Don't Judge a Book by It's Cover

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by marycatee

by marycatee

The woman sat in the last car of the train, her eyes glued to the pages of her book. She glanced up every now and then to check her surroundings.
She felt a dip in the seat. She looked up and noticed a man had sat down next to her. She offered a polite smile and buried her nose back into the book.
"Bronte, hm?" he spoke.
She glanced up and met his eyes. She nodded curtly, directing her attention back to the book.
"Good author," he commented.
The girl nodded once again. "Yeah, she is," she said. She turned the page.
"Both the Bronte sisters are great,"
"Mmhmm," she agreed. She tried her best to swallow her growing feeling of irritation.
She waited to see if he was going to speak more. He took out his own book and opened it, a small, knowing smile on his lips. She inhaled and returned to her book.
"So where are you headed?"
She slammed her book shut, louder than she meant to. Her cheeks flushed. She put the book down next to her and directed her attention to the man.
"Boston," she said. "Where are you going?"
"Boston as well," he said, smiling. He examined her, making no effort to be subtle."What are you wearing?' he asked, a chuckle falling from his lips. She narrowed her eyes and looked down at her clothing. She wore a skirt that went below her knee, and a plain white sweater with sleeves that went to her elbows.
"What do you mean? It's modest," she insisted.
"It looks itchy," he laughed
"Well it isn't," she assured him."What are you wearing?" she asked.
"Clothes that fit," he retorted.
She bit her tongue to refrain from being rude. That was one thing she had: self control. She examined him from the side of her eye. He wore black jeans and a plain black tshirt. He was slender, with long legs that reached to the other row of seats in front of them. Cursive writing curled around his forearm: a quote. She could not read it.
"Take a picture, it will last much longer," he advised with a smirk.
Her cheeks flushed as her head shot forward, her eyes lowering to the floor.
"So which Bronte novel are you reading?" he asked, reaching over her lap and grabbing her book. She snatched the book and swatted at his hands.
"Why don't you sit somewhere else?" she blurted, her eyes burning into his.
"I want to sit here," he said politely. He reopened his book and began to read.
"But why? There are many open seats,"
"I'm trying to read," he said, dismissing her in four simple words.
She nearly laughed at his hypocrisy.
"You are infuriating,"
"You're certainly no picnic, either," he shot back.
"Then move," she urged.
He ignored her as he brought his thumb to his mouth and wet it, turning the page. Her eyes widened when she saw what he was reading.
"Please tell me that isn't really Jane Eyre," she pleaded.
He looked up at her, confusion clouding the green orbs that stared back at her. He eyed her book and let out a loud ironic laugh. His copy of Jane Eyre was much older than hers. She could see small black words scrawled at the sides and faded highlighting across the page. It was old, used and annotated. Her copy was in perfect condition. Not a single page had been bent and the binding was thoroughly intact.
"You are just like Jane," he said. From anyone else, she would've taken such a remark as a compliment but something about his amused and sarcastic smirk made the compliment into an insult.
"Well you're nothing like Rochester," she said, folding her arms slowly after putting her book away. Rochester has passion.
"How do you know I'm not hiding a crazy old wife on the third floor of my home?" he said, his dimples indenting his cheeks as he grinned.
She let out a chuckle. "I suppose that's true," she agreed. He was a little bit like Rochester, she supposed. He seemed rash and impetuous like Rochester. And she everything about him screamed mystery.
"Mr. Brocklehurst, maybe," she said, a small smile gracing her lips.
"Are you trying to imply that I am cruel and hypocritical?" he asked, his tone light. His green eyes held amusement. He was handsome when he smiled.
That was exactly what she was implying but his sudden burst of decency made her feel sorry she'd said it.
"I'm surprised you like this book," she admitted.
"Why?" he asked.
She shrugged. "I don't know,"
"Yes you do," he called her out. "Because of how I look?" he asked. She nodded shyly. He looked like he listened to The Clash and got wasted on the weekends. He was worldly and she was plain.
She looked down, slightly embarrassed. She struggled to think of something to say to soften her blow. She glanced at him and saw he had gone back to reading. She exhaled, disappointed that she had gone and ruined their playful banter.
"I didn't mean to offend you," she said quietly. Yes you did, her subconscious mocked.
"I am not offended," he scoffed. His expression was masked with neutral features. His jaw was set in a hard line and his eyes were averted from hers.
She glared at him as he propped his feet up on the seat across from them and shoved his nose back into the book. She huffed out a breath and continued reading her book.
Several minutes later, her eyelids were drooping. Arguing with the man beside her had been exhausting. She'd reread the same paragraph three times, unable to focus on anything but him. She sat up straighter, neatly tucking her book away into her luggage. She folded her hands in her lap and nestled into the corner of her seat. She leaned her head against the wall She neatly tucked her book away into her bag and leaned her head against the window. She jumped slightly when the intercom sounded and a voice echoed through the train, "Boston: 2 hours." She took out her cell phone and set an alarm for one hour. She glanced at the man beside her who was still reading his book. She slowly closed her eyes, sleep consuming her.

