By Teagan Osborn
She loved
him.
She.
Loved. Him.
I love him, she thought to herself, a little surprised.
He’s human, and flawed, sweet, and smart, and funny. He’s so funny. Sometimes
she actually laughed out loud at the things he said.
Yes, she
loved him, the only problem was he was fictional. He was a character who only
existed on paper, only lived on the pages she read. Somewhere in the middle of
that red hardcover book, she had fallen in love. Was falling in love,
even as she read on that park bench, she was falling more and more in love with
the story as much as the main character. He reminded her of an old college
boyfriend, but that had ended years ago, in what she considered to be a
completely heartbreaking disaster. This man, in these pages, was everything
good that that man could have been,
Without the constant drinking, she thought to herself. But
this is absurd, she shook her head as she snapped the book closed with a
thump. I am far too old for this. To be falling in love with somebody who
doesn’t even exist is just absurd!
She
pondered tossing the book into the public trashcan next to her and ending the
absurdity. But she felt actual deep sadness at the thought of losing it, almost
as if it were a friend whom she had known for years.
She
limited herself to ten pages a day reading from The Book, that’s what it
was titled. The Book, that was it, by Jennifer Armon. A simple cover,
all red with a slight texture and no description on the back. She found The
Book at a store she frequented a few blocks from her house. She almost
didn’t buy it, but the story was on sale, the bookstore man behind the counter
had explained, and he had finally convinced her it was worth buying. So, she
had, along with three other books.
It took
her a while to even start reading it. The Book had sat on her coffee
table for a month before finally, she had decided to give it a go and from then
on it has been her favorite part of the day. Embarrassingly, all she could
think about was the main character and his story. The Book told the tale
of woe and want, of his love, his hardships, his poverty, and exile from his
home and from the one he loves the most. She knew it sounded cheesy, but the
story, mainly the main character, had merely roped her in.
She was
halfway through the book and dreaded what would happen when she finally reached
the end of the story, the end of the man on the pages she had fallen for. So,
every day when she opened the book, she placed her bookmark ten pages ahead and
read only those ten pages. That way at least it would take her a little longer
to finish it. Then one day reading in her loft, ten pages from the end, she snapped
The Book closed once again, she had had an epiphany. Perhaps this book
was part of a series, or the author had written other books with a character
similar to this one, similar to the character who she had fallen for.
With the
book in her hand, she hurried out the door and had to prevent herself from
running all the way to the bookstore where she had bought The Book in
the first place. She walked down the sidewalk until she reached her
destination. She paused, looking at the big wooden door, and took a deep
breath, a little nervous. If she couldn’t find another like The Book,
she would surely die. She knew that that was a child’s thought, but she’d grown
so attached, and honestly didn’t want to say goodbye to a friend ten pages from
now. So, she opened the heavy door and walked in. She found the young man
behind the counter, the same one who sold her The Book, she realized.
And asked him,
“This book,” gently setting it on the counter in
front of them trying to hide her urgency, “um, hi, does this author write any
other books like it, or is it a series? I must know, what else has Jennifer
Armon written?”
“Nothin’,”
he replied quickly.
“Nothing?”
She repeated in disbelief, “How do you know? That was an awful quick response.
Could you please at least look it up?” She gestured to the computer and tried
to be polite. She needed answers, and his response just simply wasn’t what she
wanted to hear.
The young
man behind the counter sighed and typed on the computer, after looking at it a
minute or two he looked back up at her and said, “That’s the
only book by her that I can find.”
“Okay,
what about another bookstore?” she asked.
“Nope.
I’m sorry but that’s the only book she’s ever written. Like ever. Maybe she
died or something,” he said.
She gasped quietly, hurt that he
would even suggest something so devastating.
“Okay,
well, thank you,” she said curtly and walked away.
She was
heartbroken, in ten pages that would be the end. No future in sight. She
guessed she should be relieved, finally ending this madness of being “in love”
with somebody she’s never even met. Somebody who doesn’t even exist! But
she wasn’t relieved at all as she walked towards the door, then before she
opened it, she stopped, dead in her tracks.
She
stared to the left of the door at an obnoxious pink piece of paper tacked to a
bulletin board amongst others that read in bold letters Jennifer Armon Book
Signing. She rushed to the piece of paper and ripped it clean off the
bulletin board. In clutching hands, she read the location and time of where she
could meet Jennifer Armon, the orchestrator of the man she had fallen in love
with. Every day at 8 AM, the poster read, Jennifer Armon, is available at
Coffee Bean for anyone who would like The Book signed. She couldn’t
believe it, she can meet the creator, perhaps even ask her questions, or maybe
inspire her to write another book. She had to write another book.
