The Red Book

She ran a thin finger along the worn spines of the books stacked high. Her heavy breath was the only sound that pierced through the shroud of silence covering her humble abode for books: Willow. The name had emerged on a Sunday afternoon while swimming laps in the town’s run-down YMCA. Evelyn nurtured the leather-bound worlds in her home, allowing the occasional visitor to trail through the vanilla-smelling library and take home a book to cherish.

Now, on a dark Saturday evening, Evelyn felt her small world crushed even further. The waning moon’s shallow light filtered in through the curtained windows near the front of the establishment. Under the cover of darkness, Evelyn set about her covert operation to recover a long-forgotten volume of a long-cherished book for a long-forgotten person.

On the Sunday afternoon, when Evelyn gave birth to her beloved sanctuary, she had gone to the YMCA in a fit of anger. The young woman parched with a thirst to roam the world, had blanched at the proposal to keep her tied down to the small town. She walked on the ceramic blue and white tiles; the poignant stench of chlorine cut through like a knife. Evelyn tied her blond hair into a ponytail at the nape of her neck and dove into the ice-cold water. The liquid surrounded her skin like a cast of a candle, and the rushing rage of the water swept behind her as she took each stroke. The black tiles that marked the lanes danced in her vision. Reaching the end of the lane, she took a breath before turning in the water and pushing off the wall with renewed energy. As her arms tore through the smooth surface of the water, leaving bubbles in their fast wake, her mind tore through the doors that had yet to close for the woman. As the afternoon sun slowly melted into the evening stars, Evelyn emerged reborn, bending with her life swaying like a willow. Ideas of her bookshop swirled through her head, with thoughts of the silver band meant to coil around her finger long forgotten.

On the way to the YMCA on that fated Sunday, Evelyn had ridden her childhood bicycle. The baby blue bike with a basket sat leaning against the garage wall of the modest rental house she shared with another. She had left the dinner table, the half-finished plate, and a bundled napkin stood still, forever immortalized in a snapshot of time seared into everyone’s memories. Evelyn had left the man kneeling in front of her with an open box, tears bunched at the corner of his earnest eyes as she left in a hurry. The unopened bottle of champagne sat on the oak table, never to be enjoyed by an engaged couple. She ran out the door of the garage, picking up the backpack she had left in a closet with her swimsuit and beach towel. The man, who had wanted to spend his life with her, stayed down on the linoleum floor of the dining room, the box still open, the silver ring still glinting in its polished light. He wouldn’t be there when she returned. Evelyn would return to a soulless house with echoes of promises still sweeping out the door. She went to sleep with a notebook containing sketches of her future penciled in the corners.

Several Sundays before the ring, Evelyn walked through the rows of a bookstore. The earthy tones of the books around her mixed with the sweet vanilla air curling out of the plastic lid of the drink in her hand. She ran a thin finger over the unbroken spines of the crime novels, trying to find the book that called to her for a nice read on her couch, wrapped in a blanket. A tall man with dark hair falling over his face tapped her shoulder.

“If you’re looking for a new read, there’s a book I quite like,” he said. He offered a paperback novel with a red cover. Evelyn took the book and flipped through its pages, many of which had been dog-eared and marked with notes scrawled in blue ink in the margins.

“I was going to give it to the store to sell second-hand anyways,” he explained.

“How much does it cost?” Evelyn asked. A grin lit up her features; another adventure awaited.

“Your number?” he asked, tripping over his words. Evelyn bit her lip before pulling a pen from the satchel that hung on her side.

“Paper?” Evelyn asked, the pen uncapped. The man extended his hand and offered his palm. Evelyn scrawled out the digits in blue ink.

They fell in love over Sundays, from lemonade with ice to cinnamon spice. The words they read, wrote, and lived together lit their flame. She fell out of love in much the same way: lost words formed shackles, and the candle slowly dripped away.

Now Evelyn searched through her bookstore for the red-covered book with the blue notes in the margin, many of which she had later penned herself. The Saturday night slowly slipped into Sunday morning, and the red book lay on the counter when the man walked in. The door stirred awake when the bell rang to alert Evelyn.

“Hi,” Evelyn rubbed the back of her neck. He looked the same, except for the quiet age that had crept into his face in the time that had passed. Evelyn felt her stomach turn; she had sat in the hurt that she had caused for an awfully long time. She had dropped his heart, after all, and refused to offer help in putting together the remaining pieces.

“I’m sorry,” he said. He picked up the book and headed for the door. She stood in silence, willing for her screams to be heard. The man turned back. Evelyn fluttered to attention.

“How much for the book?” the man asked Evelyn. An icy sheen covered his face, no longer covered by his hair, but his blue eyes glimmered with an invisible hope. It wasn’t coldness; it was hardly cruel. But the words stung with a bite that had Evelyn second-guessing the shine piercing through his eyes.

“A coffee?” Evelyn asked. A quiet love curled around them, and the man offered a smile.

“Just a coffee,” he paused for a moment, biting his lip, “Next Sunday?”