Page 141
We don’t bring everything upstairs. Three boxes. A duffel of clothes. One smaller box from my room back home that I haven’t opened since I packed it.
Temporary. That’s the point.
I’m cutting tape on BOOKS 3 when Bishop reaches inside and pulls out my battered paperback copy of Pride and Prejudice. Then my clothbound edition. Then another.
He stares at all three. “Becks.”
“They’re different editions.”
“It’s the same book.”
“Put it down.” I don’t need that kind of negativity in my life.
He flips one open. “Same words.”
“Hayes Bishop, I know you did not just insult my precious books.”
His laugh is warm and low as he returns it.
“My precious.” He lowers his voice to a creepy whisper, then throws his hands up and laughs. “Okay, okay, easy Gollum. Just saying.”
“You only know that from the movies and not the books, I’m sure, given your impeccable impersonation." I start stacking books on the floor beside the built-ins.
“What are you doing?”
“Putting them here for now.”
“They’re not staying on the floor.”
“They’re fine.”
“That’s fucking depressing.”
Before I can argue, he moves a framed Phoenixes photo from one shelf to another, shifts the two books he apparently owns, and clears a space where clear jars of old matches sit.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Done.”
“I’m leaving in three weeks.”
“So?”
“So I don’t need a shelf.”
“Your books do.”
The empty space shouldn’t feel like anything. It does. Temporary people don’t usually get shelves.
I pick up Jane Austen before he can see that thought on my face. “Fine.”
“Great.” Bishop reaches for the smaller box. Oh no.
“Not that one.”
His hand stops. “Why?”
“Because I said so.” I say as casually as I can manage with my heart pounding against my ribs.
