Page 9 of Because I Liked A Boy
“Isabella.”
“Well, Isabella, I’ll keep you caffeinated. The friends thing’s up to you.”
I take the latte to a corner table, the wood warm against my elbows. Outside, rain begins to mist the glass, tracing thin rivers down the pane. My phone buzzes weakly until I finally coax a listing up on the screen: One-bedroom apartment, Maple Street. Six-month lease minimum. Available immediately.
My chest tightens. Six months. Exactly the amount of time I told myself I could disappear.
I dial, heart in my throat. A woman’s voice answers, brisk and no-nonsense. “Hello?”
“I’m calling about the apartment on Maple Street. I have cash ready for a deposit. Could I see it today?”
There’s the sound of papers shuffling. “Earliest I can do is in an hour. Lease minimum’s six months. You’d need to pay first month and deposit up front.”
“Perfect,” I say quickly. “I’ll be there.”
When I hang up, I pull Withering Heights from my bag, its cracked spine folding open like an old habit. Ruby’s voice drifts over.
“Good taste.”
I glance up. She’s leaning on the counter now, green eyes glinting. “You should check out Page Turners,” she says. “Two streets over on the left. Best bookshop in town. They’re hiring too, if you’re sticking around.” She winks, cheeky as ever. “And it looks like you are.”
Her casual confidence makes something in me ease. “Thanks,” I say, gathering my bag.
“See you around, Belle.”
The nickname lands like a pebble in my chest, sharp and unwelcome. Nathan’s voice, Penelope’s, tangled with memory. I force a smile anyway and push out into the drizzle.
* * *
Page Turners sits crooked on the corner, green paint peeling from its trim. The windows are crowded with secondhand books, their covers sun-bleached and leaning against one another like tired old friends. A faded sign hangs above the door: PAGE TURNERS — EST. 1968.
The bell above the door jingles when I step inside. The air is cooler here, heavy with the musk of paper and leather, touched with the faint sweetness of cedar polish. Dust motes spin lazily in the slanted light from high windows, gilding shelves that groan under the weight of too many lives and too many stories.
I trail my fingers across cracked spines. For the first time in weeks, the knot in my chest loosens. Books have always been my escape. They don’t lie. They don’t betray. They don’t leave you gasping for breath at the side of the road.
“New face.”
The voice rumbles from behind the counter.
I turn. A tall, wiry man with silver hair watches me from behind low glasses. His blue eyes are sharp, but not unkind. A steaming mug sits beside the old register, the rising curl of coffee blending into the dusty air.
“Looking for something specific?” he asks.
“Just… looking.”
His gaze narrows slightly. “Most new faces go straight for whatever’s trending. Safe reads.”
The words scrape something raw in me. “Do you have The Maltese Falcon?”
His brows rise. “Hammett?”
I nod. “It was my brother’s favourite. He read it until the spine cracked.”
For a moment, Mr. Whitaker just studies me. Then he turns, pulls a battered black-and-gold copy from the shelf behind him, and sets it on the counter. “Not what I expected. But a damn good choice.”
“My brother had the same taste as you,” I murmur.
“Then your brother had good instincts.”
