Bookmark This Love

i | i knew you were trouble

"I knew you were trouble when you walked in."
- Taylor Swift

carissa summers

"Carissa. Back so soon?" The librarian, Mrs. Moore, smiled at me, peering over her half-moon glasses. Her gnarled fingers clasped the edge of the table, eyes twinkling. "What can I do for you this time?"

"I'd like to check out this book, please." With a polite grin, I slid the novel across the counter top.

"Wonderful choice," said Mrs. Moore cheerily as she scanned its barcode, typing in a few words on her computer. She slid it back to me after the computer let out a beep of confirmation. "Enjoy."

I gave her a warm smile and tucked my book under my arm. It nearly slipped out of my grasp, but I managed to hold onto the novel as I headed toward the sofa section.

Humming a tune under my breath, I slipped into a green armchair. After settling myself down, I powered off my phone - mobile distractions wouldn't interfere with my reading - and opened the book.

I inhaled, and a small smile danced at my lips. This was my home. Somewhere, the aromatic spice of cinnamon wafted in, filling my body with a familiar type of warmth. I would give up the world to be here for my entire life. As I leaned back into the squashy armchair, I opened the book. 

Before I could start reading, something caught my eye. 

The 1867 version of Great Expectations by Charles Dickens.

 The brown leather, cover on which designs were etched, seemed to brandish a medal of time. Its corners were tattered, and pages stuck out haphazardly, but it was beautiful to me. How many great authors and great readers had touched those pages? 

I set my book down and moved towards it. A plastic sign read beside Great Expectations: 

Antique! 1867 version of Charles Dickens's "Great Expectations" is here, imported from the Minnesota Museum of Literary Works! Available for checkout. 

* costly restoration fee required if you damage it in any way, so be careful. 

I could check it out?  This was an amazing opportunity. I had always dreamed of holding a novel that had lived for centuries, its words timeless, its tale eternal. Besides, there was a huge book report project due in a month, and this would be the perfect book to write it on. 

I reached for it gingerly, wrapping my fingers around the spine, and pulled it towards me. 

But it didn't budge. 

I stared at it again and found that another hand was on it. 

Following the tanned arm, I found myself face-to-face with someone who looked devastatingly familiar, my eyes finding a pair of surprisingly blue ones. My breath caught in my chest for a fleeting moment. Sharp cheekbones and a tall nose. Azure eyes fringed by dark eyelashes. 

There was something awfully familiar about his profile.

He scowled, and I was snapped back to reality. Using his free hand to gesture to the book, he said, "So, are you going to let go of it?" 

His voice. Now I could put a name to his face. Daniel Penhallow, star football player and one of the most popular guys in our grade. Yet not a flicker of recognition passed over his face. He must not have recognised me. 

"Hello?" he repeated in a tired tone.

I frowned. He may be handsome and popular, but that didn't mean he could treat me like that. "Hey, I got here at the same time you did."