“I found this in last week’s donation box. Take a look—” He hands it to me.
I run my hand over the cover. It is a beautiful brown clothbound, soft to the touch, with embroidered floral patterns that appear dusted with gold with nothing written on top. Maybe the book sleeve is missing. I skim through some pages in search of the title. But everything’s blank.
“It’s a notebook,” Mr. Lee says. “Quite a beautiful one, don’t you agree?”
“It is…” I whisper, admiring the quality of the pages. “I can’t believe someone gave this away. It hasn’t even been used yet.”
“I immediately thought of you,” he says, and points to the old computer on the back table. “I’ve noticed you stealing paper from the printer to write on. So I figured you might appreciate this gift. Who knows … maybe if you change the medium in which you wrote, it might inspire something.”
“I was only borrowing the paper,” I say.
Mr. Lee chuckles and waves it off.
I look down at the notebook. “I can have this?”
“As long as you make good use of it,” Mr. Lee says with a nod. “I think of it as an investment.”
“How so?”
“You see—once you finish your book, we can put it on the shelves, right in the front of the store,” he explains. “And I can tell customers she wrote it here, you know? In the journal I gave her.”
I smile as I hold the journal close to me. Mr. Lee is always encouraging me to write more. “Use your time at the store. Talk with the books for inspiration. They’re full of ideas.” Sometimes I share my stories with him to get his thoughts. Unlike my English teachers at school, Mr. Lee is well versed in the world of literature and always finds beauty in my words. He understands what it is I’m trying to say even when I’m not sure myself. “I don’t know if I could write a whole book, though,” I admit. “I’m having trouble just thinking lately. I’m not sure what to write about anymore.”
“What have you been thinking about?” he asks.
I run my hand along the spine of the journal. “Everything, I guess. My life. What’s happening in it.” And Sam, of course.
“Then write it down. Write down what’s happening.”
I look at him. “Mr. Lee, nobody wants to read about my life.”
“Who are you writing for again?” Mr. Lee asks, arching a brow. He has asked me this before. I know the answer he wants to hear. I write for myself. I’m not sure what this really means, though. I can’t help caring about what people think, especially about my writing. “We have too many voices inside our heads. You have to pick out the ones that mean something to you. What story do you want to tell?”
I stare down at the journal, thinking about this. “I’ll try, Mr. Lee. Thank you for this. And I’m also sorry for not letting you know I was gone—”
Mr. Lee holds up a finger to stop me. “No apologies necessary.” He opens the bookcase door and gestures toward the store. “The books welcome you back.”
I always feel at home when I’m in the store. I could spend hours and hours in here. There’s a comfort in being surrounded by walls of books. But as nice as it is to be back, Sam is waiting for me. We planned to make another call today. But this time, he asked me to meet him somewhere new for us to talk. He said he wanted to show me something.
I had just made it out of the bookstore when the wind chimes went off again, followed by the sound of Tristan’s voice.
“Julie! Wait!”
I spin around to see him with his hand extended, holding my phone.
“You forgot something.”
A gasp escapes me. “Oh my god—” I grab the phone and press it tight against my chest. My heart is pounding as thoughts of what if flash through my head. What if I lost it? What if I couldn’t call Sam back? How could I be so careless? How could I forgive myself? I make a promise to never do this again. “Thank you so much,” I say breathlessly.
“No problem,” Tristan says. “You left it on the front counter.”
“You’re such a lifesaver.”
Tristan laughs. “What would we do without our phones, right?”
“You honestly have no idea, Tristan.”
I breathe relief and smile as I wait for him to head back inside. But he doesn’t. He just stands there, a bit awkwardly.
“Was there something else?”
Tristan scratches the back of his head. “Sort of. I mean … I forgot to mention something earlier.”