***
She woke up to a loud commotion. People were swelling the train car. She sat up slowly and looked around, blinking rapidly. The man was nowhere to be seen. She checked the time. 8:04 pm. She yelped she scrambled to get up. She ran to the front and tugged on the sleeve of the man who had taken her ticket.
"Excuse me, where are we?"
"Concord, ma'am."
"New Hampshire? But- what about Boston?" she stammered. She could hear her heart slamming against her chest.
"We already stopped there," he said tiredly.
She stomped her foot, raking her hands through her hair. She trailed back to her luggage, grabbing it and hurrying off the train.
She bumped someone, her luggage dropping to the ground with a thud. "I am so sorry," she gushed, looking up at him. Her face fell.
"Oh."
"Don't sound so disappointed," the man's familiar voice scolded her like a child.
"What are you doing here?" she asked. "I thought you were getting off in Boston," she said, her eyebrows drawn together in confusion.
"Plans change," he shrugged.
"You knew I was getting off in Boston, why didn't you wake me?"
"Don't try and blame me for this," he laughed, shaking his head.
She glared at him and stalked off, dragging her luggage behind her.
"Don't you want to know when the next train to Boston is?" he taunted.
"I'll take a cab," she shouted back at him. She felt a tug on her arm and she immediately jerked away.
"It's past eight on Christmas Eve, you're not going to find a cab and traffic will be hell."

She threw her arms into the air. "Then what do you suggest I do?"
"Well I could tell you when the next train is," he suggested.
She groaned. "Fine, when is it? And where can I buy a ticket?" She questioned, reaching into her coat pocket, her face paling. She turned out her pockets, patting her sides. "My wallet," she gasped. She knelt down, unzipping her luggage and rifling through it. "Did you take it?" she accused.
"I hope you are joking," he said, his eyes full of emotion. Although she could not decipher which.
She let out a whine. "This could not get any worse."
"Come on, I'll buy your ticket," he said and gestured for her to follow.
"I'm not going with you," she refused. "I don't even know your name. I certainly will not accept your money."
"My name is Harry," he said, gently grabbing ahold of her forearm and dragging her along softly, despite her protests. He stopped abruptly. She eyed the line of people bustling to buy tickets last minute. He stepped forward and she watched him purchase two tickets. She admired his stone cold demeanor. He was intimidating, no doubt. More than that, though, he was intriguing. She wanted to know more about him. If this curiosity was going to kill her then she would gladly die.
"What do you want from me?" she asked when he returned.
He narrowed his eyes at her. "I don't want anything," he said.
"Why are you being so nice to me?"
"Because regardless of my simply terrifying appearance, I do have a heart," he said sarcastically.
"I-"
"I know," he said. He handed her the ticket. "Next train will be here in an hour."
"Thank you," she said quietly, her voice barely audible. He nodded and turned around.
"I do want one thing," he decided, turning back to face her.
Her eyebrows raised slightly in surprise. "What?"
"What is your name?"
"Catherine," she said slowly.
"Catherine," he repeated. "When you get to Boston and you return to your black and white life, whenever you can, come find me."
"Find you?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Since happiness is irrevocably denied me, I have a right to get pleasure out of life: and I will get it, cost what it may," he quoted, becoming Rochester before her very eyes.
"Then you will degenerate still more, sir," she quoted in return with a sly smile and a loud laugh.
He smiled at her one more time before striding away, a brown leather bag slung over his shoulder and a tan bomber jacket secured in his fist.
She sighed softly as she sat down on a bench and reached into her luggage, pulling out her travelling companion.
She could not, for the life of her, fight the smile that invaded her face when she saw Harry's copy of Jane Eyre in her hands. Her head shot up, eyes searching for him but he was nowhere to be found. She opened the front cover slowly as if it were an artifact and if she were to even breathe on it, she may damage it.
PROPERTY OF
HARRY GREENE
103 MT. VERNON STREET
BEACON HILL, BOSTON, MA 02116
And underneath,
Don't ring the doorbell, it's broken. Knock.
- H