If The World Ends Tomorrow | ONGOING

𝒻𝑜𝓊𝓇𝓉𝑒𝑒𝓃

𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚢, 𝚓𝚞𝚗𝚎 𝟷𝟾𝚝𝚑

I'm at a bookstore.

Believe it or not, it's the second time in my whole life, that I've been at a bookstore, I mean. 

Sweat is dripping down the sides of my face, I probably look like I got a bucket of water dumped on me, I hope not, I don't imagine I would suit that look.

The old man from last time sits at the same spot, not to anyone's surprise. "Morning, Mr. Ben Billy Bolster." I smile, he looks up a smile gracing his face upon seeing me.

He nods. "Good Morning, Jazelle," he says. I don't bother correcting him, Jazelle sounded cool anyway.

"Have you seen a boy by any chance, about 6ft tall?" I gesture how tall he is, just under a head taller, give or take. "Pretty face, wears linen shirts, grumpy looking?"

"Yes, I have seen him. Your friend is downstairs." He smiles, pointing down the row of shelves. 

"Thanks, Mr. Ben Billy Bolster." 

He smiles shaking his head, I'm happy to make him smile, something tells be he doesn't do it that often.

Eden is in a different section this time, this section doesn't have dull-looking colors, it has bright ones that look like they belong in a candy shop.

"Morning, Stranger."

His head turns, seeing me standing at the end of the bookshelf. 

"Giselle." He nods, he has a stack of books balanced in one hand, the other holding an open book. "You're here." The sentence would make you think he's disappointed, or annoyed, but his tone holds no ounce of emotion. 

"You weren't at Mrs. Huxley's. I checked."

"You biked there, then here?"

I nod, running my hand along a shelf looking at the dust it leaves on my fingers. It certainly hadn't been cleaned for a while.

"You should have called, I would have picked you up?"

"Nah, biking's good cardio, got to make sure I don't get a beer belly." I pat my stomach. "Plus, I don't have a phone."

"My grandmother has a landline."

"I might not be the brightest, but I'm pretty sure landlines don't go to cell, but don't take my word for it like I said, not the brightest."

He shakes his head. "No, you're right."

I walk closer standing right next to him, seeing what he's seeing.

Books. 

Just books.

I pick up the first book in his stack, looking over the cover—Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. The name is vaguely familiar, I could swear Mrs. Huxley has a DVD copy in her living room, we watched it once. 

She swooned over it.

I cringed almost every second.

I'm just not built for the whole olden-day 1700's love story, about dukes, princesses, and princes. If I were to like a love story I'd need something invigorating or soul-crushing, not people walking through gardens chaperoned by their aunties.

Mrs. Huxley told me to find a boy who reads Jane Austen, she says that's how you find the romantics, the ones who'll bend over backward to make you happy.

She overestimates my ability to catch a guy's attention in the first place. I can't even get a guy to remember my birthday or my first name for that matter. Granted everyone calls me by my nickname, but rarely is my full name brought up in conversations.