Its dark brown leather is lighter along its binding, hinting at its age, and the many pages are held together by a brass latch and a little heart-shaped locket. On the cover, embossed in gold leaf are the words, “How to Make a Love Potion.”
“Oh, um, I-I don’t think I need?—”
“It is very comprehensive,” Treehorn interrupts. “I assure you.”
He turns to move down the aisle, and I follow quickly so as not to get lost. But I’m now burdened by the weight of the book he’s just given me, and I trail behind, shouting for him to slow.
“Wait!” I call. “I’m not?—”
“It will have all that you need,” he repeats.
I open my mouth again to object, but as I witness him hobbling down the center of the aisle, completely oblivious to my protest, I decide not to waste my breath.
“Do be mindful of the pages, though, dear. It is very old,” he reminds me.
“O-okay.”
I guess.
We use the dais at the end to return to the front, and I do not argue as he begins ushering me toward the door. Coming here without Elliot may not have been wise, and I am not interested in prolonging this strange encounter. But as Treehorn waves me onward, he mutters something under his breath.
“Be patient with him. It may take him a while.”
I stop.
“Excuse me?”
“His face,” Treehorn says, without turning back. “There’s something there, but he’s still learning. It may take time.”
“Who? Elliot?”
He nods, shuffling onward.
“He’s still learning? Still learning what?”
Treehorn doesn’t bother to look at me. I suspect he, too, has had enough of this interaction.
“How to love,” he answers, ushering me toward the door.
He’s already holding it open, and the cool breeze rustles the papers on the front desk as I stand there positively confused.
“Have a lovely day, Elliot’s girlfriend.”
“Oh, uh, thanks, you too.”
Treehorn pauses in the open doorway, eyes suddenly clearer as he looks at me and smiles widely, revealing perfectly polished, finely pointed teeth. My breath catches as he promptly disappears, and I realize, too late, what I’ve done.
“Shit. Shit, shit, shit.”
I’m going to pay for that someday.
Chapter15
Not Home. Not Even Close.
ELLIOT
The family doesn’t stayfor the moon. There isn’t enough space downstairs. And someone would probably end up dead if we all stayed in one place for longer than a few hours.
