by Teri Harman
And off he went before Matilda could think of a response. She listened to the echo of the front door quietly closing. The euphoria of being close to Henry evaporated almost immediately. Panic closed in on her. She stood, the pile of books tumbling to the couch. She looked at the couch, the stairs, ready to bolt.
I can’t do this! I can’t have a romantic night in an old bookshop. I can’t. I don’t even have control of my own mind.
This is wrong.
Matilda crossed to the staircase. Stopped. Looked down at the narrow steps. She wanted to cry. She wanted to run. She wanted to sit back down on the ugly couch and wait for Henry. Jetty’s words took their turn. That’s the soul knowing what the mind doesn’t.
What if her soul was as damaged as her mind?
What if her soul was wrong?
Henry
Henry splashed through the wet streets, running despite his boot cast. He sprinted the four blocks to The Mad Hash and barreled through the doors. Pearl was there, her painted-on eyebrows lifting at his breathless entry.
“Hey, Henry. You okay?”
No, no he was most certainly not okay. His heart might explode; his brain might stage a full-blown rebellion. He had never felt better. “Yeah, yeah. Fine,” he answered. “Just the rain.”
Pearl nodded slowly. “You wanna sit?”
“No. Take out, please. And can they hurry?”
Henry placed the order for two burgers, two sodas, and a side of rosemary fries. Five minutes had never felt so long. He was both excited and panicked to get back to Matilda.
He wasn’t sure exactly what had given him the courage to say what he’d said, to take that forbidden step. He hadn’t been able to do it as they walked. Maybe it was Abby’s words of encouragement or the security of the bookshop. Maybe it was simply the unbelievably wonderful feeling of Matilda’s hand in his.
Whatever it was, now Henry had to make sure it stuck. He had to prove that it was the right thing to do, prove it to both of them.
Pearl returned with the white plastic bag of food and he snatched it from her like a hungry lion. “Thanks,” he said hurriedly, and then left the diner as spastically as he’d arrived.
As he hurried back, awkward with the food and drinks, a fear gripped him that Matilda wouldn’t be there when he returned. That his leaving had somehow broken the spell of the moment. The energy between them was nothing if not tumultuous, fragile. What if she changed her mind?
The rain had stopped, but thunder growled in the distance.
Hurry. Hurry.
Outside the bookshop, he paused, though his panic urged him on. What would he do if she weren’t there? Go after her? Let her go? Give up? He didn’t think he’d have the strength to do anything but collapse into a wasted heap.
Quietly, he snuck back in the bookshop, stopping to listen.
Henry heard nothing. The smell of the greasy food turned his stomach.
He forced himself to climb the stairs, to prepare for an empty room.
At the top step, his legs nearly refused to finish the progression into the room. He peered around the edge of the wall. The couch was empty.
The couch is empty.
Henry’s eyes flashed around the room, his body tightening with despair, with disappointment. He set the food down with extreme care near the couch, next to the pile of books. He stared at the place where Matilda had sat next to him, their bodies touching along the seams. She left. She left me. Henry’s hands went numb.
More thunder.
“Henry? Is that you?”
Henry’s head snapped up so fast a shot of pain moved down his neck. Did I imagine her voice? He looked at the stairs. Soon Matilda appeared. Good grief, she’s beautiful. He fought the urge to leap across the room and sweep her into his arms just to confirm she was real.
She lifted her hands. “There’s an office downstairs. I poked around and found some buried treasure.” There were two pillar candles in her hands, a box of matches. The feeling returned to Henry’s fingers.
“Good,” he breathed.
She stepped closer, emerging from the gathering shadows. “You okay?”
“Yeah, yeah. Of course. I got burgers and sodas.” He gestured to the bag of food. He let out one shaky exhale before she came close.
Matilda smiled up at him. “Smells good. Rosemary fries too?”
He nodded, his heart still beating with the fear he’d felt at the sight of that empty couch. He brought his eyes to her face. The only light in the room came from her eyes. She shifted the candles to put a hand on his arm. “Are you sure you’re okay? You look …”
Henry put his hand over hers. “I’m great.” He held her eyes, wanting to kiss her. “Let’s eat.”
