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Cherry suddenly came to a stop in one of the aisles and trailed her fingers over the spines of several textbooks.
Journalism textbooks.
“You are not here,” a voice behind us said, making both our heads twist in that direction.
A gorgeous, shapely brunette stood there.
She wore a long, flowy, sundress with large, pink flowers all over.
It fit her beautifully.
A pink flower hung above her ear, in a very boho manner.
Cherry smiled from ear to ear. “I am here.”
The brunette shook her head. “No, you are not here. Because my friend who I haven’t seen in months would have called or at least texted before stopping in.” She set her hands on her waist, looking rather crossly at Cherry.
“It was a spur of the moment kind of thing,” Cherry said, squeezing her way passed me to get to her friend. “Otherwise, I would have called, I swear.” Her arms opened wide, and they both embraced.
I thought I heard Cherry whisper, “Don’t say my name,” but I couldn’t be certain. They were only a few yards away, however, and with the music playing in the background and the noise from the other customers, it was difficult to zero in on exactly what they were saying.
They spoke softly with each other for a minute before letting go.
The brunette gave me the once over, then announced, “I’ll be back with coffees,” before spinning around on her heel and disappearing.
“A friend of yours?” I asked, trapping her eyes with mine.
She grinned and nodded. “Yeah, Collette is great. She’s had this shop forever. It’s been passed down by the women in the family,” she said, walking back in my direction. Her attention was fully on the books, and she proceeded to walk around me and continue her search.
“Her great grandmother opened it up decades ago.” That was all she shared with me. I watched while she carefully chose books to open and look at. She’d collected a few already—incidentally, all books on journalism.
“Want me to hold them?”
Without a response, she shoved them into my arms.
Then more.
Then a few more.
Soon after, we headed to the autobiography section. Where she picked a book written by a former president, a book by a long-ago washed-up movie star and—a book written by a professional wrestler.
I had to laugh when she added the wrestler’s book. “Thinking of becoming a wrestler?” I asked, adding it to the top of the growing pile of books.
All she did was shrug and say, “I don’t think I have the upper body strength for that.”
“Tell me what all of these books have in common?” I questioned her, utterly confused by what she’d carefully chosen.
“Well, they all have a story to tell. And I love to read and learn about how people have lived their lives. All of these people are very different, but they’re also very similar. I like to see how we’re all really the same underneath it all, you know?” she asked, a deeply serious look on her face that matched her tone. This was something she felt passionately about, and in turn, it made me feel closer to her.
“Hmm, I think I understand,” I said, even though I hadn’t accessed the empathetic lobe of my brain for some time.
She smiled beautifully up at me. “One more section and then we can go. Do you want to take the books to the counter? They look heavy,” she said, her voice going lower with the last sentence as she looked over the ever-growing stack in my arms.
“I’m fine,” I assured her, shifting the books in my arms a bit. “Let me guess,” I said, thinking hard about my guess before I voiced it. “The history section?”
The most lovely giggle burst out from her lips. She shook her head and practically skipped down the aisle.
Christ, I loved seeing her so happy and carefree. It made me feel a lightness about me that I can’t remember feeling before.
