Page 43 of All Our Almosts

He doesn’t reply, and after a few more beats he lets go of my hands. I take his cue, stepping back to put a few inches of space between us. But he doesn’t turn around, and I don’t know what that means. Is he upset? With me? Did I make it worse?

He clears his throat. “What book did you say you’re looking for?”

“Oh, book three of The Shape of the Serpent series, if you have it.”

“Uh, yeah,” he stammers, turning to the right and crouching down to pick a book off the bottom shelf—the exact one I need. Clearly everything has its place, even if the system is indecipherable to anyone else.

Then finally—finally—he turns to face me. “Tell me what you think when you finish. It’s a long journey, but the ending is worth it.”

I smile and I reach for the story in his hands. “I’m sure it will be.”

12

Andy

The night I first fell in love with Sophie, she had a yellow ribbon in her hair.

I remember it exactly, tied in a neat bow around her ponytail. I saw it, and even before she turned around I thought it must be her. Even though it had been months since we’d seen each other last, and months more since that first night on the fire escape.

I saw the ribbon in her hair and knew it had to be her, but I wasn’t in love with her yet, so I wasn’t yet paralyzed by fear and feeling. I just said, “Excuse me,” and she turned around and saw me there.

“Andy, hi! I didn’t know you were on campus this summer.”

“Yeah, hey. Good to see you.”

“Can I help you find something?” There was a library cart in front of her, from which she’d been shelving books. She pushed it to the side to walk towards me.

“One Hundred Years of Solitude. I couldn’t find it in general fiction.”

“Oh yeah, we’re setting up a whole magical realism section. Here, come with me.” She motioned for me to follow, glancing back over her shoulder as she asked, “Have you read it before?”

“No,” I admitted as we moved through the shelves. “And it’s not for me. I’m assisting a professor this summer.”

“Oh, but it’s fantastic. You have to read it and text me your reactions.”

“I don’t think I have your number.”

“You don’t?” She stopped in her tracks, turned around, and said, a little too loud for a library, “Oh, hold on. We have to solve that problem right now.”

It was amazing, how effortless she was. Her ability to draw people out, make them feel comfortable. She wasn’t even trying, she just was this way. A phenomenal contrast to every effortful, ineffective thing I seemed to do—constantly fighting to find the right thing to do or say and usually coming up empty.

I reached into my pocket and placed my phone into her palm. She created a contact for herself, confident as ever, and said, “There. Now you have to text me later, so I can have your number too. It’s only fair.”

I couldn’t seem to tuck my smile away, even as I followed her through the stacks to the correct shelf.

“You’re an English major, right?” she asked as we searched for the title.

“Yeah. You’re not though… Science Ed?”

“Good memory. Yeah no, I’m just a recreational reader slash person with no social life.”

“Right,” I scoffed, spotting the book and pulling it from the shelf.

“Are you scoffing at me, Andy Walsh?”

“I mean, I don’t doubt you like reading, but come on.” I gestured to her vaguely. “I doubt you’re available on short notice.”

She put a stubborn hand on her hip. “Well, would you believe that today is my birthday and my only plan is to watch Moana alone in bed?”