A part of me still thinks he might be lying. He’s a man after all, and a shameless slut on top of that. He practically has the word “cheater” stamped on his forehead.
Then again, does it even count as cheating if we’re not really together?
I don’t know.
And somewhere between Crescent House and Elliot sliding the bike into a narrow parking space downtown, I decide I don’t care.
“Where are we?” I ask as he unbuckles my helmet.
Mr. Safety insists I wear one. Although I don’t think I’ve ever seen one on his head.
“Does it matter?” he asks. “Just hurry up before you make me late.”
“Late for what?” I snap.
He doesn’t answer me as he grabs my bag from my shoulder. Without it, I have no excuse to burden my pace, and he grips me by the hand, pulling me along down the deserted sidewalk.
I’m not surprised to find the street empty. Anyone with business outside at this hour is probably in the 3rdQuarter, standing in line for Beta or Ms. Divine’s, not this sleepy stretch of road full of little shops and tiny tea houses.
After a few yards, Elliot stops beneath an old shop sign hanging from the black and white striped awning. It reads “Treehorn’s” in a sweeping, gold script, and beneath it the words “texts and fine editions” in bold white print.
“A bookstore?” I muse. “You’re dragging me across the earth to go to a bookstore?”
He turns to me, face taut.
“Don’t touch anything without asking, and do not leave my side. Understand?” He reaches for the door, then pauses. “Oh, and don’t tell him your name.”
“Tell who?—”
The door swings open, and he ushers me inside before I can get the words out. But I forget my question as the little bell chimes overhead and a gruff voice booms.
“Cross!” it shouts. “You’re late!”
“No, I am not!” Elliot calls back.
He hurries over to the giant grandfather clock stationed by the entryway, and I watch as he opens the front case, turns the clock hand back, and waits a moment for it to ring.
The noise is nearly deafening. Louder than the bell tower could ever be, and I clamp my hands over my ears as Elliot yells back, “See!”
“Oh, my apologies! I must have lost track of the time!”
The voice comes back faint, as if it’s suddenly miles away, which is odd because from here, the store looks to be no larger than a few hundred square feet. Maybe less.
“Listen! Treehorn, I brought someone to?—”
“What?” the voice shouts back.
“I brought?—”
“What?”
It shouts again, and Elliot rolls his eyes.
“Ancient old goat,” he mutters, leaning over the front desk and rifling through the stacks of paper piled on top.
When he finds what he’s looking for, he scribbles something then lights it aflame using the ivory pillar candle sat along the edge.
It burns up quickly, and Elliot crosses his arms while he waits.
