“The message was just at your apartment?”
“Yeah. On the doormat.”
“Did you think for a minute it might be a scam or a murderer or something?”
“I did. For a minute.”
“But...?”
“I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I couldn’t not know what this could be, so I just went.”
He sits back in his chair and exhales. I know what he’s thinking.
“The first place was a coffee shop, so I figured it would be a severely public place to murder me, so I went. I lived through it. So I just kept going.”
“And the coffee shop message led to…?”
“A locker at the train depot. Don’t worry, I went at rush hour.”
“And what was in the locker?”
“A note and a gift card, leading me to The Maple Leaf.”
“The bookstore. And you were supposed to buy a book?”
“Well.” I suddenly can’t breathe fully. “That was the idea, but it didn’t turn out that way.”
“What do you mean?”
“The book wasn’t there. Well, it was there, but it wasn’t on the shelf.”
He leans forward. “Where was it?”
“Turns out there were no copies of the book on the shelves. But before I gave up and left, I happened to notice that a guy at the register was buying that exact book for himself, so I got it.”
“What do you mean you ‘got it?’” He’s leaning into the table rather harshly.
“Look,” I start, realizing I can’t make eye contact. “I sort of grabbed it from him and ran. And drove away. And I didn’t get arrested. And I feel really stupid because I’m not a criminal but I couldn’t not have that book.”
“You stole it? You took it?” He’s touching his face with his fingertips. “I’m not understanding.”
“He was buying the book, the cashier opened the cover to put the receipt inside, I saw the sloppy handwriting and I…”
“Why do you keep calling it sloppy?”
“It’s the worst handwriting, that’s how I know it’s for me! Anyway,” I continue, knowing that embarrassment is detectable in my voice, “I took it and ran. I got the book. It’s right here.” I reach into my bag and pull out the book, which I’m surprised is looking rather dog-eared. I guess I’ve been carrying it around with me everywhere I go.
He takes the book from my hands and opens the cover, looking at that sloppy handwriting. It’s written in blue pen.
“You stole it?” he repeats. “From that guy? From the store? And just ran?”
Feeling both shame and resolve, I bravely decide to adopt resolve in my tone, “There was no way I wasn’t going to not have that book! I couldn’t let it slip away.”
He closes the book slowly and stares at the cover image for longer than I think it should take to respond. He finally speaks: “Why didn’t you just ask the guy to sell it to you?” He pauses. “Or, ask him to read the note and give it back?” Another pause. “Or just let it go and wait for your secret admirer to communicate again?”
These are all great questions which I also had while driving away from the bookstore trying to avoid the cops. But, you know what they say about hindsight. I actually don’t know how to answer the real question he’s asking, but I feel strongly that I should make an attempt. This time, I choose shame.
“I think I’ve lost my mind,” I start. “It’s crazy I know, but I couldn’t let this slip away. I don’t even know this person, and I’m normally perfectly comfortable walking away from things in disappointment, but for some reason, I just couldn’t. I had to have that book. I had to have that note. I felt like it was fate or something and I stopped thinking and just, well, took action.”
