Page 21 of Bookworm
“Am I not allowed to be disappointed? Jesus Christ, Harper, we talked for hours. I spent time catching up with you. Telling you things I haven’t told anyone. And—and not only do you not remember it, but… you…”
“What?” I pushed him. “I what?”
“Nothing,” he mumbled. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing. You’re mad and upset and I understand why, but it’s not like I intentionally did it. It’s not like I looked you in the eyes and lied to you. I just… wasn’t myself that night.” I paused, swallowing the lump growing in my throat. “And you know what? If I could go back and change it? I wouldn’t. Because sober Harper never would have taken the risk to buy that book. Sober Harper never would have reached out to several Ivy League schools to start her own business. Sober Harper plays it safe. She doesn’t bet on anyone, least of all herself. It’s because I was drunk that I’m here. And I’m reconnecting with younow.”
It was the most honest I’d been with Adam in seven years.
We stayed locked in a staring contest. Standing there, chests heaving as though we’d just finished running a marathon. “Maybe that’s the problem, Harper. If you don’t believe in yourself any time other than when you’re wasted? You’ve got some serious work to do.”
“It’s not like that,” I whispered. “I haven’t been drunk in years. For good reason, too. Exhibit A: our phone call. And for the record… this self-conscious girl isyourdoing. Not feeling good enough or smart enough or ambitious enough? That’s thanks to you and your dad.”
“Thanks to me?” he repeated. “How can you even say that? I was always your biggest cheerleader. I believed in you and always stood up for you?—”
“Except when it came to your dad. Iheardyou two talking that night on the phone. The night we lost our virginity. I heard him say that I wasn’t good enough and could never get into a school like Dartmouth. And you didn’t sayanythingto him in return. Not a damn thing. It was like… like you agreed with him.”
A hard swallow moved the column of Adam’s throat before he yanked his blazer off the back of the chair. “You know what? I have a class to teach.”
And with that, he left the room.
Left me with the damaged books in a cold, empty, sterile room.
Chapter Six
Ispent the two hours I was in the rare books room sorting the different damaged books into categories…
And then re-sorting them.
I stared at the newly dented books thanks to me and my dumb clumsiness, then decided to hide them in plain sight amidst the other damaged books. If anyone saw them, they would simply assume they were part of my to do list from the fire.
But good God, I had to pee. I had practically chugged half of that 20 oz coffee on my walk to campus and now, two hours later, my bladder was ready to explode.
With my favorite true crime podcast on, and I paced the room, trying to keep moving and hoping to God Adam came back soon. Otherwise, my options were going to be leaving the room—and the books—unguarded for ten minutes. Or I could pull a Jules and relieve myself here in the presence of Louisa May Alcott’s journals.
Okay, so that wasn’t a real option. But the former wasn’t a great option either.
The stack of damaged books taunted me. What if hiding the dented books in plain sight was stupid? What if keeping them out in the open meant someone would discover them sooner?
Crossing to them, I grabbed Robinson Caruso from the middle of the pile where I had stashed it and sat down at the small table in the center of the room where I’d dumped my bag out.
“Where do you want to hide, Robinson?” I whispered, turning the cover over in my hands.
The dent at the corner of the cover wasn’t a big one, thank God. But it was noticeable enough.
On the other side of the door, I heard tapping and beeping as someone punched in their code.
It was probably just Adam, I thought and jumped to my feet, book still in hand. His class should be over by now.
But what if it isn’t?There was no guarantee that the next person to walk through that door would be Adam.
My heart slammed in my chest and I looked down at the incriminating book. Shit. There was no way I’d make it to my pile to stash it in time!
Panicking, I shoved the book into my leather messenger bag and snapped the flap shut.
The handle turned and in walked an older man with patchy white and black hair and a cropped beard. I froze in my spot, panic gripping my lungs.
“Hello,” he said, smiling, not seeming the least bit surprised to find anyone else in the rare books room.
