to the car.
Partially from our full bellies and partially from how tired we were, it took us twice as long to walk back to the car as it had to walk down into town, but that was okay; despite any gastric discomfort, it was one of the best days I’d had in a long time. And as we walked in a companionable silence completely devoid of awkwardness, I knew why: because there was no more posturing here. I wasn’t wearing any of the masks I’d always had to bust out around new people. I groaned when my belly ached instead of sucking it in, and asked the random questions that popped into my mind.
