The Craters in the Moon

Chapter 6

A gust of chilly wind tossed my long hair across my face as Books Galore came into view. It didn't look the same as it did yesterday. Darker, somehow; different.

I pushed open the clear, glass door regardless, and winced as an obnoxious bell rung above my head. As usual, it was completely vacant. There was no sign of that kid Lucas from yesterday, thank goodness, and I speed-walked back through the maze of shelves to the same exact spot.

I hiccuped, the sort of hiccup that follows with hours of sobbing, your knees folded into your chest, shoulders heaving. Now, I honestly have no explanations for this. Tears tend to come at the most random, inconvenient times; whenever I feel hopeless, dumb, pointless, unneeded, which was pretty much constantly.

I saw a slightly contrasting gold binding snuggled in the spot The Ubiquity of Desolation used to be, but this time, I was prepared. I slipped my flip flop off my foot and used it as a sort of tool to pry the book from the shelf. It popped out and fell straight into my outstretched hand. Too easy.

You're okay You're okay You're okay.

I had predetermined that once I got the book, I would take it and run and mail the store five bucks later at a more convenient time. Not being a big fan of people, I liked to minimize the amount of time I spent with them as much as possible. Lucas included.

I don't know- I like everyone, but I have this conflicting hatred for mankind in general. I don't really understand it myself.

The title of the sequel was "The Irrevocable Shifting," or so the cover said in prestigious gold lettering. The only thing that was distinguishable between the two stories was the author's name. I turned it around in my hand so I could read the first few pages.

Now, I tend to forget the fact that I'm not invisible, even though the majority of the time I feel like I am. The realization just happened to come at an unforgiving time when I found myself staring into the face of Lucas, whose eyes were the only ones in the world that were bluer than mine.

I, for one, was an expert in the art of making people not want to talk to me. I nearly dropped my book in horror when I peered over the page to see Lucas's sly fraction of a smile, glaring at me.

"Back again?" he said.

I stood in complete panic. I had this all planned out seamlessly, down to the T, yet there he was, all six foot two of him in front of me, towering over my smallish figure. Everything I didn't want. I couldn't bare to ensue another episode of awkward encountering with the dark-haired boy with the ocean eyes.

"Yeah," I sort of squeaked, hating the sound of my mousy voice. It contrasted in every way with his smoky one, which was several intervals lower.

"Did you like it? The Ubiquity of Desolation, I mean." He said it like it was completely normal to pester the undeserving patron of his deserted bookstore.

And then the inevitable thought that I had managed to swallow broke surface: Why? Why the hell would he bother to hold conversation with the low-key customer whose presence did not in any way demand recognition?

All the possible answers frightened me, frankly, so I forced them down into the pit of my stomach yet again, where they couldn't cloud my head with what-ifs.

I crossed my arms over my chest, and I was kind of worrying if my hands were getting sweaty, when I remembered that he had asked a question.

"Yeah," I replied again. Books were more in my comfort zone, so I added on with, "It was good, but I didn't see why Ian had to die at the end."

He took to shelving a few books that sat on a rack to his right as he responded. "I know, right? I didn't quite get that, either. It was too sudden, like, 'great you're married?' Now die."

I couldn't prevent a faint smile from crossing my lips, but I let it disappear as fast as it had come to be. It was beyond my control, though, it's nearly impossible not to unconditionally love people who like the same books as you.

"Yeah," I said for the third time, biting my lip. I think he could sense my uncomfortableness.

Lucas straightened up and adjusted the collar of his dark gray henley. He coughed for a second.

"So, are you ready to check out?"

I nodded, my monotonous face pitifully expressing the absolute relief I felt in my heart. He licked his bottom lip, an action that did not go unnoticed.

Then, I felt it: the inescapable. The growing pressure that gnaws at your chest and compares to a bad case of heartburn times a billion. I doubled over and held my stomach, squeezing it, confining it, with some half-baked hope that maybe today, just today, I didn't have to cry.

I was bent over like I was trying to touch my toes, and all I could see at that angle was my beat-up flip flops I had since seventh grade and his pristine black adidas, surrounded by hideous linoleum flooring. It struck me as accurate for a second- old, run-down me and new, hopeful, him, surrounded by the ugly that made up 99% of the world. Metaphorical, but it was probably the Effexor talking.

"Are you okay?" he said. I could tell he was trying to lean down, to get a better look at my face that was already covered in little rivers of mascara and eyeliner. The last thing I wanted was for him to see me like this.

So far, my crying episode had been for the most part silent, and I was petrified that if I opened my mouth to answer, the dying sound I would make would rumble the building until it came crashing down.

I nodded my head, which later on occurred to me as stupid, because it was obvious that I was not anywhere near okay.

I wiped away a few tears with a shaky hand and stood upright. "Fine, I'm fine. How much is this?" I weakly held up the book again.

Genuine concern was written all over his face as he said, surprisingly quiet, "It's free."

Still not quite trusting my voice, I stood for a few minutes. Lucas faced me, and at one point it looked like he was going to take my hand, but he stopped himself, stuffing them back into his pockets.

The silence of the store was broken with random snivels that I could not control no matter how hard I tried. I was shocked that Lucas was still here. Certainly he had better things to do than listen to a random girl cry for ten minutes.

The sleeves of my jacket were wet from some grotesque mixture of snot and tears that I had attempted to wipe from my face in horrification. I was disgusted with myself.

"Sorry. I'll go." I was taking off in the direction of the exit, when I felt a hand grip mine from behind. Lucas's.

"No," he said. "I can help you. Let me help you. There's a coffee place right across the street, I'll get you something to drink... your hands are freezing." He gestured to the door. "Come on."