‘What?’
‘It’s the bookshop that’s landed you in this trouble to start with.’
It’s Lexi’s turn to go quiet. ‘Yeah,’ she says eventually, before she heads out the door towards the park.
The scents of the beginning of spring linger in the air, roses and daffodils in well-manicured gardens, magnolia blossoms starting to coat the pavement. Lexi gathers more speed than usual as she runs down 4th Street and turns onto East Capitol, the sandstone and marble-domed monument to American democracy behind her at one end, the park ahead. She focuses on her breathing and on the satisfaction of expending the excess energy she seems to have in her limbs whenever she thinks about Sam. He’s hot; he’s funny; she also must not allow herself to be too distracted by either his hotness or his funniness, because that is not part of the plan. It’s a delicate needle to thread. Hence this run, to clear her head.
Breathe.
Breathe.
Lexi dodges a little girl on a bike, a scooter left lying on the red pavement, a family posting a letter into the blue mailbox on the corner of 6th Street. She waves at a regular customer, browsing one of the many Little Free Libraries for some free reading to add to the expensive hardbacks he can always be counted on to buy from her at 10a.m. on publication day. She remembers to appreciate the un-British blue sky, the sun on her face, the hint of warmth to come. But still, underneath it all, she can’t completely shake the Sam thing, the mental equivalent of restless leg syndrome that seems to be the result of seeing him, thinking about him, or planning anything involving him.
Out of breath at the traffic lights before the park, she leans her palms on her thighs and tries to steady her lungs, her body, her emotions. The lights turn red, green, yellow, red, and she’s raising her head to ready herself to cross into the park when she’s suddenly aware of warmth, her body reacting to something before her mind has fully processed it.
‘Hi,’ Sam says next to her, breathing hard too.
‘Hi,’ Lexi says, sounding as unsurprised and unfazed as she can. Which isn’t very.
She has the excuse of the changing of the traffic light; it’s time to start moving. It makes no sense to stop and talk, not when the seconds are ticking down on the pedestrian Go sign. It certainly makes no sense to look at him in his shorts and be further distracted by his legs.
She takes off running–breathe, breathe– and so does he, the two of them, breathing hard next to each other, falling into step with each other, sweating next to each other; a choreography of sorts as she picks up speed and he matches her.
At the Emancipation statue, they separate. Lexi veers left; Sam veers right. But, from across the patch of grass, she keeps him in her peripheral vision and runs, runs, runs, always keeping slightly ahead of him. Which seems like a great metaphor for her life, until, at the other end of the park, the stitch she’s been trying to ignore slows her down, then stops her.
Sam takes the corner opposite Lexi and comes to a standstill next to her.
‘You okay?’
‘Yeah. Just a stitch.’
Humiliating.
‘Okay,’ he says, but he doesn’t leave. They stand, breathing hard, sweating, next to each other. ‘You sure you’re okay?’ he asks again, maybe just to fill the awkward silence.
‘Yeah.’
The silence between them stretches some more, like they both want to say something but can’t quite face it.
‘Okay,’ Sam says again eventually. ‘So long as you’re sure.’
Lexi nods, her stitch already receding as she massages her side. ‘I’m sure,’ she says. But she actually isn’t really all that sure about anything.
Lexi has barely walked through the bookshop door after her shower when her phone vibrates in her pocket. It is, of all things, an email from Sam. Very forward, consideringshewas the one supposed to contacthim.
So when should we have our bowel disease meeting?
This started funny but has become less and less so. Lexi loves Independent Bookstore Day (in case that somehow wasn’t clear) and while it’s okay for her to make jokes about the abbreviation, it somehow doesn’t feel like anyone else should get to. The bookstore world is like a family, fiercely protective of its own, and there are certain in-jokes only insiders get to make. And while it’s technically true that Sam is part of the family now, he’s more like a brand-new stepbrother who still needs to earn the right to make fun of the rest of the siblings.
Lexi looks up from her phone just as Natalie swerves away to avoid collision. The staff are used to keeping their wits about them: Lexi’s mind is always half on something else, so it’s wise to be ready to jump out of the way. Unless, of course, she’s recommending books to a customer: in that scenario, wild horses couldn’t drag her off, let alone distract her.
I’m sure you’re very busy and important,she writes back,so you can name the time.
They need to spend time together for the plan to work, and they really do need to talk strategy so that they don’t tread on each other’s toes. Mostly so Sam doesn’t tread on Lexi’s. She’s not as fussed abouthisextremities staying intact.
Coffee and a walk mid-morning? Let’s say 10 tomorrow?
Okay, first of all, 10a.m. is not mid-morning. Lexi has barely got going by then. But Americans love to get up early so they can ‘work out’, as they call it, and generally feel virtuous about life. From what Lexi saw of Sam’s six-pack the other day when he was carrying boxes, he’s no exception. She generally finds morning people to be among the most irritating, so that checks out. Why is starting work at 7a.m. considered somehow more virtuous than finishing at 10p.m.? Maybe it’s petty not to let Sam even have this tiny victory, but well, Lexi is feeling pretty petty.
