by Lexie Ray
The counter at the front of the store where people purchased their books contained one old-timey register. It was mostly for show, Anne explained, but it did still function for cash and check transactions. For credit cards, there was a scanner. I liked the atmosphere immediately. It felt warm and inviting, like a place for curious minds to gather and expand. The manager adored me, especially when I showed him how he could better organize a display table to make the books easier to find and more visually pleasing than before.
“You have a real gem here, Anne,” he said.
She nodded and I shrugged, a little embarrassed. “I just really love books,” I said.
I learned the cash register fairly quickly, but it was the stocking that I truly loved. I loved to run my fingers over the new books, freshly shipped from publishers, and find them homes on the shelves. I liked to take stock of the very same shelves, seeing which books had sold, thus finding new homes on other people’s bookshelves, and needing me to fill the newly emptied slots. I knew where every volume was in that bookstore and could help customers find anything as long as we were selling it.
I pulled cash register duty one day as a new shipment of books came in. Anne was opening the box in the tiny storeroom behind me as I rang up sales.
“Hey, Jasmine,” she called. “Got your book in here.”
“Which book is that?” I asked. I’d also started reading all of the books I could get my hands on. The bookstore gave me a discount, but I’d also discovered the public library, too. There were lots of books that I considered “my book.” I couldn’t pick a favorite.
“Check it out,” Anne said. She tossed me a copy of the book in question, titled “A Message to Jasmine.”
“Very funny,” I called back, then choked on my words when I saw the name of the author.
Nate King. Nate. King. Maybe it was just some screwed up coincidence, I told myself, my hands trembling as I held the book. It couldn’t be my Nate King. Well, certainly not the Nate King that had been mine. Could it? I opened the book to the first page and gasped.
“To the real Jasmine,” the dedication page read, under which was the photo of me holding my arm up below the Statue of Liberty, and grinning. I remembered that day well. Lady Liberty had been closed to visitors, but we still strolled around her island home. I had always meant to go back to see if she was open.
My God. It really was Nate’s book. I was holding the culmination of all of his sleepless nights in my grasp. The book he was rushing to finish before he died of cancer. This was it.
Compulsively, I turned to where the narrative began. The book was classified under fiction even though it was called “A Message to Jasmine” and was dedicated to me. What did it contain? I started reading.
This is a story about a girl who was cursed. From the beginning of her life, she was doomed to die. She had to accept her fate, just like her parents, her parents' parents, and her parents' parents' parents.
Or so she thought.
As soon as she was old enough to understand her grim destiny, Jasmine began to prepare for death. She started by giving everything she owned away. Jasmine wouldn't need material things where she was going.
When all she had left were the clothes on her back, she went to the sea to wait for the curse to exact itself on her. If she was going to die anyway, what was the point of doing anything at all? She was the last living member of her family. Everything would end with her.
While she was sitting there, waiting for death, a stranger happened by. He took one look at her glazed stare and plopped down beside her.
"You're a girl who's waiting for something, I can tell," the stranger said. "Is it a parade?"
"No," Jasmine said. "I'm waiting for death to find me."
"Death!" the man exclaimed. "Why, death will find us all, soon enough. No need to sit around and wait for it."
"I am going to die because I am cursed," she said calmly. "There is nothing I can do about it."
"Well, of course there is!" the stranger said. "You can live your life. That's the best anyone can do, really."
I looked up, blinking rapidly. This was like the first time Nate and I met, the time I was ready to throw myself off the cliff. Only it was strange—I had found him sitting, not the other way around. Who was the one waiting to die in this story?
I thought back to that time, remembering how I laughed with Nate about strange ways to die. I remembered him being particularly interested when I suggested death by curse. He took notes on that ever-present pad of paper.
In fact, I remembered him taking lots and lots of notes on that pad of paper. Had he been constructing this story even as we built our life together? What was the end he saw for us? I had to know before reading anything else. Had we ended the way Nate King thought we would?
I flipped to the end of the book, gobbling up the words with my eyes. There was a line of customers waiting for me to ring them up, but I couldn’t stop.
Jasmine looked down at the swirl of marks on her body. They had covered her since she was born, evidence that she was to die. They were physical evidence of the curse.
"I always thought they were from the curse," she said, voicing her thoughts.
"Wrong," the stranger said. "They were the answer to lifting the curse this whole time."
"I don't understand," she said. "How are they the answer?"
"Only you can read their message," the stranger said. He began to walk away.
"Wait!" she called after him. "Who are you? How do you know all this?"
"I am the Messenger," he said over his shoulder, continuing to walk away. "My purpose was to help you realize that you didn't have to remain cursed. Now that you know, my task is over."
"But I don't know how to read the marks!" Jasmine cried, but he was too far away to hear her.
She looked down at the marks covering her body and found that, suddenly, their shapes and language made sense to her. All she had to know was that she could read them, and they made their message clear to her.
"Let go," they said simply. "Let go."
Jasmine understood. "I am not cursed," she said, closing her eyes.