Her face lit up with a smile. She sat in her spot. Henry sighed away his remaining fear and settled next to her.
“So I thought we’d take turns reading, a little here, a little there,” she suggested. “Wake up these lost books after such a long sleep.”
“My thoughts exactly,” he said. He reached out to smooth her hair down her back. When she leaned into the touch he finally allowed himself to smile.
Matilda
Matilda savored the weight and warmth of Henry’s hand on her back. Had she imagined the fear in his expression a moment ago? He’d looked like a lost child, shocked and miserable. He must have thought she’d abandoned him. She nearly had. She hated that she’d almost left him standing here by this ugly couch, food growing cold, as he wondered why she wasn’t there.
Her fear had taken her as far as the bottom of the stairs. That’s where she saw the partly open office door and went inside instead of out the front door. Crammed into the small space was a gorgeous antique roll-top desk. She had rippled her fingers over the roll top, leaving smooth tracks in the thick dust. With a little effort, the cover rolled up. The space below had several pigeon-hole open shelves, rounded filing drawers, and a square section of green marble for writing. Matilda touched the porcelain drawer knobs with reverence and appreciation. She’d never seen the office in her days of book shopping with Jetty. It was very easy to imagine Mr. Booker bent over the desk, a cigarette balanced between his lips, books stacked at his elbows.
Matilda opened every little drawer, finding only the stale smell of tobacco, a few blank pieces of paper, the two candles, and a nearly empty box of matches. Why candles, Mr. Booker? Had he enjoyed reading by candlelight late at night, alone in his office? She smiled at the romance of it, and instantly pictured her and Henry sitting on the hideous couch, the candles burning at their feet, books opened on their laps, his body close to hers.
Lost in these daydreams, she hadn’t heard Henry come back. When the sounds of footsteps finally reached her ears, she couldn’t help the smile, a jolt of excitement in her stomach. The relief on his face when she came up the stairs felt like a reward. No, it felt like a sign, a confirmation. Her soul had been right after all. Thank goodness she’d seen that open office door.
Henry set out the food, while she lit the candles, placing them just as she’d imagined. “This feels like something out of a book, doesn’t it?” she whispered, settling beside him. His hand came immediately to her thigh, as if to make sure she didn’t disappear.
Henry smiled. “Yes,” he whispered. The candlelight made flickering shadows on the wall, the dormer windows were a kaleidoscope of fat raindrops. “Kind of reminds me of The Boxcar Children. Did you ever read those?”
“Only one or two. But yeah, I agree. Our own little space away from the world.”
“Exactly. Safe haven. But also somewhere we’re not really supposed to be.”
Matilda put her hand on his. “Refuge.”
Henry nodded, his expression saying he thought it was the perfect description. Matilda felt he understood far more than he should, more than anyone else might. It made her feel a sense of wonder, but also comfort. Being with Henry, here like this, was comfortable.
He handed her a burger. For several leisurely moments, they ate in silence, glancing sh
yly at each other. Henry kept one hand on her thigh, never pulling it away. Matilda thought of asking him some personal questions, digging more into the reasons why he was profoundly screwed up, as he’d told her earlier. But the questions didn’t want to come. Instead she craved mystery—a storybook atmosphere. She didn’t really care what had come before for him or her. She wanted to embrace this refuge, live outside her problems for as many hours as possible. Here in this fictional world that belonged only to them, her mind wasn’t broken, her memory wasn’t lost, her life was easy. Sitting next to Henry cast the perfect spell. Sitting here not saying a word would be enough to stay enchanted. More than enough.
Wiping his hand on a napkin, Henry reached for the nearest book. It was an old cloth-bound volume, rust red and small. He flipped it open to a random page. With the book on his lap, he moved closer to her, his body pressed against hers. She laid her head on his shoulder, hooked her arm though his, and slipped her hand into his. So comfortable.
