“Is there anything I can help you with, Mr. Jackson?” she asked instead.
Honestly, even he looked incredulous. But when he finally broke the Mafia stand-off levels of silence, it wasn’t to mock her over the thing she assumed—like the fact that she sounded like ahuge dork, and had called himmister. “How the hell do you know my name?” he asked instead, in so baffled a way it actually seemed to soften his gravel-in-a-cement-mixer voice.
Even though it was probably the least baffling part of all this.
Ofcourseshe knew his name. Everybody did. He was practically a town legend. Mostly because he was ornery and antisocial and had a terrible habit of accidentally trashing things with his gigantic man hands or his size-twenty feet.
But also because of that time he passed out in the town fountain.
Oh yeah, everybody knew about him after that time he passed out in the town fountain. It had been on the front page of theHollow Brook Gazette. AREAMANTAKES ABATH INLOCALMONUMENT, it had read. Which had of course made him even more furious than he usually was. He’d bought up every copy and burned them. Stood outside the newspaper’s office with a giant protest sign.
To this day you only had to mention it to make his eye twitch.
Though not for the reasons you’d think.
He didn’t care about the picture of him they’d used, slumped in the water while wearing only a single sock and a pair of long johns. Or about the content of the article, which had claimed he was fifty-four years old—despite the fact that he was barely into his thirties. No. He had fumed over the bathing claim.
And she remembered this, because that was what his protest sign had said.
I DO NOT WASH IN FOUNTAINS, he had written in angry capitals.
Then in smaller ones, at the bottom:
I JUST TRIPPED AND FELL AND THEN SOMEBODY STOLE MY CLOTHES.
So really, how could she not have known who he was? It was a complete impossibility—he had to understand that. But he didn’t.After a moment of Nancy’s stunned silence he asked again. “Did you pass out standing up? Seriously, kid. Tell me how you know who I am.”
And oh lord, he sounded angry now. Just really massively annoyed. So she went with the tamest possible answer she could think of. “Probably the same way you know who I am.” She even added a little laugh, to be safe.
But it didn’t work. He just looked uncomfortable for a moment, and then seemed to abruptly gather himself. Like there was nothing unreasonable about the answer he had for that, and he wasn’t going to let her shame him into thinking otherwise. “I know who you are because you run the only bookstore in town,” he said triumphantly. And what could she do then? That made perfect sense. There was no way to challenge it. She wasn’t even sure why he’d hesitated, really. Though of course it meant that she couldn’t hesitate any longer, either. She was just going to have to tell the truth now.
Then accept him murdering her to death with his bare hands.
“Okay. Well. I guess there was that time you were in theGazette,” she said.
Before bracing for the inevitable smashing of his giant fist into her face.
But he just winced. Like her comment had somehow thrown his back out.
And instead of arguing with her, or explaining, he calmly returned the book he was holding to the shelf. Dusted off his hands. Then simply walked right out of her store without another word, or even a second glance. As if they’d never talked at all, she thought, and almost wanted to go after him. Just to see if he was okay, maybe.
Though that sure felt like a weird instinct.
And it was followed by an even weirder one.
Because once she was absolutely positive he was gone, she went over to the shelf he’d stood by. Kind of casually, like she wasn’t really doing anything at all. Even though deep down, she knew she was. She understood exactly what she was going for, no matter how strange doing it felt:
She was trying to find the book he’d been reading. The one he’d been almost engrossed in.It’ll be sticking out a little way, her mind suggested. And sure enough, there it was. The only thing on the shelf that wasn’t flush with all the rest. Though once she’d found it, she kind of wondered if that was a good way to tell. After all, it was possible someone else had left it sticking out.
In fact, it had to be that.
Because the book wasn’t about big trucks. Or being mad about people who double-parked. Or any of the things she would have guessed he liked. No. It was a slim, lavender-colored volume with a flower on the front. And the title was even more inexplicable than all of that. In fact, she wasn’t sure where the book had come from, and looking at it made her feel a little funny. But there it was, all the same.
How to Be the Ideal Human Boyfriend, she read.
Then almost laughed at herself, for thinking this was what he’d been intently perusing. There was just no way, she thought. No way in hell that he would ever be interested in something like this. In fact, she went to put it back. She worked it into place, shaking her head at herself.
And that was when she smelled it.
