by Beena Khan
There were five couples seated in the restaurant area being served by the servers. Most couples were bent over their meals eating and enjoying, but one couple seemed to be arguing. She couldn’t hear the conversation from the distance but from their expressions, she gathered it wasn't a pleasant one. A group of women in their twenties were seated a few feet away from her, and they collapsed into giggles as men in the next table leered gazing at them as they smoked from hookah pipes.
A man with perfect cheekbones caught her staring. He had his arm wrapped around the couch chair. He smirked at her and raised his glass toward her.
He’s hot, but I don’t like his smirk.
She shook her head indifferently and turned toward the entrance again. Several men, women, and couples entered and left, but no one came looking for the book. She fidgeted, frustrated as she adjusted the straps of her dress and returned her gaze to the bar in front of her.
“You know who left this book?” she asked Aryan.
He just shrugged, smiling.
He knows something. He just isn’t telling me.
She sat down at her usual spot, resting her hand against the black bar table. The table looked freshly painted, perhaps within the past couple of months. She asked Aryan to make her usual drink. She liked drinking vodka on the rocks the most because it numbed her quickly, and she was drunk faster.
She also drank wine but that was when she was in a happier mood. There weren’t too many of those days.
She had her own book in her bag called Every day by David Levithan, but with some hesitation, she picked up The Namesake. If someone came looking for it, she could always give it back. She opened the first page and found a note inside.
Hello.
Only a single word was written on the note.
There was no name on it or anything. She realized someone had purposefully left it just for her.
Obviously, no sane person leaves a note saying “hello” for oneself,
She was baffled, not sure whether to smile at the gesture or be creeped out.
Is this supposed to be romantic? It’s actually kind of cute.
She shook her head and began reading. A few hours and a few drinks later, she finished the book. She’d devoured the emotional story of an immigrant family as they struggled with their cultural beliefs and social norms in England. She was lost in thought and had gulped down at least three more drinks in two hours without realizing it.
❖
She came the next day and a new book was on the table—The Mist by Stephen King. It was a completely different genre from the previous book left behind.
Her gaze narrowed, her eyes turned beady in suspicion to everyone around her, wondering who the culprit was. Laughter and conversations swirled all around her in the hazy smoke. There were over twenty conversations spoken in a loud volume, and they competed with the loud music that dominated the atmosphere. It was difficult to pinpoint the person who was leaving the books in a large crowd.
She looked back at Aryan, as if really noticing him for the first time. He was tall, and muscular with wavy black hair and light golden skin.
No, it couldn’t be him, she thought.
They weren’t friends, and he barely spoke with her or looked at her, only to ask her about her next drink. It must have been someone who’d observed her for a while and had noticed her fondness for books.
Yet, she prepared herself to ask Aryan. She had to take a chance. She clasped her hands in front of her and sat up straight on her stool. She took a deep breath, and with a sly, sweet, smile she asked, “Aryan, do you like reading?”
He smirked knowingly, as if he’d figured out that she was indirectly asking him if he was the one leaving her books. “Nah, I hate reading,” he replied.
Her shoulders slumped. She slumped back in her seat, her posture feeling like spaghetti now.
So much for trying.
She already knew it wasn’t him but was still glad she asked. She watched as Aryan began wiping the booze a customer had spilled, then she placed her drink order, and he went to fetch it. She watched him as he made her usual. His hands were calloused, and he didn’t seem to be the kind who enjoyed reading. She noticed when he moved around that his muscles flexed under his shirt. She ignored those intrusive thoughts and focused on her ice-cold drink, thinking again about the book left behind.
Maybe, it’s a stalker.
Or maybe, it’s someone who truly wants to know you, an inner voice argued back.
Whoever it was, the person was leaving it in a timely manner. They were sure to put the book down moments before she came in.
Someone knows my schedule. For some reason I’m not really scared.
She opened the first page and once again, there was a new note inside.
I heard you were looking for me.
It’s not often one reads books at a bar.
So, this person noticed her reading habits.
How did he know I was looking for him?
She looked around once more to see if anyone was watching her. There were several guys staring at her, but she couldn’t tell who was leaving her these books with notes in them. Then she turned her head and glanced at Aryan.
Ahah.. I spoke with him yesterday.
She shook her head at him and began to read.
❖
For the next couple of weeks, the ritual was the same. Whenever she arrived, a new book was waiting on the bar at her seat. She began to collect the notes. They often said different things.
It’s amazing how you’re so lost in reading at a crowded bar.
Some of the most important things about the world are found in books.
She still brought her own book with her because she couldn’t depend on the mysterious person to keep leaving her books.
An idea formed in her head, and she began to smile.
That smile turned into a grin and a laugh accidentally slipped out of her. She caught the attention of Aryan who stared at her, raising his eyebrows.
Crap.