When she opened them, the marks were gone.
I wept, my tears dotting the open pages. All I had to do was let go. Maybe I’d bear the scars of my past forever. Maybe the physical reminders would fade. But all I had to do to move forward was let go. Let go. I knew what I needed to do.
“Are you okay?”
I looked up, tears coursing down my face. The customer at the counter looked at me in concern.
“Is the book that moving?” he asked. “If it is, I’ll take it.”
I didn’t know what to say. A sob burst out from between my lips.
“Jasmine?”
Anne came out of the storeroom and stared at me. Maybe I had been an emotional wreck this entire time away from Nate, but she’d never witnessed me crying. I’d been very careful about that.
“Do you need to leave?” she asked. “I can cover for you.”
“It really is my book,” I blurted out, lifting the volume. “My boyfriend—my ex-boyfriend—Nate King—I’m the Jasmine in this book.”
I couldn’t stop crying, couldn’t stop the sobs that wracked my body.
“He wrote this for me,” I said finally. “And I have to go to him.”
“Then you should go,” the customer said, pumping his fist in the air.
“Now I really want to read that book,” another remarked from farther back in the line.
“Good luck,” Anne added. “Better keep that book.”
“Take it out of my paycheck,” I said, already turning to leave.
Clutching it to my chest, I grabbed my purse and ran out the door. I flagged down the first taxi I saw and directed the driver to take me to Nate’s condo in East Village.
While I was riding along, I reread some of the most moving passages of the book. I knew that I could let go of the bad things that had happened. The markings on the Jasmine in the bo
ok were my own scars. Nate must have rewritten that ending after we’d made love.
I knew my scars would likely be a part of me forever. But not everything else had to. I could let those things go, forget about them. Move on with my life in a positive direction. I didn’t have to be damaged for the rest of my days.
There was one thing, however, that I wasn’t willing to let go of, and that was my love for Nate. I didn’t care how long he had to live. I only wanted to make sure I was there for every single moment.
I paid the driver and hopped out as soon as he pulled up to the building. The doorman waved at me as I jogged by and hopped in the elevator. I bet he wondered what I had been doing away for so long. At least I had found my way back.
I approached Nate’s door and hesitated. What if he wasn’t even home? What if—what if I’d hurt him too badly? I gulped, trying to get my heart to return to its place in my chest from its current residence in my throat. What if he was already dead? This last thought was unbearable. I beat on the door with one fist, then with both.
“Please open the door, please open the door,” I chanted beneath my breath.
I felt equal parts terror and relief when the chain rattled and the door opened.
“Jasmine?”
Nate looked disheveled, like perhaps he hadn’t shaved in about a week or so. His hair was messed up, and by the fuzzy look on his face, I guessed that I’d woken him from a nap.
I didn’t care. He was the most beautiful thing I’d ever laid eyes on. I threw my arms around his neck and he stumbled backwards into the room.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, my words tumbling out. “I saw the book, I have it. I’m so sorry. I know how to let go now, I do. I just can’t--I can’t let go of you. I love you too much. I’m so sorry.”
My words were jumbled and confusing in my rush to get them out. They weren’t quite making sense in my mind, but I hoped Nate could understand them. I needed to make him understand.
Nate held me close. “I’m the one who should be sorry,” he said. “I never wanted you to feel like I was using you. I was never using you. I loved you from the moment I saw you. You were desperate but utterly beautiful. When we talked that day on the cliff, something inside me clicked. I wanted to spend the rest of my life with someone—no matter how long the rest of it was going to be.”
I was weeping with relief, love, and sadness. How could I waste a single moment without being with this beautiful man?
“You need to have a full disclosure,” Nate said, pulling away a little bit to look me in the eyes. “I want there to be complete understanding between us. The cancer that I have—the survival rate is dismal. I was diagnosed just before I met you. I’d quit my real estate job that day we met each other on the cliff. I was there on that cliff trying to figure my life out at the exact same time you were trying to figure yours out. I thought it…maybe it meant something that we were brought together at that very moment.”
Of course, I thought, the story. The Jasmine in Nate’s book represented both Nate and me at the same time. She had been melded with elements from both of our situations, and the stranger—or the Messenger, as he turned out to be in the end—was both of us, as well. We had both been presented with desperate situations, but with both offered solutions for each other. Solutions and solace. And love. We truly belonged together. If I had only suspected before, I was sure of it now.
“I’m sorry I ever doubted you,” I said. “I was just so shocked. I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you. I know you weren’t throwing me away. You are nothing like anyone in my past. I was stupid and mean to say those things. I was so terrible.”
Nate took me into his arms again, rocking me as I cried. “You were hurt,” he said. “It’s okay. Everyone always says crazy things when they’re hurting inside.”
“How could I have hurt you like that?” I mumbled. “It wasn’t fair. Please don’t be angry with me. Please let me come home.”
Nate sucked in a breath. “You really want to come back here?” he asked. “You honestly do?”
