The New Arrivals Section

       Sean pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his head before quickly tossing it back again. It was crazy to think that someone would recognize him. More likely the manager would stop him at the door thinking this hooded lad was intending to steal. 

            Then again, would it be so bad to be recognized? He had wondered this when they took his picture for the back of the book. He'd been recognized before. 

            "Hey, you're that dude from the library." He recalled the guy saying in the line at the grocery store. When Sean had confirmed his identity, the guy just nodded as if he'd gotten the right answer to a trivia question. No conversation ensued, leaving Sean to ponder if being recognized as “that dude from the library” was a good thing or a bad thing. It was hard to tell from trivia guy's reaction. 

            He stepped into Gibson's Bookstore, as he had a hundred times before. His fingers itched at his sides. He squeezed the sides of his pants to keep his hands from reaching for his hood to conceal his face, unable to shake the feeling that he should be incognito. 

            Each previous time he had entered this bookstore, it was as a patron intending to buy a book or at least stare at all the many books with which he wished he could adorn his bookshelves. While the store’s rug was still the same and the layout as predictable as always, he felt himself a foreigner or worse an intruder. 

            Why did he think they'd even have his book? That was a good question. Gibson's Bookstore was small, befitting the small New Hampshire town. They carried bestsellers and known authors. He was neither. 

            This alternative calmed him. He was still just a patron. Or was he? Could he really be certain his book was not in the store? He should probably check. He squeezed the outside seams of his jeans again.

            He knew every section of Gibson's Bookstore. If the store carried his book, it would be in the new arrivals section, which was approximately ten feet to his left and up another twenty feet. It was next to the shelf for bestsellers and across from the shelf for hiking guides and maps. 

            As he made his way across the short distance, he couldn't help but eye the manager behind the counter and every patron minding their own business. The manager recognized him and smiled. But recognized him how, Sean wondered. Recognized him from his many previous visits or was this a different smile? Had he just received his first "I know you wrote that book about the boy and his messed-up family." If so, was that a good "I know you wrote that book" or a bad "I know you wrote that book"? How does one tell the difference as surely there must be a difference? One is motivated by respect and the other pity. When Sean reached the new arrivals section, he turned away from the manager, relieved to be free from the man's unreadable smile. 

            At first, Sean could only manage to stare at the bottom row of the shelf where he knew his book would not be, what with his last name being Astor. Slowly, under the guise that he actually cared about the titles and authors of every book in the new arrivals section, he moved his eyes up row by row. He even stopped on a couple titles that he might want to read or at least pretended to want to read. Truth be told, he could not have recalled a single name or title on any of the shelves. His mind had lost the power to decipher anything that his eyes relayed. 

            His mind's decision to stop processing information was interrupted when his eyes insisted on recognizing one particular object. Yes, that was the cover the publisher had chosen, dominated by the picture of a boy sitting on the front steps of a house looking back inside. Sean had thought the picture too on the nose. His publisher had been quick to inform him that his thoughts on the matter mattered not at all. 

            Now certain that his book was indeed on the shelf in Gibson's Bookstore, Sean's mind really insisted on shutting down. He stared blindly at the book, unable to process anything other than the picture and his persistent dislike of it. 

            "Excuse me," came a voice next to him. The voice had to repeat the social nicety before his brain registered it.

            "I'm sorry," he said embarrassed. 

            "It's okay. I just didn't want to take the book you were staring at." Sean watched as the young woman who appeared by his side reached for his book, his book. 

            "Oh, ah, no, that's okay. I was just looking." 

            "At this book?" she asked, holding up his book, his book. 

            "Ah, well, yes. I was taken in by the picture," Sean mumbled, his mind unable to conjure up a better reason. 

            "Oh," the young woman said, holding the book up so she might inspect the picture. "I hadn't noticed the picture."

            "Why'd you choose the book then?" he asked. He had the sudden urge to put palm to forehead. It was a terrible question. He himself preached not to judge a book by its cover, and such guidance certainly applied to his book and that photo. Thankfully, the young woman didn't seem to mind. 

            "My sister read a review that recommended it. I only read books that come with recommendations from friends or family. I find it guarantees me a good book, most of the time anyway." 

            "Has your sister read it?"

            "I don't know. I don't think so. She just read the review."

            "Then you're really taking the recommendation of the review writer." Her face contorted. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I said that." Sean shook his head.  

She smiled. "You're right. Funny, I hadn't thought about that point until just now. I think I've taken the recommendations of a lot of book review writers."

            Wait, go back to what she said. His mind was finally catching up. "Did you say your sister read a review of that book?" Sean pointed to his book, his book. 

            "Yes, that's what I said." The woman was confused. 

            "Did she say the review was good? I mean that the review recommended the book?"

            "I assume so. I can't imagine my sister recommending a book that a book review pans."

            "Good point."

            "Do you want to read it? I can ask the manager if they have another copy."

            "No, no, like I said, I was just looking at the picture." 

            "Well, perhaps I can help you pick out a different book. I've read most of the books on this shelf to be honest. This is my favorite section."

            "Why's that?"

            "I like to think that I read them before anyone else does, like I'm in on something that they are not, at least not yet." 

            "Except the book review writer."

            She laughed. "Yes, except for them. They are always one step ahead of me."

            "Is there a book you would recommend?" He wasn't sure he trusted her taste in literature, but he did like that she had ignored the cover of his book, his book, when plucking it from the shelf.  

            "I can always recommend a book. What do you like to read?" They commenced talking about favorite genres, themes, and authors. "I feel bad," the woman said. "It sounds like this is just the book for you, and here I am taking it from you." 

            "No, really, you should read it." 

            "Perhaps I can share it with you. I'll read it and then I can give it to you. We could discuss it afterwards even, like our own book club." 

            He very much liked her idea except for the pressing fact that they were talking of a book with which he was intimately familiar. He could play along but for the photo of him that the publisher had insisted on including in the back. Surely, she would recognize him and then what? He'd be a liar at the very least. 

            "It's my book," he said sheepishly. "I wrote it." 

            "What?" She spun the book around in hunt for a photo, seeing none, she opened the back cover. There was no denying the person staring up at her from the back page was the Sean Astor standing in front of her. "Oh my god, you did write it. That's amazing. Is this your first book?" Sean nodded. "Congratulations. Now I really want to read it."

            "You don't have to."

            "I know I don't, but I want to. I was going to anyway and now I have even more reason to."        

            "Why's that? You don't really know me." 

            "Yes, I do. I know you like non-fiction that has real human characters. Not political books or commentaries, but stories. Particularly those with which you feel you have something in common with the characters."

            "That's only my taste in books."

            "Good taste in books is one of my number one criteria for friends. I would say you have great taste in books. I'm Emily," the young woman said, holding out her hand. 

"I'm Sean. Oh, wait, you knew that," he said as they both, still holding on to each other's hand, looked down at the book with his name on it.

"Sean Astor, have you read The Fallen Tree?" 

            "No."

            "Good." She freed her hand from his to reach over his shoulder and remove a book from the shelf. One of the very books that he had mindlessly glanced over earlier. "This is a great book for you."

            He held the book in his hands, a book he now intended to buy. He was a patron again. He liked being a patron. He really liked being a patron who discussed books with Emily. Looking at the book in Emily’s hands, he realized that what he liked most was being an author whose book Emily looked forward to reading.