Unwritten Obsession - Joe Goldberg

Chapter One: First Glimpse

Joe

The bell above the door of Libris & Co. lets out a tinny jingle as she walks in. She pauses, just long enough for me to catch a glimpse of her in the dusty light of the bookstore.

I notice the way she moves first: steady, unhurried. She's wrapped in a deep green coat, the kind of coat that's probably been passed down through three generations, the fabric worn and well-loved. Her hair falls in gentle waves, dark but catching glints of chestnut under the light. It frames her face, softening the strong lines of her jaw, and accentuating the barest hint of curiosity in her eyes.

Juliet Harris.

The name slips from her lips when she introduces herself at the counter, her voice a bit softer than I expected. It doesn't feel right to know her name yet, but here we are. I shouldn't know her, shouldn't even be staring at her, but that's the thing with people like Juliet—they command attention even when they don't mean to.

I keep my distance, watching her from behind a shelf stacked with old hardcovers, and wait as she picks her way through the aisles, fingers ghosting over book spines. She doesn't linger too long on anything, just glancing over covers, tilting her head now and then to catch a title. She's familiar with the layout, I realize, like she's been here before. But not too familiar. Not enough that she's noticed me. Yet.

I look down at my watch. It's 3:42 p.m., and she's alone. That's the first thing I notice beyond the usual details, the sense of isolation that radiates from her. She's like me, in a way, looking for something more, something... specific. There's a carefulness to her, a slight distance in her gaze that feels deliberate. Controlled. It's the kind of look you learn to wear when you've lived through things that are hard to forget.

She wanders into the poetry section, and something about the way she stares at a collection by Plath makes me wonder. She's not just browsing. She's seeking something, maybe answers, maybe comfort. There's something almost haunting in her face as she flips the pages, barely glancing up from the words, completely wrapped up in the quiet, melancholic lines.

And for a moment, I want to know everything. I want to know what made her pick Plath, why she wears that coat in 60-degree weather, and whether she's as guarded as she seems.

I know I shouldn't. I've been down this path before. Obsession doesn't end well. But with Juliet... I feel something different. Like she's already an answer to questions I didn't know I was asking.

She places the book on the counter, pulling out a crumpled five-dollar bill and a few coins, barely enough for the worn copy. She doesn't notice me step up to the counter, not until I'm inches away, holding out my own hand with the change she needs.

Her gaze snaps to mine, a flash of surprise in those dark, guarded eyes.

"Thank you," she says, her voice hesitant, a little wary.

"It's on me," I reply, slipping the coins back into my pocket. "Consider it a welcome gift."

Her lips curve into the faintest smile, and for the first time, I see a flicker of warmth, a spark in her gaze. It's the kind of smile you don't often see in New York, the kind that makes you wonder if you've stumbled on something real.

"Juliet," I say, holding out a hand. "I work here, sometimes."

She studies me for a moment, and I wonder if she'll decline, walk away and leave me wondering. But then, her hand slips into mine, warm and soft against my skin.

"Juliet Harris," she replies, pulling her hand back after the briefest moment. "Thanks again...?"

"Joe."

She nods, taking the book from my hands, her fingers brushing mine for just a second longer than necessary. And then she's gone, walking out with the same steady, unhurried steps, leaving me standing at the counter, alone once again.

But I don't mind. Because now I know her name, and I know she likes Sylvia Plath, and that's more than enough. For now.