Henry’s voice changed when he read: the shyness and nervousness dissipated, leaving a bold richness. “I am haunted,” he began, “by your ghost. Apparitions of what I wanted from you, but never asked for. Specters of your touch I never felt, your voice I never heard. A million spirit thoughts of imagined moments. You exist only in my mind, outside of time. I walk the moors like Death himself stalking those about to die. Only I pursue the idea of you, the dream of us. My scythe is my fear, and I swing it at my own neck.”
Matilda sighed. “So tragic.”
“So dramatic.”
She laughed. “I know. It’s perfect. Keep going.”
He kissed the top of her head and then read on.
Henry
Henry blinked blearily. So warm and contented, he didn’t want to open his eyes. He’d dreamed of Matilda, of her tiny body lying next to his. Tantalizing words wafting off her form.
Henry’s eyes flashed open to the bookstore’s dormer windows, flooded with morning sunlight. He blinked quickly, his mind slow to catch up. Henry started to shift, but there was warm weight on his chest. Matilda. His arms instinctively tightened around her. The night came back to him in a delirious rush. The hours of reading and laughing, sitting side-by-side, books on their laps. Her hesitant touches on his hand and arm raising gooseflesh on his skin, awakening heat in his blood. Mostly they’d read from the books, using others’ words, but it felt like speaking soul to soul.
We must have fallen asleep. She fell asleep in my arms.
Hugging Matilda tighter, he whispered her name. She shifted suddenly, inhaling sharply. “Henry?”
“Yeah, I’m here. We fell asleep.”
She jerked to sitting, pushing hard against his chest. He reached for her, but she was already out of his grasp. “We fell asleep?”
“Yeah.”
She gasped. “I gotta go. What time is it?” she said, panicked.
“I’m not sure.”
“The library—I can’t be late!” Matilda flew off the couch. “Beverly’s going to fire me. Oh my gosh!”
Henry’s stomach clenched. “I’ll go with you. I’ll tell her it’s my fault.”
“No, don’t.”
He was already off the couch. “I’m coming.” He hurried to shove the food trash into the bag and rushed after her. They didn’t speak as they speed-walked to the library. The air was balmy and heavy with the scents of wet things. The sun trumpeted brightly, pushing away yesterday’s rainy gloom. Tension came off Matilda in waves. Henry didn’t know what to say to make it better. So he trailed slightly behind her like a scolded puppy.
At the library steps, Matilda paused, her hands fiddling with each other. “I don’t need you to save me.”
Henry blinked. “I’m not saving you, I’m just helping. It’s half my fault.” I can’t be the reason she gets fired.
Matilda looked over and then away. “I can’t lose this job,” she whispered.
He took her clammy hand and urged her up the stairs. He held open the door. With her chin lifted, Matilda walked in.
Matilda
Beverly did not look at Matilda as she approached. Matilda knew by the tense, judgmental curve of her boss’s shoulders that she was in for it. Her stomach churned, acid in her throat. She wasn’t sure if Henry behind her made this moment worse or better.
Matilda swallowed, licked her lips. Inhale … “Beverly, I’m so sorry.”
“Forty-five minutes late. Grounds for termination,” came the curt reply.
Matilda wanted to throw up. Please don’t. “I understand, but this was a random incident. There were … mitigating circumstances.” She winced at the stupid words. “We fell asleep.”
Beverly lifted her eyes from the computer. When they fell on Henry, Matilda knew his presence would not help, but in fact had sealed her fate. Sentence pronounced. She braced herself. I can’t lose anything else …
“It’s my fault, Beverly,” Henry offered gallantly. “Please—”
“It doesn’t matter whose fault it is, rules are rules. I’m certainly not going to make an exception because of an amorous evening.” Her frown deepened with icy judgment. “Or whatever it is you two were doing.”
“Beverly, please,” Matilda stepped closer. “Please forgive me. I’ll work extra hours—”
“You don’t work here anymore. I should never have given you your job back.” Beverly’s cold stare settled on Matilda and Matilda felt the ice in her bones. A cruel smile spread on Beverly’s square face, pulling her wrinkles into an ugly grimace. “I always knew,” she spat with perverse pleasure.
