This Book Made Me Think of You(4)
Tilly snatches the book from his hand, grabbing it so forcefully that he flinches. But she doesn’t care. If he’s not going to let her have the rest of the books, then she at least needs to get home right now so she can open the parcel. Without saying anything else, she spins around and storms out of the bookshop, letting the door blow closed behind her.
* * *
—
As Tilly pushes open the front door, she immediately trips over a pair of Joe’s running shoes. She nudges them to one side, then hangs her coat on the peg alongside Joe’s favorite gray hoodie, dull and threadbare now. She recognizes her mother-in-law’s handwriting on what must be a birthday card but leaves it on the mat to deal with later and climbs the stairs up to the open-plan living space in the tiny mews cottage.
The matchbox size of the flat was the compromise to their living in a neighborhood they both loved, and it overspills messily with their joint belongings: Joe’s workout gear piled in a corner, a desk littered with his paperwork, her half-finished craft projects on any spare surface, and, in shelves spanning the entire height and length of one wall, her books. The rest of the flat might be messy, but these shelves are meticulously organized, their spines lined up neatly and small printed labels signposting sections for different genres. Except, for the past year, her books have been gathering dust.
Tilly places the brown paper parcel on the coffee table and stares at it.
Six months have passed, but it is still hard to accept that Joe is really gone. Every day she wakes up expecting to feel his presence in their bed. Sometimes, she likes to turn the shower on in the bathroom and sit in the living room for a while, pretending that he’s just in the room next door taking a shower and will be in soon. The rest of the world keeps telling her it is time to move on. The funeral flowers have long since withered and been thrown out, the calls from people checking in have become less frequent, and work is busier than ever. But Tilly is still here in a flat that was once her sanctuary, surrounded by her dead husband’s things, with no idea what she is supposed to do with herself now.
Opening this parcel will scratch at the wound she keeps being told will heal over time. Maybe it would be better to put it in a drawer and try to forget about it. No book can bring Joe back. But even as she thinks it, she knows that while she might struggle to deal with whatever is inside the parcel, she does not have the strength to resist opening it.
She unties the ribbon and tears open the paper.
Three
They met in a bookshop…
It is a rainy day in August, and while the rest of London might be disappointed with the turn in the weather, Tilly doesn’t mind. Because it is perfect for spending an entire day in a bookshop, which is exactly how she intends to spend her Saturday. She heads for “the big Foyles” at Charing Cross with a plan to start on the ground floor and meticulously work her way up to the fifth.
Stepping out of the rain, she lets out a contented sigh as she looks up at the words spelled out in greeting: Welcome, book lover, you are among friends. Tilly has always thought of bookshops as a gathering place: all those books lined up neatly on the shelves like potential friends she just hasn’t met yet.
She is browsing the fiction section on the ground floor, her head tilted in the “book browsing pose” that will give her a stiff neck by the end of the day, when she collides with something solid.
“Oh! Sorry!” she says, meeting the face of a blond-haired man around her age, wearing a gray hoodie, a pair of shorts, and damp trainers. His eyes are smiling and a piercing blue.
“Hi there,” he replies in a deep American accent. When he smiles, his teeth are white and straight, except his front left tooth, which has the very slightest chip.
“I should have been looking where I was going,” she replies, realizing she is still close enough to smell the woody scent of his cologne mixed with dampness from the rain. “I always get a bit blinkered when I’m looking at books.” She steps swiftly backward, feeling her cheeks flush like they always do when she is nervous.
“Would you recommend that one?”
He points at the book tucked under Tilly’s arm—the first of many she plans to “rehome.”
“Oh yes, I love Fredrik Backman. Have you read any of his other books?”
The man glances at Tilly’s copy of Britt-Marie Was Here and shakes his head. “I don’t think I have.”
“Well, you should definitely start with A Man Called Ove then.” She checks the shelves. “Although they don’t seem to have it here. It’s probably upstairs on the bigger fiction floor.”
“It’s a bit of a maze in here, isn’t it?” he says, his voice containing a laugh as he looks around him.
It is one of the things Tilly loves the most about the shop. Because what better place to get lost than among shelves of stories? She glances around, trying to find a staff member to help, but they are all busy with customers.
“I could show you, if you like?”
His face relaxes into a wide, infectious smile. “That would be great, thanks! I’m Joe, by the way.” He thrusts out his hand, and she stifles a laugh as she shakes it, young enough to still think of shaking hands as playing at being a grown-up. His grip is warm and firm.
“I’m Matilda. Although most people call me Tilly.”