“You see—once you finish your book, we can put it on the shelves, right in the front of the store,” he explains. “And I can tell customers she wrote it here, you know? In the journal I gave her.”
I smile as I hold the journal close to me. Mr. Lee is always encouraging me to write more. “Use your time at the store. Talk with the books for inspiration. They’re full of ideas.” Sometimes I share my stories with him to get his thoughts. Unlike my English teachers at school, Mr. Lee is well versed in the world of literature and always finds beauty in my words. He understands what it is I’m trying to say even when I’m not sure myself. “I don’t know if I could write a whole book, though,” I admit. “I’m having trouble just thinking lately. I’m not sure what to write about anymore.”
“What have you been thinking about?” he asks.
I run my hand along the spine of the journal. “Everything, I guess. My life. What’s happening in it.” And Sam, of course.
“Then write it down. Write down what’s happening.”
I look at him. “Mr. Lee, nobody wants to read about my life.”
“Who are you writing for again?” Mr. Lee asks, arching a brow. He has asked me this before. I know the answer he wants to hear. I write for myself. I’m not sure what this really means, though. I can’t help caring about what people think, especially about my writing. “We have too many voices inside our heads. You have to pick out the ones that mean something to you. What story do you want to tell?”
I stare down at the journal, thinking about this. “I’ll try, Mr. Lee. Thank you for this. And I’m also sorry for not letting you know I was gone—”
Mr. Lee holds up a finger to stop me. “No apologies necessary.” He opens the bookcase door and gestures toward the store. “The books welcome you back.”
I always feel at home when I’m in the store. I could spend hours and hours in here. There’s a comfort in being surrounded by walls of books. But as nice as it is to be back, Sam is waiting for me. We planned to make another call today. But this time, he asked me to meet him somewhere new for us to talk. He said he wanted to show me something.
I had just made it out of the bookstore when the wind chimes went off again, followed by the sound of Tristan’s voice.
“Julie! Wait!”
I spin around to see him with his hand extended, holding my phone.
“You forgot something.”
A gasp escapes me. “Oh my god—” I grab the phone and press it tight against my chest. My heart is pounding as thoughts of what if flash through my head. What if I lost it? What if I couldn’t call Sam back? How could I be so careless? How could I forgive myself? I make a promise to never do this again. “Thank you so much,” I say breathlessly.
“No problem,” Tristan says. “You left it on the front counter.”
“You’re such a lifesaver.”
Tristan laughs. “What would we do without our phones, right?”
“You honestly have no idea, Tristan.”
I breathe relief and smile as I wait for him to head back inside. But he doesn’t. He just stands there, a bit awkwardly.
“Was there something else?”
Tristan scratches the back of his head. “Sort of. I mean … I forgot to mention something earlier.”
“What is it?”
“It’s about the film festival. Spring Flick? My film was accepted. I wanted to tell you,” he says.
“That’s incredible, Tristan! Congratulations. I knew it would be.”
Spring Flick is part of the annual Ellensburg Film Festival that takes place at the university. It’s one of the biggest events in town. Tristan and his friends submitted a short film in the high school category. They spent the last six months filming a documentary on Mark Lanegan, the alternative-rock musician from Ellensburg. Sam was a huge fan.
“It’s next month, a few weeks before graduation,” Tristan goes on, running a hand through his hair. “I have an extra ticket. You mentioned you wanted to go last time, if the film was accepted. Did you still want to?”
The word graduation catches me off guard, and I nearly panic. Is it really only two months away? I haven’t even heard from colleges yet. And I’m so behind on school, what if I don’t catch up in time? I become so lost in thought, I forget what Tristan even asked me. I must take too long to respond, because his face flushes, and his voice stammers. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have brought this up this soon. You probably have a lot on your mind right now. I should go back in—” He turns toward the store.
“Wait,” I call him back. “Of course. I’ll go.”
“Really?” he asks, suddenly beaming. “I mean, okay. Okay, great. Cool. I’ll tell you more about it soon. And, you know, let me know if you change your mind. That’s cool, too.”
“I’ll be there, Tristan,” I say as I turn to go.
Tristan stands at the door, waving, as I cross the street and disappear around the corner.
* * *