Page 31 of The Golden Scoop

“I’m a regular here,” he explains, grabbing a book about Italy through the years. “Most weeks I’m in here on Sunday evenings, when I need to disconnect, and read away from everyone.”

“How often do you think about the Roman Empire, Matthew?”

“Way too much.” He laughs, putting the book back. “I’ll pick something else today…”

“Don’t you have enough books at home?”

“I don’t like holing up by myself,” he says with a shrug. “George and Bea keep me company. Sometimes, someone new walks in here, and if they make a scene I’ll go back home, but most of the time it’s regulars. You can’t even find Dog-Eared on Google.”

“It feels unique,” I whisper, running my fingers through the spines like I did at his place. “Full of stories, and something softer I can’t quite name.”

“It is,” he agrees, sauntering over to the next aisle. “It’s sort of my safe space.”

We’re now immersed in international fiction, where he’s browsing through books in French and Spanish.

“I didn’t know you were such an avid reader,” I say, softer than I intend, with a touch of apology in my voice for what seems to have been a misjudgment.

“Si seulement tu savais qui je suis vraiment, peut-être me regarderais-tu avec la même adoration que je te regarde,” he says, with a perfect French accent, making my skin break out in goosebumps.

I have no clue what that meant, but it doesn’t matter, the effect’s the same. I hate him a little less. Another self-betrayal.

“I also didn’t know you were bilingual.”

He picks one up in Spanish and turns it to me. El Secreto De La Cocina Mediterránea.

“Hay tantas cosas que quiero enseñarte, pero todo a su debido tiempo. Si te dijera que hago de todos menos odiarte, saldrías corriendo,” he speaks in Spanish.

“Okay, now you’re showing off,” I mumble. “What did you say?”

“I said I started reading when I was a kid,” he answers, his voice low.

I narrow my eyes at him. The word quiero means ‘want.’ That much I remember from Spanish 101, when I learnt to say ‘I want chocolate.’ He definitely didn’t say anything about books.

I consider calling him out, but I’d rather hear the rest.

“It was a way to escape my life, and go on adventures that, at the time, I thought I was never going to have the chance to live. I’m grateful I can look back now and see how far I’ve come.”

I nod. In a way, I understand what he’s talking about.

“I was never much of a reader. I had my imagination and needed nothing else, just myself and the backyard,” I reply, the words slipping out before I can stop them. “Julia would come over on the weekends, we’d climb onto trees and pretend we were pirates sailing around the world.”

“Julia on a tree?” he asks, eyebrows raised.

“Fine. I was up on the trees; she was on watch duty in case I tumbled down and needed a grown-up to take me to the ER.”

Matt laughs. Then, his expression turns a little somber.

“I didn’t have a backyard per se, just a small patch of grass. My dad passed when I was little, and my mom and I had to sell the house and move into a smaller place in New Jersey,” he says. “She didn’t want me out front by myself, so I stayed in my room. There wasn’t much that fit in there aside from the bed and a bookcase.”

I take in the heaviness of his words. He never speaks about his family, and I don’t want to say anything that’s going to upset him. So, I do what I do best and deflect.

“Well, on the bright side, now you get to read stuff like,” I pick the first one off the shelf, “Les Misérables.”

I try my best French accent but fail—as the title suggests—miserably. It’s painful. Matt bursts out laughing until he’s folded over, hands on his knees, wheezing for air.

“That was terrible,” he manages to get out once he’s standing up straight again.

I launch forward to give him a push, but Matt’s faster than I expected. He grabs my wrist before it makes contact and uses the motion to turn us until I’m pinned between him and books.