She offered him a small smile and turned toward her own book called You by Caroline Kepnes about a love-sick creep stalker turned murderer. Then, she wrote on the back of the note.
Are YOU a secret admirer or a creepy stalker?
With a big, satisfied smile on her face, she called out to Aryan.
He looked up at her. “Yeah?” he asked, walking toward her. He had a slight accent when he spoke. She wasn’t sure where exactly to pinpoint its origin.
“Can you give the note and this book to the person who’s leaving these books behind?”
Aryan looked at the ground and thought hard about it. “I have no clue who it is.”
He’s avoiding my gaze.
“I know you know. You think I’m a fool?” she asked.
“Maybe,” Aryan replied. She faked a gasp as she pretended to be offended by his comment.
“Just give this person the book, pretty please?” she requested, as she pushed the book toward Aryan. He slowly looked at her, then at the book, and hesitantly nodded.
Score.
“What’s your name?” Aryan asked.
“Why? So you can tell your friend?”
Aryan was silent for a few seconds, then gave her a sheepish smile before walking away with the book.
❖
She came the next day and on her table was The Reader by Bernhard Schlink. She smiled as she gazed upon the name and opened the first page of the book, where she found a new note inside.
Some things are better left unsaid. What’s your name?
So, Aryan had actually given her book and the note to that anonymous secret person. She smiled as she carefully wrote out a response on the back of the note along with a new book she had brought, The Silent Patient by Alex Michaelides.
I prefer Red.
She had read and fallen in love with The Reader before, but it was worth another read. She asked Aryan to forward the book she was leaving behind again.
❖
She came the next day and was surprised when she found a new book called P.S I Like You by Kasie West with a new note.
He reads young adult books? She smiled before she giggled.
Aryan turned toward her.
She covered her mouth, laughing.
“Why are you always laughing by yourself?” he asked.
She laughed again, and the people next to her began to stare at her. She slumped her shoulders, trying to bury herself in her seat and realized she had to stop making sounds publicly. She wasn’t psychotic.
“You’re going to drive the customers away, missy.”
She slowly stopped smiling, and offered an apologetic smile to Aryan. “Sorry,” she said. Then, she began to read the note.
No, I don’t like you. But I thought this was a cute book. My friend likes it.
Friend huh? Who is this friend of his?
She took out her own book called, Anonymous Girl by Greer Hendricks and Sarah Pekkanen and with a grin, she inserted a note in it.
Sure, friend. I can tell you have a feminine side.
What’s your name, Anonymous Guy?
For several days, they forwarded notes to each other in books. The notes were usually brief.
It’s a secret.
You’re creepy.
You don’t really mean that?
No. Show yourself.
You don’t talk to anyone.
Have I turned you down?
Nah, I’m on the sidelines.
You can come say hi, I won’t eat you.
Lol :) That made me laugh. Why do you always drink?
My body, my choice.
Fair enough. I will shut up now.
What do you look like?
My mother thinks I’m handsome.
You think you’re funny?
Yes.
She groaned out loud, gaining the attention of people sitting next to her who looked at her strangely. She gave them a tight-lipped smile and turned back to her book.
Damnit, why can’t this guy give a direct answer?
The next day, she decided enough was enough and made it her mission to catch the mystery man in the act.
She decided that instead of seven in the evening, she would come twenty minutes earlier. She stood at the restaurant’s entrance and glanced through the frosted glass.
She felt adrenaline rush through her body, and she wasn’t even drunk yet. She rubbed her hands together in excitement, glancing back through the glass hoping to see the man.
She finally caught the perpetrator.
A tall man placed a book on the table where she typically sat. She saw Aryan laughing with him.
Aha... friends, perhaps?
His back was turned to her, so she was unable to catch a glimpse of his face. She frowned as he walked away.
Oh no, you don’t.
She slipped inside and ran toward the culprit until she stopped in front of him, breathless and her eyes wild. She had to look up at him because he was a few inches taller than her.
His surprised gaze met hers.
She examined him curiously.
The man watched her for a moment, not with lust but with the same curious gaze she was studying him with. She noticed he had warm, brown eyes and dark hair. He didn't look creepy. She edged closer to him was surprised to see a tattoo that was going from his shoulder to across his chest.
Shit, a tattoo? He seemed harmless on the notes.
She tried to read what it said, but it was hidden underneath his shirt. She looked at his arms for other tattoos but didn't see any. He was wearing a black shirt with the cuffs rolled up. The first two buttons of his shirt were left undone, and she could see two inches of his olive-colored flesh. She dragged her eyes up to his face, but he was looking at the floor now.
Slowly, he lifted his eyes to look into hers, but he didn't smile as he stared at her.
Chapter 3
Kabir didn’t smile as he stared at her.
He didn’t know what to do now that he was caught.
