I’m not sure exactly what happens at that moment, but I think destiny kicks in, or maybe it’s just temporal insanity. It still remains a blur to me other than I know that this book is destined to be with me, and I am not going to argue with fate.
I grab it. And run. Fast.
I think I hear someone screaming behind me, but the front door is approaching so fast that I’m not sure what I’m hearing. “That’s my book! He took my book!” Yep, that was someone screaming. I hear frantic shuffling behind me, but I don’t look.
“Stop that man!” More screaming, this time a woman’s voice. “He took that book!”
I hear myself heaving for breath and the sounds of my rustling clothes seem deafening. These sounds blur together as the brightness of the outside world becomes clear through the glass panel doors, which seem both extremely heavy on their hinges and light in my speed as I sprint through them toward the sunlight with my prize in hand. My shoes pound the pavement with thundering smacks.
The combination effect of the heavy doors closing behind me, the parking lot before me, the confusing glares—and possibly gasps—of the few people in my path, and the blur of angry booksellers behind glass, seems to bring the reality of my situation into focus and now I’m running full tilt toward my car as the painful clarity of my actions hit me.
I think I’ve lost my mind. Who is this person who has possessed my body, stolen this book, and is sprinting toward my getaway car?
Turns out, a getaway car is stressful to drive with door latches and keys to fumble and gears to choose and pedals topress, but I make it out of the parking lot onto the main street without sirens blaring behind me. I get about two blocks away when I begin shaking so badly, I can’t continue. I pull over to the side of the road, grabbing my forehead with all ten fingers. The book—what have I done?—is sitting on the passenger seat upside down and I can’t look at it. But I also can’t look away.
Releasing my head, I pick up the book, flipping it around, trying to make sense of what’s just happened, fanning the pages as if that will make things right, the new book smell is almost sickening. Mostly, I just feel shame. And, my eyes won’t stop searching the rear-view mirror for red and blue flashing lights. My ears are particularly tuned to the sound of approaching helicopters, too! Of course, I might just be exhibiting paranoia. I stare at the binding long enough that my heart rate settles, and I brace myself for whatever that inside cover page holds for my future.
With one last involuntary check of the rear-view mirror, I carefully pull the cover open.
What’s written inside, the sloppy blue markings, makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. It’s clear that this adventure has certainly leveled up. The only real thought I have is that I need to tell Martin.
CHAPTER TWO
I know I should tell him. He can help me think this through. Why am I so hesitant? We’re sitting across from each other in El Chaco’s, the Mexican restaurant on Plyer Street that we frequent. The restaurant’s not so empty, but the hubbub feels like white noise to me.
“You look like you’ve got something on your mind,” Martin tells me matter-of-factly as he reaches for another chip and drags it through the bowl of salsa.
“Uh, yeah?” I ask more than answer.
“Yeah,” he says through the crunching.
Martin is the first person I ever met when I moved to town six years ago, and he’s the best friend I could ever hope for. It’s odd because in some ways we are mostly opposites. He’s an athlete, or used to be I guess, around six foot tall, and has broad, massive shoulders and arms. Not like me. I only think I look athletic and I certainly don’t have any natural talent or skills or that built-in ability to do everything that Martin seems to have. I’m okay with that if Martin’s okay with that. So far, he hasn’t invited me to play football or anything. I guess he’s smart that way, knowing how that would turn out. We spend a lot of time hanging out and talking about mostly nothing of real importance.
He’s also one of those people who never cease to inspire you to be a better person. Or at least me, I guess. Whenever I’m around him, I always feel like there’s great hope in the universe.Not sure how he does it, and most of the time I’m not that cognitive of it, but then I’m always asking myself, “What would Martin say?” and I know it would be some resounding “go for it” or “you got this” but more eloquently, of course.
He also is gay. Or queer. Or whatever. I don’t actually know the term because he never uses it. He has this personal philosophy that one’s identity shouldn’t be tied up in titles or tags; we must accept that humanity is so complex that nobody’s existence can possibly be reduced to a simple label. Categories may feel unifying at first, but they mostly serve to polarize, he always says.
Like I said. A tiny bit inspiring all the time.
I’m not sure how to start my story, so I just dive in.
“I may have a secret admirer,” I say. I think I exhale and forget to breathe back in. Turns out my long story is actually short!
He’s got another chip sliding through the salsa, and he doesn’t even blink. “Ichi-go Ichi-e,” he says, then looks at me for longer than I think he should before crunching through it.
So you should know: Martin isn’t Japanese and he certainly doesn’t speak Japanese. He, in fact, might be the most un-Japanese person I know. He just has a crazy interest in things that are profound or thought provoking. His phrase, which I hear him say on repeat, means something like “seize the day” but lessNewsiesand more eastern philosophy. I actually Googled it one time, and it doesn’t translate well. Something like “one time, one meeting” but basically represents something more poetic like “this moment will never come again” or “treasure the unrepeatable nature of this moment.” I choose to feel the sentiment rather than dissect the words.
“Are you hearing me? A secret admirer. Aren’t you shocked or surprised or worried?” I plead. “Or something?”
His chip stops moving as if what he’s about to say needs to be truly received. “You’re a great guy, Liam, and you should be with someone. I’m not at all surprised that someone out there thinks so, too.” The chip resumes its motion. “Do you have any idea who it is?”
I shake my head, looking at the bowl of chips. “I have no idea. I’ve just been following clues around town that she keeps sending me.”
Something flashes across his eyes I can’t decipher. “Sending you around town?”
After a breath, I begin with some details. I tell him all about the first envelope, the cryptic message, about the sloppy handwriting, which he especially can’t believe, and my trips to various locations around town. I do leave out the theft part. I’ll get to that eventually.
He seems to want to hear it again and itemizes each stop on my itinerary with more questions.
