Where We Left Off

The Wait

A/N: Ahhhhh, a sequel to The Night of Our Lives. Not even I could handle that ending... and I wrote the thing! Well, here goes nothing: a mini-book addition for you all :) If you haven't read The Night of Our Lives, I would suggest that before starting this one. Enjoy!

My foot tapped against the concrete sidewalk. I had been waiting for an hour or two now, and the late September breeze was starting to redden my cheeks and nose. I checked the time, hoping to see the numbers had risen, but to my dismay, only five minutes had past. This was agonizing and never-ending. The more I stood there waiting the more I wanted to turn around and leave. But, when the person standing in front of me moved forward, I subconsciously followed. What else was I supposed to do?

The line was moving slow, but at least it was moving now. A good chunk of the morning, it was at a total standstill. Everyone stood like cars packed on the busy New York City streets, restricted by the path and the people around them, all trying to get to the same place. I watched the heavy traffic on the street in front of me, wondering which would be worse in that moment, the traffic jam or this endless line. Finally, three and a half hours later I was inside the building and positive that I even rush hour was less excruciating.

The amount of relief I felt for being out of the wind was buried by the fact that I still had such a long way to go. With nothing else to do but wait, I browsed the shelves as the line winded through them. Each and every time I picked a book from the shelf, I got more and more antsy. Nothing could take my mind off the book I already had stored in my purse or, even more, the man I was waiting to see at the front of the line. What was I going to say to him? Would he even remember who I was?

The questions of what was to come were a tornado in my head. The closer I got, the louder they sounded and the faster my foot tapped and the sweatier my palms got. I was losing it. I felt like I was going to pass out. What was happening to me? I closed my eyes and held my head in my hands. Taking deep breaths I tried to steady myself again. When I felt sturdier, I slowly opened my eyes once more. With nothing left to clear my mind, I pulled the worn book from my purse and turned to the first page. Reading the words was like riding a bike. I hadn't seen them in a while, but the familiarity of them flowed easily. For probably the hundredth time, I was drawn deeper and deeper into Richard Castle's effortless story.

The characters' story enveloped me with every page I turned. The deeper I got in the book, the faster the line progressed. I could vaguely see the line move, so I took a step forward, never taking my eyes from the page. I was so distracted with the words, I didn't even see the person in front of me until it was too late and my book was jabbing someone in the back before it slapped against the floor.

"Oh, ma'am! I'm so sorry!" I exclaimed, my hands moving to cover my mouth in disbelief. "I didn't even see you."

The middle aged woman bent down and picked up my book for me, "Oh, don't worry about it, dear." She was just about to hand it back to me but then stopped to examine the cover. Her brows knitted together, "In a Hail of Bullets?"

I smiled bashfully as though my secret had been revealed. "It's his first ever," I said, not able to hide the small amount of pride I held.

"Have you read all of his novels?" She checked out the condition, noticing it's worn pages and soft binding. I nodded and she continued, pointing to the margins on one of the pages, "Are these your notes?"

They weren't. But I wasn't going to get into detail about my mom's love for Castle's books, or the way those notes pulled me out of the darkest place in my life. Instead, I smiled and nodded again, "I like to see if I can solve it before he does in the end. I've gotten pretty good at it, actually." I left out the fact that solving things like that was my job, but, again, minor details.