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12/13/16
I'VE WAITED.
On Sunday after baking cookies with Chase's mother I came down to the library in hopes of running into Clayton. He never showed. I did the same thing yesterday, and once again he didn't show.
So now here I am once again. Waiting, for a third night in a row wondering if my boyfriend's older brother will show up. Show up so I can talk to him and at least attempt to lessen the guilt I know clouds his hazel eyes. I hate to see the shame the mixes into that gorgeous face of his every time he's around his brother and me.
I run my fingers over the cracked paperback book in my hands letting myself sink into the soft leather chair. My legs are tucked under me as I prepare myself for diving into this book. The singular book Clayton suggested I read from Stephen King's long list of works. I found an old bookshop that sold the books when they were still serialized and not lumped into one book yet. The pages are old and beginning to fall apart, and there is writing in the margins and certain passages highlighted like someone loved these books more then anything.
I bought these books the day after Clayton mentioned them, and they have been my secret lifelines. They mean something to him. He chose these books to recommend to me for a reason. Maybe he can see I'm broken like him, or maybe he just simply likes the book. But either way he found something in these pages, and I'm hoping I can as well.
My thumb absentmindedly plays with the small gold ring on my left ring finger, pushing the worn piece around in circles. A small tic I have when I'm on edge, like waiting for a guy who thinks he touched me in an inappropriate way because I'm technically dating his brother for all he knows.
Nerves fester inside me the longer I wait, and I can barely focus on the words in front of me with the buzz of energy that fills me.
So I close my eyes, and I picture my father. I picture him in this exact room with me. I picture what his expression would be when he walked in, he always dreamed of having a home library this large and extensive but it never happened. I picture him sitting next to me, reading aloud his favorite novel in a way the sweeps me into the story as if I was there with the characters.
The images playing in my mind of my tall, pale, freckled father immediately calm me like a wave crashing upon a shore. It's instant and washes away everything in sight only leaving a memory of what was once there.
My fingers fumble through the pages not paying attention to the typed words, but instead the hastily written thoughts. The thoughts of a reader who was obviously just as passionate about literature as I am, as this person continues to draw parallels between this book and many classics.
I drop the book I'm holding and grab the first book in the series. I flip to the first page and run my hands over the faded and smeared ink.