That
night she couldn’t sleep. She tossed and turned and stared at The Book as
it sat on her nightstand with the bookmark still ten pages away from the end.
She set an alarm for 7:30 AM, giving her plenty of time to get ready and walk
to Coffee Bean to meet Jennifer Armon. But she couldn’t sleep, and she stayed
awake all the way up until her alarm went off. She flung the covers off herself
and jumped out of bed. She threw on her clothes in a rush, brushed her teeth in
under half a minute, put on her shoes, snatched The Book from her
nightstand, and rushed out the door. She walked as quickly as she could to
Coffee Bean, wishing she didn’t live in the city so she could drive there
quicker, but finally she made it. The coffee shop was bustling with people, and
she was worried that she wouldn’t be able to find Jennifer Armon. After all,
she had no idea what she looked like, but she was determined to find her. So,
she opened the glass door to the coffee shop and walked in. She was greeted by
the scent of coffee beans. With the book in her hand, she marched right up to
the barista working the counter.
“Jennifer
Armon,” she said, skipping the pleasantries and hoping and praying that she
hadn’t missed the author, or the poster hadn’t misled her.
The man
behind the counter smiled and said, “Finally. Yes, right over there,” he
pointed to a table around the corner.
She
clutched The Book and sighed with relief, “Thank you,” she said
gratefully.
She
turned towards the table that he had pointed her to and when she did, she
gasped and dropped The Book onto Coffee Bean’s white tiled floor. She
was looking into the face of the man who had broken her heart in college all
those years ago. He was much older and had natural age lines on his face, but
she knew it was him, she had never forgotten him. She had loved him so.
“It’s
you,” she said, still looking at him while picking The Book up off the
floor.
“It’s
me,” he said.
“I don’t—”
she started, “how? What?”
He smiled
shyly, “I thought this day would never come really,” he began “I—but I never—oh
sorry, well, let me explain. Here, sit down.”
She sat
down, still skeptical and confused and a little in awe. She honestly thought
she would never see this man again, alive at least, she always figured he died
of alcohol poisoning or liver cancer or some other third thing. But the man
that was sitting across from her now, had a full face and kind steady hands.
“Let me
explain,” he said to her a little apologetically, “you see I wrote The Book.
The main character, he’s me, and the woman that he lost, and he loved, that’s
you.
“I moved
here about a year ago, I had no idea you were in the city when one day I saw
you at the bookstore. I knew that I still loved you, I never stopped, but I
knew how much I had hurt you.
“So, I
wrote The Book and you, right now,” he pointed to the book she had in
her hands resting on the table across from him, “have the only copy in
existence. I went back to the bookstore after I saw you that day and I placed
it on the shelf, then I paid the man behind the counter 20 bucks to sell it to
you, and only you, the next time you came in.
“Which
didn’t take long, the very next week you bought The Book, and as soon as
I knew, I put that bright pink flier up in the bookstore. I’ve sat here, every
day at 8 AM for three months, just hoping, and here you are. I’m so sorry Jen,
for everything. For everything. I know what I’ve lost, looking at you here,” he
smiled in a way that made her feel like if she left right now, just got up and
left, he would have been happy simply to have seen her.
“And if
you just give me another chance,” he said, “Our story will be one worth
reading. I thought if you liked the character in the book enough then maybe,
just maybe, there’d be a chance that you could still like me.”
By the
time he finished talking, she had tears in her eyes. She did, she did
still like him. She laughed as a tear rolled down her cheek, she wiped it
away and took his hand from across the table. “How about I
buy you a cup of coffee,” she said.
“Actually,”
he replied with a smile and shrugged his shoulders, “I don’t even drink coffee
anymore.” They laughed together there sitting at the table as if they were back
in college, before the drinking when their love was young and pure.
They sat
there at the table laughing and talking and before long she forgot completely
about The Book.
About the Author
There’s not a day goes by
that I don’t have an idea, an idea of something to write, or draw, or create,
the list goes on. But the small obstacle that is time always seems to get in my
way. That and motivation. We can use our minds for so much more than just a
filing cabinet for facts, it’s easy to forget that when you’re a college
student.