Anger flashed in Matilda’s gut. “You pompous beast!” The words shocked all three of them. Henry took a step toward Matilda as if he might have to hold her back, but Matilda couldn’t stop the words. “You run this library like a prison ward or, worse, a funeral home. You don’t care about the books, only your stuffy, archaic rules. You’re the worst librarian I’ve ever met.”
Beverly gasped. An actual, audible gasp of surprise. Matilda grinned and then spun on her heel, flooded with bubbly triumph. Take that! It took only until she reached the door for the nausea to return, for reality to bite her neck and suck the life out of her.
Henry was there, putting his arm around her waist as the library doors swung shut. “Matilda …”
“Will you take me home?” She leaned into him, too deflated to lift her chin to look at him.
“Of course,” he answered softly.
This is what happens when you listen to your soul instead of your brain. This is what happens when your brain is broken.
Matilda stumbled down the steps. One night of bliss and now she was unemployed. How was that fair? She’d taken the risk, turned to Henry instead of away, and what had it gotten her?
Quite possibly the most enjoyable, carefree night of her life. Between bites of The Mad Hash’s heavenly fries, they’d thumbed the books, picking passages at random to read out loud. Words rested as easily on Henry’s tongue as air. She was mesmerized each time his soft, shy voice filled the dark loft as he read love poems and ghost stories. As they read, the loft creaked sleepily and the rain pinged on the windows. She couldn’t help but touch him and his hands wandered back to her as often as hers to him. That dusty room had felt like a private island, the worries of life swept out to sea.
And then, as the night waned and their eyes grew heavy, his long body next to hers along the length of the sagging couch. How perfectly she fit against him. His careful touches of her face, neck, and arms as the candles flickered and died. She hadn’t even cared when her sleeves crept up to expose her scars.
A pile of open books on the floor, pages glowing in the silvery shadows.
Dreamless sleep in Henry’s arms.
No, no. Stop it! It got me fired. Oh my gosh! I don’t have a job. What do I do now?
Somehow they were already standing at her back door. Henry reached for the handle but she stopped him. “Thanks, but I need to …”
Pain creased his eyes. “I don’t want t
o leave you alone. I’m so, so sorry. Maybe I can fix it. Maybe after Beverly cools down I can talk to her. Or maybe …”
She shook her head. Turned away. The garden looked good. Healthy and strong. “I think I sealed my fate with that tiny outburst.”
Despite the sullen mood, Henry’s lips lifted slightly. “She deserved that. And I’ve never actually heard someone call another person a pompous beast. It fits her perfectly.”
Matilda half smiled. “It really does. I’ve called her that so many times in my head.”
Henry laughed. The sound of it made her wince instead of laugh back. She looked away. “I better go in.”
Henry put out his hand to stop her. “There are other jobs in town. I can help you find one. I happen to know the guy who writes up the classified ads.”
Matilda nodded vaguely. But what if this is a sign that I shouldn’t be here, that being with you, Henry, is the wrong choice? Her stomach revolted at the idea. “Yeah, umm, I’m gonna go …” She moved to the door. She had no legitimate reason to dismiss him other than that the sight of him made her chest shrink a size. She couldn’t think straight with him so close, the memories of last night sparking off him like an Independence Day sparkler.
Henry reached for her hand, she pulled away. The pain on his face throttled her heart. “Okay,” he said quietly. “Okay.”
Sadly, she imagined what this moment might have been like if they’d woken two hours earlier. A tender kiss goodbye, a lingering embrace. She opened the door, turned slightly to say goodbye, but found she couldn’t even conjure the strength to say his name. Her eyes met his in a tense, tortuous moment, and then she let the screen door slap shut behind her.
Henry
Henry ran all the way back to the library, anger melting away his shyness. He plowed into the foyer. If there was one thing he hated, it was unjust punishment. He’d suffered it enough in his life; he couldn’t let it happen to Matilda. Not now. “Beverly!” he bellowed, standing inside the door. A few patrons poked their heads out the ends of aisles. One woman, Lisa Pastor, a part-time cashier at Estelle’s Bakery, pulled her toddler daughter away.
