You First: A Joe Goldberg Prequel (You, #0)(6)

“Miss Frascatore is at another school now.”

I never saw her again, and she’s on my mind because of you.

You! You really were writing to me, thinking of me and the best part is my part.

I remember you too, Bookstore Babe.

You came into the shop on an icy rainy Tuesday in the dregs of post-9/11 December. You reminded me of Miss Frascatore the day we met. You with your little bright blue cape. Combat boots and a messenger bag that was almost bigger than you. Plaid tights that revealed something about your insecurity, like your legs weren’t enough. This smile that screamed inexperienced guidance counselor. I watched you rummage through your too-big bag in Earth Sciences. You were more of a large child than an adult, playing dress-up.

“Can I help you, miss?”

“Do people really buy this stuff?”

I was good with you. Cool with just a touch of cold. “This is New York,” I said. “Yesterday, a woman came in here and bought three books about Beanie Babies.”

You looked away as you smiled. Swayed. That ridiculous cape like a hula skirt hanging on your torso. Girls are silly. Clothes are silly. “I’m not gonna lie,” you said. “I’m not here to buy a book.”

“Oh, no?”

You were closer now, and when did that happen?

“Look,” you said. “I know the drill. Restroom is for customers only. Yada, yada, yada. But you seem cool. You know how it is. I’m a hardworking assistant in the middle of my day, and if I don’t finish my stuff, I’m gonna get fired and wind up living in my parents’ basement back in Beverly Hills, and I know…”

I looked at you the way anyone would. Beverly Fucking Hills.

“No,” you said. “Beverly Hills, Michigan. I’m not, like, I mean, I’m not a princess. I can’t actually afford this Miu Miu cape, okay? I got it at work. Shit. My quarter-life crisis isn’t even here yet and already I’m a nervous babbling wreck.”

“You’re not babbling. You’re talking.”

You undid a brassy button on that stupid fucking cape. “Okay,” you went on. “All I mean is I know I can’t just waltz in here and use the loo, but at the same time…”

“You want to waltz in here and use the loo.”

“Need,” you said. “I need to waltz in here and use the loo.”

That was it. The first spark. The click. I offered to show you the way to the loo, and you laughed a little. “Oh God,” you said. “I’m really getting my British on today. I might have a little too much Dido on my mixtape.”

I didn’t know who that is and I didn’t ask you who that is. I knew enough to be quiet.

“Anyway,” you said. “I’m a total Anglophile. I adore all things British.”

“Me too,” I said. It wasn’t a lie or some intentional fucking deception. It was instinct. It felt right to agree with you, same way it felt right to let you break the rules. And then it was on. You told me you just rewatched Sliding Doors, and I told you I love it too. You asked what I would be doing with my life if I missed the train.

“Well,” I said. “I think I’d be right here, honestly. I think I’d be me.”

You said that was either really deep or really shallow, and I liked the way it felt, being on the move with you. I was at my best. Casually picking up some Clancy and reshelving it while you looked around the shop. You said it reminded you of the one from You’ve Got Mail. I pictured you naked. I imagined your body on top of mine. It felt different with you. Clear. I was nervous because I was gonna do the thing I never fucking do. I was gonna ask for your number. We made it to the back of the shop, and I opened the bathroom door. It was on the tip of my tongue. Maybe we could grab a coffee or something.

But then Mooney barged in. “This is not a paying customer.”

You were tied to the railroad tracks, and I was there with pliers. “Actually, Mr. Mooney, this young lady was in earlier today. She bought a book.”

I saw your lips turn up a little. This young lady. You liked that.

Mooney didn’t budge. “What book?”

I was fast. Good. “Portnoy’s Complaint.”

The lie played—Mooney let you into the can—but the shop got busy. You slipped out the door with a shy wave, like you’d lost your nerve in the bathroom. But who am I to judge? I fucked up too. I didn’t leave the register and run into the rain.

Later that night, I tried to write a Missed Connection. Usually, it comes naturally to me, but I couldn’t do it with you. I couldn’t clap my hands over my eyes and trust the world. I couldn’t reduce what we had and pack it up into a little post.

You couldn’t either, not at first.

I pushed you out of my mind, and I’m sure you tried to forget about me too.

But this is where I love girls, girls, girls, girls, girls I do adore. You cling. You don’t let go. You don’t give up.

And as it turns out, we are lucky to be alive and young in late December of 2001. Yes, the world is fucked. Yes, we might all die at any moment. But there’s one thing we do have going for us….

The internet.

I pull up the World’s Best Missed Connection Ever Written, and I do what a good reader does. I read it again.





MISSED CONNECTION: NYC Bookstore Babe, touchable brown hair, brown eyes, twinkling