Was I planning on leaving notes forever? he thought.
He hadn’t planned on how to approach her after the notes. He was getting mixed feelings of embarrassment and shame because he’d never written a girl a note before. It was easier to write because he had been anonymous. His words spoke for him, and he didn’t have to actually vocally speak.
He was hidden before, but now she was in front of him.
This time, he had to actually speak to her. Her eyes narrowed at him, but she remained silent.
This was the first time he had seen her up close, and his eyes glided over her features. Her eyes were a part of her that he hadn't seen. She had distinct large blue almond shaped eyes that were bright, but they lacked a sparkle, as if they had seen too much. There was an emptiness in them, and she didn’t seem to be fazed by anything. Her eyes were older, calm, wiser, and they looked at him with a charm. His eyes dropped to her heart-shaped lips that were painted in a pale, nude color. He could see the tiny bump on the ridge of her distinct nose, with freckles adorning it. She had sharp cheekbones framed by a heart shaped face. His eyes were drawn magnetically to the river of her silky black hair gliding down her neck, appearing as if it was tailored from silk.
Where is she from?
He noticed her scar on her shoulder. Up-close, it was dark-brown and looked quite like a mark from falling. It looked like an older scar, something that had been on her for a long time.
She has flaws, but I don’t see many.
“You’re the one who is leaving me books,” she finally said in an accusing tone.
He cowered under her gaze.
After several moments, he admitted, embarrassed, “Yes.” He tucked his hands into his navy-blue pant pockets, as if not sure what else to do. He was caught, and there was no getting out now.
“Why are you doing this?”
“You read at a bar, it’s not common, and it’s noticeable. You like reading, and I had a lot of spare books to give.” Kabir tried to downplay the entire situation.
She arched an eyebrow at him. “So you watched me?”
“I see everyone who comes to this restaurant.”
“Why?” she asked.
He shrugged. “I work here.”
She looked at him with eyes full of amusement and remained silent. She crossed her long arms over her chest, as she carefully studied him. He felt like a prisoner under her interrogative gaze. Kabir wanted to hide under the table.
She probably thinks I’m a stalker trying to hit on her.
After some hesitation, Kabir asked, “So—what was your favorite book so far?”
“Hmm... I liked Born a Crime by Trevor Noah.”
He smiled. “What’s your favorite part?”
“I liked that it’s a nice blend of personal and political discussion. The comedy is gold.”
Kabir noticed the men around him were gazing at her in awe and sneered at him for being lucky enough to talk to her. He noticed she was wearing light blue jeans with a long sleeve teal shirt.
Today, she’s a casual beauty.
One of her pale shoulders was bare, and as he looked at it closely, he noticed a few freckles dotting her skin.
He wondered where else she had freckles.
“What book were you leaving me this time?” she asked him, distracting him from his indecent thoughts. She walked toward the bar, glancing over her shoulder at him. She saw the book title—Let the Right One In by John Ajvide Lindqvist.
“I actually read this one before.” She looked at him apologetically.
“That’s fine. I’ll get you another one,” he said, turning around to leave.
“Wait!” she called out to him, and he stopped in his tracks, raising an eyebrow at her over his shoulder.
“There is really no need. I always carry a book with me,” she said.
“I don’t mind.” He smiled and looped his thumbs into his pant pockets hoping to look casual. It was a nervous habit he couldn’t overcome.
“Why don’t you pick a book yourself?”
“Where, in a bar?” she laughed as Aryan made her a drink.
“Yeah, I’ll show you,” Kabir replied.
She stopped laughing abruptly and stared at him for a few moments.
He made her curious.
First he left her books, now he wanted her to choose one?
Holding her drink, she followed him to the lounge through the back entrance in hesitant movements. She could see the view from here, it was an open lounge. Nighttime approached, and the sunset was beautiful mellowing with the colors yellow, orange, and red. The lounge was stunning with chrome-colored sofas with glass tables in front of each one that filled the room. A plush, white carpet was under their feet, and fairy lights lit the room around them. There were servers walking around but no guests there. She looked at him in question.
“I only open the lounge on special occasions,” he said.
Her mouth dropped as she turned to look at him. “Open? You own this place?” she asked, surprised.
Kabir avoided her gaze. “Yeah.”
“Why didn’t you mention that before?” she asked.
“It didn’t seem relevant.”
“Is that why you were watching me?”
“Yes, like I said I watch the people who come to the restaurant. It helps to know who your regular customers are,” he replied.
“Oh... thank God. That makes a lot of sense. I almost thought I had a stalker.” She laughed, as she placed her heart on her chest.
Kabir didn't join in her laughter, and he gave her an uncomfortable smile. He wasn’t sure how to respond to her since he had in fact acted in a stalkerish manner. He changed the topic, moving forward. “Let me show you the books,” he said.
