Which means that he probably knows how many times I’ve ordered books from here. Which is often.
Thankfully, I don’t have a chance to respond because a woman with Gabe’s green eyes, and his dimple, emerges from the back of the store. Her expression lights up when she sees us.
“Is this her?” she asks.
“Mama, this is Chani,” he says.
His arm is around my shoulders, almost as if he’s presenting me. Which, I suppose, to an extent, he is. The moment feels significant and it scares me.
I know Gabe is thinking about what will happen beyond this weekend. I know he wants to ask.
I’m grateful that he hasn’t because I don’t have an answer. Not yet.
“This is my mother, Elizabeth.”
“It’s so nice to meet you,” I say, holding out a hand.
A hand which she ignores, wrapping me up in a hug instead. I hold the hand with the mug of apple cider awkwardly out behind her.
“We’re so glad you’re here,” she says. “Gabe talks about you all the time.”
Gabe makes an awkward coughing sound behind me.
“Not all the time,” he says.
I look back at him.
“A lot, though,” he says, and gives me that grin.
I glance at Elizabeth and she’s giving me the same grin.
“The store is beautiful,” I say.
Her smile grows.
“Thank you so much,” she says before looking at Gabe with the kind of “hung the moon” eyes that only a mother would have for her child. “We’re very lucky here.”
Gabe shuffles his feet, embarrassed but pleased.
Teddy is drinking out of a bowl that was clearly left out just for her.
“Would you like a tour?” Elizabeth asks. “Lauren and Lena are on their way. I thought we’d eat at our place tonight.”
“I’d love a tour,” I say. “And thank you so much for including me in your family dinner.”
Elizabeth waves a hand.
“We’re just happy to finally meet you,” she says. “I was starting to think Gabe would never get his act together.”
“They think so highly of me,” he says.
Elizabeth loops her arm through mine and pulls me through the store. Teddy and Gabe follow.
“Each bookshelf has a name,” she says, pointing to the large colorful signs. “When people ask for a book, we tell them to go to the Ursula K. Le Guin shelf—if it’s in the sci-fi section, for example—instead of just telling them a number.”
I’m listening, but mostly I’m just taking it all in.
The walls are lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, so tall that there are some Beauty and the Beast–style rolling ladders to help readers get to the out-of-reach volumes. Spread throughout the store are more shelves, but none of them go above my shoulders, which keeps the space from feeling too crowded. There are overstuffed leather chairs tucked away in every corner, and I imagine that if the store was open, each of them would be cradling the butt of an avid reader. There’s even a little table next to most of them, presumably for readers to place their mug of apple cider on.
The whole store feels welcoming and warm.
“Ta-da,” Elizabeth says, stopping in front of a shelf full of books and covered with colored labels.
The Cozy recommends is written across the top.
And there are my books. Right in the middle. The place of honor. And beneath them is a handwritten sign: Recommended by Gabe.
Smart, funny, addictive nonfiction, the card reads in what I assume is Gabe’s writing—blocky and a bit uneven. You’ll be thinking about it long after you’ve put it down.
“We’re big fans here.” Elizabeth beams at me.
I think I say “thank you” as I touch the shelf—and Gabe’s words—quickly, briefly, like they’re precious artifacts.
I feel unbalanced. Emotionally wobbly.
I can’t look at Gabe.
“Would you like me to sign them?” I ask.
Elizabeth claps her hands together. “Would you? That would be just wonderful.” She gives me another quick, impulsive hug. “I’ll go get you a pen. You can sit at the counter. Oh, could we take a picture?”
“Sure,” I say, charmed and overwhelmed.
Elizabeth lets out a little sigh of happiness and hurries out of sight.
“You don’t have to do that,” Gabe says.
His voice is low but he’s moved closer to me so I feel the heat of his breath on the back of my ear.
“Smart and funny?” I ask. “Addictive?”
“You disagree?” he asks.
I don’t have an answer.
“You’ve read them,” I say instead.
“I thought we’d established that I’ve read everything you’ve written.”
It’s one of the hottest things anyone has ever said to me.
I turn slowly toward him. He doesn’t move back and my gaze is level with his lips. They wear a wry smile.
I look up, my eyes locking with his.
“You’re a great writer,” he says.
I revise my previous thought. That is probably the hottest thing anyone has ever said to me. Mostly because it’s Gabe. Mostly because I can feel tension stretching between us, pulled taut like Saran wrap. Mostly because if I just move forward a step or so and move upward four or five inches, my mouth will be on his mouth, and ten years later, I still haven’t forgotten how good that feels.
“Here we are!” Elizabeth says, and Gabe takes a step back to let his mother through.
She has a bouquet of pens fisted in her hand and she pushes them all at me.
“I didn’t know if you had a preference, so I just brought you the ones we had.”
“Thank you.” I find a simple ballpoint. “This will do fine.”
She smiles at me, and it’s such a great smile, so warm and open and loving, that I realize I might do just about anything to keep it on her face.
No wonder Gabe bought his mother this store. She seems like a wonderful person to make happy.
I settle behind the desk and begin signing the books she puts in front of me. Their stock is much larger than I expected—usually when I go to sign at independent bookstores, I’m lucky—and grateful—if they have half a dozen of both books combined.