The Best is Yet to Come

One: Noah

"I can't believe you talked me into this," I groan, glaring at the unfamiliar brick building in front of me. My mother and I have been doing weekly lunch dates since I started kindergarten and I guess at twenty-three, the tradition was still going strong. Today, after an overpriced sandwich from Lorenzo's, she surprised me by practically begging me to go shopping with her.

"Oh shush, it's not going to kill you," my mother reasons and tugs on my arm, dragging me into the small shop. I pull open the heavy doors, an overwhelming scent punching me in the face - a distinct smell of paper and ink I bet a bookworm would lose themselves over. I grimace, my nose wrinkling in disgust. I choke on the small specks of dust floating aimlessly through the air, reflected by the rays of sunlight peeking in between the displays in the windows.

I'm surprised to see how congested the small space is, the exterior deceiving customers with false promises of a spacious shop. Glory's Books -dubbed "Glory's" by the town residents-, was a claustrophobic's nightmare. Several mix-matched bookshelves without proper aisles and plants crowded the small shop. Glory's looked more like a botanical literary wonderland than a bookstore.

After mentioning something about going to find Glory, my mother's blonde bun bobs behind a shelf, forever lost among the sea of books and candles. Leave it to my mother to know the Glory of Glory's Books.

Grumpy and alone, I pick up the first title my fingers graze on the bestsellers table and flip the cover over in distaste. I saw the appeal of reading, truly, but no matter how many times I tried to lose myself in a novel, I'd find myself easily distracted and suddenly everything going on in the room at the time is significantly more interesting than the pages I held. Growing up, I tried explaining this to everyone; teachers, my parents, but no one cared. To them, the solution was to force me to read until I started to like it and believe me, it had the opposite effect. After years of tortured reading, just the mere existence of books bothered me. I was ecstatic when I finally graduated college, swearing I'd never touch another book again. Handling the novel like it's some kind of haunted talisman and not just an innocent heap of paper, I carefully place it back on the stack.

I wander around the store aimlessly. It felt like I was enclosed in some kind of literary prison - my worst nightmare. I spin, doing a full 360 scan of the space, and realize there are no bare walls in the room. Towering floor to ceiling bookshelves line the perimeter of the shop, displaying books of all shapes, sizes and colors. Books are stacked haphazardly on the tables, the register counters and even the floor. Apparently, Glory did not suffer from a case of OCD.

I almost sigh audibly in relief when I wind up in the graphic novel section - the only type of book I knew I could stomach. Despite technically books, comics and graphic novels are different to me. I'm able to experience the story on a deeper level, using the carefully crafted drawings and colors to suck me into the story. In fact, graphic novels inspired me to pursue art in high school, fostering my love for drawing, but my stomach tightens when I remember that those were just childish dreams. Noah Dean was destined to be a businessman, not an artist. Just ask anyone.

Squatting down, I start to peruse the small selection of comics when I hear it. A laugh. It rings out high above the hushed chatter in the shop. I bolt upright, my body twisting towards the direction of the melodic sound, scanning the area for its source.

I found her in the children's section, stocking books, I assume. Kneeling down by a display table, she smiles at a little boy holding a large picture book about trucks. Wearing jeans and a dark blue polo, I can only see her slender profile and without my command, my body adjusts it's position just to get a better look.

I can't hear what she's saying to the boy but he looks up at her with luminous green eyes and says something with a funny face. She laughs again, the notes loud and clear to my ears, sounding almost strangely familiar. She throws her head back this time, her walnut waves dancing down her back. Her eyes are pinched shut and her nose wrinkles in a laugh like the kid just said the most hilarious thing she'd ever heard. A flash of jealousy shocks me and I realize I eagerly want to know what the pipsqueak said to elicit such a beautiful response from the woman.

With my body frozen behind the bookshelf, I watch as she rises from her spot and walks back to the cart of books she had been tending. With a final friendly wave to the kid, she wheels her cart through a wooden door on the wall labeled "Employees Only".

As soon as she's gone from my line of sight, my lungs give out, forcing me to drag in a ragged breath. My stomach flips, goosebumps raiding my skin as I try to process what just happened. Completely stunned, I blink rapidly in an attempt to firm my grip on reality.

That was the most bizarre thing I think I've ever experienced. I swear the whole world had just frozen for a few moments but after a quick survey around the room, I could see that everything was still in motion; hushed voices flow in from my right and I wince at the squeak from sneakers against the hardwood floors. A teenage boy with sandy hair nods his head in acknowledgement as he slips past me to search the bookshelf next to mine.

Returning my gaze, I see the little boy has seated himself cross legged on the floor where his new friend had left him, the book about trucks now open across his lap. I eagerly glance back to the door the girl had walked through, staring intently at it like if I willed it hard enough, she would come back to me.

I hear my name being called from around the corner and reluctantly tear my eyes away, trying to even my breath as I walk towards the sound of my mother's voice.

"Noah, dear, we need to get going. I have to meet Mrs. Hernandez at the florists," she says, walking around a shelf. She links her arm with mine and pulls us in the direction of the exit.

My mind is anywhere but here, too focused on finding the laughing girl. Not really listening, I pat her on the arm, "Sounds great, mom."

I focus on the wooden door, eyes peeled for any sign of movement. A foot from the exit, I catch a blur of blue and chestnut weaving its way through the shelves towards the front of the store. There she is.

I stop dead in my tracks, my mother nearly tripping from the impact, "Noah?"

Losing sight of my blur, I pull away and hastily throw out, "I need to do something real quick. I'll meet you in the car."

I can't hear her protests over the roaring in my ears. With my mind's cogs in overdrive, I quickly piece together a plan. My heart thumps aggressively in my chest as I stride towards the registers, following the mystery woman. In my haste, I nearly trip over a stack of books. Of course she would work here - at a bookstore. It was like the universe had hand picked the least desirable setting possible. There was nothing romantic about books.

Before I get a chance to talk myself out of it, I grab a few items on my path to the checkout line, not bothering to see what I was about to purchase. I watch her walk up to a register, her face glowing with a warm smile as she greets the next customer. Focusing on the plan, I run through my lines once more, trying to ignore the sneering voice hissing in my mind. Are you actually rehearsing what you're going to say? What are you? Twelve??

The line moves and I take a step forward, my fingers tapping anxiously against the stack of books in my arms. Jittery and impatient, I shift my weight from my left leg to the other.

Finally, I'm next in line and her eyes make contact with mine. My body goes rigid on the spot. She has the most beautiful eyes I've seen. Her storm cloud irises hide behind a forest of lengthy, dark lashes. Destiny pulls at my inhibitions and as foreign as it is, the sensation feels as natural to me as hunger.

She smiles at me, her pink lips stretch across her face and for a moment my heart really does skip a beat. She waves to me, letting me know that I'm next and I walk to the register, thankful that my jellied legs are obeying. I drop my books onto the counter and give her a smile, hoping I don't look as nauseous as I feel.

Her name tag catches my eye, her name handwritten in a sleek pink font. Emma.

I've never seen such an alluring woman. Her skin is pale cream, bright against the contrast of her voluminous curls. Those dark lashes flutter against the pink dusting her cheeks as she looks down at the items I'm about to purchase.

Trying not to stare, I force my head down but my eyes betray me and flick back up to her face. Up close, her stormy eyes look more blue, like flecks of sky were peeking out from behind the clouds. Completely awed, I try to look at something, anything else but I can't tear my gaze away.

I was drawn to her the way a moon is to its planet. The urge to orbit, to be a constant presence in her life consumed me, casting everything I'd ever wanted aside like they suddenly meant nothing.

At that moment, the only thing I wanted was her.