Sometimes, Nora and I wander the city to fill the hours between soundcheck and the show. It’s become her tradition to visit at least one bookstore in every place we play.
The first time—in Austin—she ducks into a dusty little shop with a crooked sign that readsWhitman & Daughters, Rare & Used.
The bell above the door chimes, and she inhales like she’s just stepped into a cathedral.
She forgets I’m behind her. That’s my first clue this is sacred.
So I don’t talk. I follow.
The shop smells like paper and ink and time. Sunlight filters in through grimy windows, catching on suspended dust motes, like the whole place is floating in slow motion.
Nora moves like she belongs here. Like the building reshaped itself the moment she walked in. Her fingers skim the spines. Leather, cloth, cracked bindings. She tilts her head to read the faded titles and hums to herself under her breath—some tune I can’t place, but I’m pretty sure it’s a soundtrack for happiness.
I lean against a shelf, watching.
She ends up walking out with a battered poetry anthology, fourth printing, margins stuffed with someone else’s underlines. Says shedoesn’t mind. “Books with history are the best kind,” she tells me, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
So now, every stop, every city, I keep my eyes open for places like that. Places where the air smells like ghosts and forgotten verses.
She calls it her bookstore hunt.
I call it the only part of tour that makes her forget she’s on tour.
By the time we roll into Cleveland, I’ve made a few calls. I’ve got a guy here who knows a guy in New York who once bought a drink for a guy who curates rare editions. I don’t ask too many questions. I just make sure he gets what I need.
When I pull the slim box out of my backpack, we’re backstage, the muffled thump of drums vibrating through the concrete floor.
Nora’s curled on the couch, knees pulled up, her nose in a paperback. She doesn’t notice me at first.
“Nora.”
She looks up, eyes a little bleary, blinking like she’s surfacing from deep water. “Hmm?”
I hold the box out.
She frowns. “What is this?”
“Open it.”
She does, slowly, cautious like it might explode. Then she sees the title—and freezes.
Her breath catches. “No way.”
It’sJane Eyre.First U.S. edition. Signed.
She doesn’t speak for a long moment, just traces the name on the inside cover with trembling fingers.
“This must’ve cost—Max, I can’t—”
“You can,” I cut in, quiet but firm. “And I wanted to.”
She closes the book gently and presses it to her chest like it’s something alive. Then she looks up at me with eyes too full, too soft, andI feel it in the center of my ribs—that aching twist that always shows up when she looks at me like I matter.
“Do you know how much this means to me?” she whispers.
“Course I do,” I say. “You light up like a damn sunrise every time you step into a bookstore.”
She laughs, blinking fast, like she’s trying not to cry. “You’re gonna make me ruin my eyeliner.”
