You First: A Joe Goldberg Prequel (You, #0)(7)

This is a long shot because it’s all probably in my head. And this is so not me. It’s my first time here and all of it…Craigslist…Missed Connections…I am not that girl, okay? And yes, this is embarrassing, maybe even pathetic, but maybe also (gulp) romantic? I know. People who say they never do something or tell you it’s the first time for them are usually lying, but I swear I’m telling the truth.

A couple of weeks ago, I walked into a random bookstore because it was raining, and I had to pee. Your boss barked at me that it’s for paying customers only. I was in a mood so I kinda bit the old man’s head off about how we’re all supposed to be nice to one another right now because hello…Who DOESN’T have PTSD from 9/11? My voice was shaking, and he just kinda set me off, and I thought I was gonna burst into tears, but then you ran up to him—so sweet, the way you touched his shoulder—and you told him that I was a paying customer.

Him: “Are you telling the truth?”

You: “Swear to God.”

Him: “What did she buy?”

You: “INSERT NAME OF THE BOOK IN YOUR REPLY SO I KNOW IT’S YOU.”

Anyway. You saved me. Total hero move. A whiter, sweeter lie there could not be.

And yes…You were cute. Felt like you thought I was cute, but again, I totally get that you might be a good guy who does good things, and if you see this and you DO remember me and you were NOT into me…I wish you nothing but the best, and I promise I won’t come back to your place of work and hunt you down. You totally have the right to see this, cringe, and move on.

If, on the other hand, it WAS personal…if you do remember me, if you think about me, if you think about me a lot, if you don’t think it’s creepy and weird and pathetic and gross of me to put this out there and you wanna see that new John Cusack movie with me, this is what you do.

Write back to this post with the name of the book and the name of the shop.

I know your name. I saw your name tag. The question is, do you wanna know mine?



I want to write back to you, but I have to be smart about this. I have to put myself in your shoes. After all, you’re the reason we get a second chance. You’re the one who put yourself out there for me.

And I know it wasn’t easy. You probably had a few sips of something strong. You typed. You tweaked. You hemmed and you hawed and paced around your little apartment—it has to be little; they’re all fucking little—and the liquid courage wasn’t cutting it, so you called a friend. She thought you were nuts.

Nobody actually does Missed Connections. I mean, what if he’s crazy?

But that’s not you. You’re not cynical. You’re a dreamer, a romantic, a doer.

So, fuck yes, you cut open your chest and you shared your deepest, newest, most embarrassing dream with the world. Lucky for you and for me, I too am a hopeless fucking romantic. Sure, you got some of the dialogue wrong, but that’s girls. You make everything bigger in the rearview mirror. You threw out a line. You let hope win, and one day, we’ll frame this beautiful letter and hang it in our very, very, very fine house. We won’t have two cats. We’ll have a dog. And it won’t be a house, technically. We’ll live on the Upper West Side and—

Gently, Joseph.

You don’t want to marry me, not yet. But you do want me.

I am NYC Bookstore Babe. I deserve this. How many times have I heeded the call of Miss Frascatore, closed my eyes, and trusted that some girl out there would read my letter, that I would read the letter from some girl? This is my first win, and I gotta relax. I can’t come on too strong. And I earned a win. I should have seen it coming. At some point, someone had to walk into this shop and see me. If your life is one clusterfuck after another, if the first seventeen years are too bad to be true, it makes sense that you get a shot of too good to be true in the form of a comely caped crusader.

Gently, Joseph.

I scan the shop to make sure Mr. Mooney is still in his office—yep—and I put the pedal to the metal, my fingers on the keypad.

Portnoy’s Complaint. Mooney Books. The Angelika has a Serendipity screening at 11:45 tomorrow. If that works for you, I’ll be out front. No name tag, though.



My fingers hem and haw, they hover. You were in this moment. You freaked out. Hesitated. Worried that I might think you’re nuts. It feels good to be in your shoes, wondering if I have the guts to go through with it, to answer your shot in the dark. And then I bite the bullet.

Click.





3


Time is bullshit.

I can’t tell if it’s been ten minutes or ten years since I wrote back to you and did I fuck it up? Did I stutter? Was I lame? Is tomorrow too soon? I chose tomorrow because it’s that dead week that doesn’t exist, the blur between Christmas and New Year’s. But did I seem too eager? Lonely? There is no going back, and my stomach is on a warpath to take me down. Why did I add that smiley face? Did I sound like a telegram? You penned thoughtful, grammatically on-point sentences, and I sent you an order?! You’d think someone who reads so many fucking books would know how to write a simple email. A smiley face. Did I really do that? I did. You said you’re pathetic, but that’s not true. You’re bold. You started this. I’m the pathetic one, and I should’ve played it cool. Held off on a response and waited to see if you were brave enough to come back to the shop. I don’t know your name. I don’t know anything about you, but I bet some evil friend of yours is telling you to ignore me. I can hear the evil friend, see her.