“I didn’t ever want to leave,” I said, looking up at him. I was sure I was a total mess—snot and tears and makeup running down my face—but I didn’t care. “I’ve loved you this whole time,” I said. “You’ve never been far from my mind. I thought I would get over being so sad, that the hurt would fade like all the other betrayals, but it never did.” I sniffed and wiped my eyes. “It was because you didn’t betray me. All you wanted to do was love me. I love you, Nate, and I’m so sorry.”
He kissed both of my eyes, his lips delicate and soft against my burning tears.
“That’s enough with the apologizing,” he said quietly. “We need to talk seriously. The survival rate for my cancer is—”
I reached up and put my finger against his lips, silencing him. “You’re more than a rate,” I said, “more than a percentage.”
“Jasmine, I’m giving you a reality check here,” he said. “The overwhelming truth is that I probably won’t beat this. The doctor told me that my time is limited.”
“Then we’d better make every moment count, hadn’t we?” I asked, standing on the tips of my toes to kiss him on the lips. It felt like I’d been gone for a long time and was just settling back in to home.
I opened my eyes as we broke the kiss and looked around the place for the first time. Dishes were piled in the sink, clothes thrown over every surface. It looked like the rug hadn’t been vacuumed since I left.
“What was this about you no longer needing the services of a housekeeper?” I asked, putting my hands on my hips.
Nate rubbed his wild hair sheepishly. “I guess I kind of let things go around here,” he observed.
“You guess,” I echoed teasingly. “I know.”
“I’d probably take better care of it if someone I cared about was around to live in it,” Nate said.
“She’ll help you take care of it,” I promised.
“Right now, I’d like help taking care of something else,” Nate said, rubbing his hands over my back suggestively. “I’ve waited almost two months for a repeat performance.”
I laughed and jumped into his arms, letting him carry me to the bedroom. It was good to be home.
The sex was gentler than that night in front of the fireplace, but no less meaningful and mind-blowing. He filled me up completely, eased away any lingering tendrils of heartache, massaged away my sadness and my guilt. Even as tears fell down my cheeks—tears that meant so many things, sadness that we wouldn’t grow old together, relief that at least I could be with him for a limited time—he kissed them away. He was so giving, so concerned with my wellbeing even though he should be trying to take care of himself instead of me.
We moved together, our lovemaking turning into a dance of forgiveness, of healing, of hope. The way he pumped in and out of me showed me that he loved me no matter what. It was both tender and sexy at the same time. We came together again, our kisses muffling the moans. It was painfully sweet, utterly satisfying, and something I wanted at least every day for the rest of our time together.
“I think I can try to accommodate that,” Nate said, grinning as I told him exactly what I expected from him in the days, weeks, months, and years to come.
* * * *
“What do you want to do today?” Nate asked, looking into my eyes as I yawned widely. I’d just woken up, fuzzy with good rest and good love. It had been perhaps half a year since I’d come back to Nate, and it was like we’d never been apart. We lived each day to its fullest, unwilling to waste even a breath.
“How long were you waiting to ask me that?” I grumbled, rubbing my face. “What time is it?”
“Six in the morning,” Nate said, excited as a little boy. “What should we do?”
I stretched and groaned as several of my joints popped.
“I already have something planned for today,” I said, feeling mischievous and a little bit bad as Nate’s excitement waned a little.
“What is it?”
he asked. “Am I invited?”
“It’s a surprise,” I said, grinning. “Better hurry up and get ready. We don’t want to be late.”
Nate laughed and kissed me. “You got me.”
We shared a shower, laughing about our efforts to conserve water, our laughter fading to moans as we rubbed our hands over each other’s slippery bodies. Now that we were back together, I couldn’t get enough of him. I couldn’t resist the nearly magnetic pull I experienced whenever I was around him.
“Do we have time for a quickie?” Nate breathed in my ear, trailing kisses down my neck and across my collarbone.
“We’re going to make time,” I said. “Just means we have to take a taxi instead of the subway.”
“I like taxis,” Nate remarked, lifting me and pushing me against the shower wall, my legs wrapped around my waist. “Remember that wild ride to the Empire State Building, when you kept falling into my lap?”
“I think this wild ride is something I’m also going to cherish,” I said, gasping as he entered my already wet body.
As our bodies heated up, steam filled the bathroom. Our cries and pants, verbalizations of mutual pleasure, echoed off of the stone and mirrors. I fiddled with the knobs of the shower behind Nate’s back as he thrust upward into me. He yelped and then we both laughed as cold water cascaded down, refreshing our hot coupling.
“That feels good,” he said, shuddering.
He dipped his head down and licked my nipples, bringing me to the edge of orgasm and backing away, over and over until I was screaming for release. Nate obliged me, always aware of how far to push, what areas to tease until I climaxed. I kissed him as he joined me, a few more thrusts all he needed to achieve orgasm. Life was so good, just holding each other as the water ran down our bodies in the shower.
“I hate to cut this short,” I said, “but now we really have to hurry.”
