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The next couple of weeks passed in a blur that I remembered only in more montage-like groups of scenes—working with Owen in the store, with lots of little accidental touches that affected us both more than we wanted to acknowledge, dinners and romantic walks in the park with Josh. The strange thing was that I didn’t remember these events as though I’d lived them. It was more like they’d been put into my head. I felt as if my movie night with Florence had happened the night before and everything else had just been a dream.
I was starting to wonder if I should maybe seek professional psychological help.
But finally, after much preparation, it was the day before our big event. We closed early, then the entire staff worked together to set up the new signage, re-shelve the books, and otherwise transform the store into the kind of place where book lovers could while away the hours. This time, I wasn’t worried about the background music because I knew it was playing on the store’s sound system. We had coffee and treats from our new suppliers set out for refreshments, and a party-like atmosphere prevailed.
I approached the science fiction section, sorting through the stack of placards in my hand. “Okay, Earl, here you go,” I said, handing the appropriate signs to the section’s coordinator, a tall, slim young man with an elven look to him. His ears weren’t pointy, but I felt like they should be. “One of those goes on each endcap, and then there are two for the signs that go on top of the shelves. I’ll be back around with the shelf talkers.” As I walked away from him, I did a double take. I felt like I knew him from somewhere. Then I shook my head. Of course I knew him from somewhere. We’d been working together at the store for ages. He always came up on his break and ordered an espresso.
When the store was all set and the rest of the staff left, Owen and I stayed behind to hide the scavenger hunt clues. I’d been looking forward to this all day, and maybe dreading it a little. Whatever it was, it had my heart pounding and my pulse racing. Maybe Florence was right about my crush on him. It was harmless, though. It didn’t have to mean anything.
ite of her denial, I thought she sounded rather personally invested in the situation. Of course, the heroine started spending more time with the leading man, and then they fell in love in a montage of romantic scenes set to a swoony pop ballad. This part gave me shivers because I’d felt like that a couple of times lately. It was the way I remembered my entire relationship with Josh, and it was the way days spent with Owen seemed to go.
“Is something wrong? You look a little pale,” Florence said, nudging me.
I shook my head. “I think I’ve had a few montage days lately. And why is it the good stuff that goes by in a montage? Why can’t we dispense with a boring day at work with a coffee montage?”
She laughed, but her eyes looked serious. At the end of the movie, she said, “See, that’s how it needs to work out. She realizes her mistake and rushes to make sure she doesn’t lose the right guy.”
“But does she have to do it in a bridesmaid’s dress while riding a scooter?”
“The point is that she does it, no matter how difficult or inconvenient it is. When you know the right thing to do, you just do it.”
I quirked an eyebrow at her. “I believe you’ve made your point. I might miss out on something amazing with Owen if I insist on clinging to Josh, the Mr. Wrong safety net. But life isn’t a romantic comedy movie. In real life, the safe guy is the best bet.”
“Hey, you’re the one who said you’re living montages.”
“I was joking! Nobody lives montages. We live life.”
“If that’s what you call it.” She helped me clean up, and as she went to go, she placed her hand firmly on my shoulder. “I just want you to have the best. I made some mistakes—been there, done that, got the divorce papers. Don’t rush into anything, and be sure of what you want.”
“And no riding scooters in hoopskirts.”
“Only if you’re into that sort of thing. See you in the morning.”
When she was gone, I was left mulling over what she’d said. In the movie, the heroine had ignored her friends’ advice, and I didn’t think I was that type, but I couldn’t remember any friends before Florence. I also couldn’t remember any boyfriends before Josh. My memories before a week or so ago were blurry and consisted only of a few key moments, but if I tried to push beyond that, I hit a wall. I had photos in my apartment of family members, and I knew they were members of my family, but I couldn’t dredge up memories of them other than a few scrapbook pages. It was like I hadn’t existed before that morning when Florence told me the store was being sold.
It was like I was starring in a movie and didn’t realize it.
Then I shook my head. I’d obviously had too much wine.
*
The next couple of weeks passed in a blur that I remembered only in more montage-like groups of scenes—working with Owen in the store, with lots of little accidental touches that affected us both more than we wanted to acknowledge, dinners and romantic walks in the park with Josh. The strange thing was that I didn’t remember these events as though I’d lived them. It was more like they’d been put into my head. I felt as if my movie night with Florence had happened the night before and everything else had just been a dream.
I was starting to wonder if I should maybe seek professional psychological help.
But finally, after much preparation, it was the day before our big event. We closed early, then the entire staff worked together to set up the new signage, re-shelve the books, and otherwise transform the store into the kind of place where book lovers could while away the hours. This time, I wasn’t worried about the background music because I knew it was playing on the store’s sound system. We had coffee and treats from our new suppliers set out for refreshments, and a party-like atmosphere prevailed.
I approached the science fiction section, sorting through the stack of placards in my hand. “Okay, Earl, here you go,” I said, handing the appropriate signs to the section’s coordinator, a tall, slim young man with an elven look to him. His ears weren’t pointy, but I felt like they should be. “One of those goes on each endcap, and then there are two for the signs that go on top of the shelves. I’ll be back around with the shelf talkers.” As I walked away from him, I did a double take. I felt like I knew him from somewhere. Then I shook my head. Of course I knew him from somewhere. We’d been working together at the store for ages. He always came up on his break and ordered an espresso.
When the store was all set and the rest of the staff left, Owen and I stayed behind to hide the scavenger hunt clues. I’d been looking forward to this all day, and maybe dreading it a little. Whatever it was, it had my heart pounding and my pulse racing. Maybe Florence was right about my crush on him. It was harmless, though. It didn’t have to mean anything.
The music on the sound system changed to jazz standards from the forties, which fit the store’s new nostalgic retro look. Then the lights dimmed, and I jumped. “Sorry about that,” Owen said as he approached. “I just thought it would be best if we weren’t quite so visible from the outside.” He held up a stack of colored index cards. “Ready to plant our clues?”
We had a list of books people were supposed to search for, and we went around the store, sticking the cards in the backs of the books and then re-shelving them. Although we’d created the list, we still had to think about where to go and which section would be most likely to come to mind for each book. We ran through the maze of bookshelves like children, and I felt that if I looked out the corner of my eye, I’d see the books coming to life and dancing the way I sometimes imagined they would after a bookstore closed for the night.
“Ah, here it is,” Owen said, pulling the next book on the list off the shelf and opening it so I could slip the card in. He closed the book and put it back in its slot, then smoothed the shelf so it wasn’t obvious that one book had recently been moved. He glanced at me, then back at the books before saying, “Can I ask you something strange?”
I gulped, wondering what he might consider strange. Would this be a personal question, something about Josh or maybe about the way things were developing between us? “Um, sure,” I stammered.
