Notes Left at Table Seven

Chapter 2

To Whoever Answered

The book was gone.

I noticed at 8:03 the next morning, which was approximately three minutes after I walked into The Paper Moon and two minutes before I was emotionally prepared to deal with anything more complicated than turning on the lights.

I stopped beside Table Seven.

Empty.

No Persuasion.

No folded piece of paper.

Nothing except the crescent-shaped scratch on the wood and a crumb someone had apparently missed the night before.

I stared at the table.

Then at the fiction shelves.

Then back at the table.

"Huh."

That was all.

Just huh.

Because there was no reason for the disappearance of a twenty-year-old paperback to matter.

I had left a bookstore book on a bookstore table. Someone had presumably arrived before me, seen it, and put it away.

Mystery solved.

I shrugged off my coat.

"Morning."

Nina came through the back carrying a cardboard box against her hip. Her hair was twisted into something that might once have been a bun but had clearly given up during the commute.

"Morning."

She dropped the box behind the counter.

"Why are you staring at Table Seven?"

"I'm not."

"You are."

"I just got here."

"Yes. And immediately started staring at furniture."

I walked behind the counter.

"The book from last night is gone."

"What book?"

"Persuasion."

She blinked.

"Jane Austen."

"I know what Persuasion is."

"You asked."

"I asked because I don't know why we're discussing it at eight in the morning."

I reached for my apron.

"You didn't put it away?"

"No."

"Mr. Whitaker?"

"Probably."

"Right."

I tied the apron around my waist.

Mystery solved again.

Nina began unpacking coffee beans from the box.

I picked up my name tag.

MARA

Crooked A and all.

For some reason, I thought about the note.

Do you ever wonder how many people have held the same book and needed the exact same sentence you did?

And underneath it, in my handwriting:

No. But now I will.

I winced.

There are few things more humiliating than remembering something earnest you did after ten o'clock at night.

Daylight makes sincerity embarrassing.

"I need coffee," I said.

"You don't drink coffee."

"Exactly. That's how bad this morning is."

Nina pushed a tea bag toward me.

"Stay true to yourself."

By eleven, I had forgotten about the note.

Mostly.

A delivery arrived at nine thirty with three boxes of new releases and one box that belonged to the florist two doors down.

At ten, a toddler removed six books from the children's section and arranged them in a circle on the floor.

At ten forty-five, a man asked whether we carried "that blue book everyone was talking about online."

"Do you know the title?"

"No."

"The author?"

"No."

"Genre?"

"I think it's sad."

"That narrows it down."

He did not appreciate this.

By lunchtime, I had reorganized a display, cleaned the espresso machine, answered two phone calls, and watched Nina eat half of my sandwich after insisting she wasn't hungry.

Normal.

The day was normal.

Which was good.

Normal was underrated.

Normal didn't leave handwritten questions inside old novels and make you think about them while brushing your teeth.

Around two, my phone vibrated.

I checked it between customers.

MOM

I opened the message.

Your aunt asked what you're doing now. What should I tell her?

I stared at it.

My thumb hovered above the keyboard.

I have a job.

Delete.

Tell her I'm working while figuring out my next step.

Delete.

Tell her it's none of her business.

Tempting.

Delete.

I locked my phone instead.

"Mara?"

I looked up.

A customer was holding two novels.

"Sorry."

I scanned them.

"$24.80."

She paid, thanked me, and left.

My phone buzzed again.

MOM: She said her friend's daughter is doing her master's now. Maybe you should talk to her.

I flipped the phone facedown.

Nina glanced at it.

"Family?"

"How did you know?"

"You made the face."

"What face?"

She pressed her lips together, widened her eyes slightly, and stared into the distance as though reconsidering every decision that had brought her here.

I pointed at her.

"I do not look like that."

"You absolutely look like that."

"That's offensive."

"Accurate, though."

I slid the customer's receipt into the bin.

"Apparently my aunt's friend's daughter is doing a master's."

"Tragic."

"Devastating."

"Thoughts and prayers."

"Thank you."

She bumped her shoulder against mine.

I smiled despite myself.

Then the bell above the door rang.

I looked up automatically.

Not him.

A woman entered carrying a folded umbrella.

I looked back down.

And immediately wondered why I had looked.

The regular didn't come that day.

Not that I noticed.

He also didn't come the next day.

I noticed that even less.

By the third day, I had developed the completely reasonable habit of checking Table Seven every time the bell above the door rang.

Not for him.

For the book.

Obviously.

The book had disappeared, and I wanted to know where it had gone.

That was all.

Books were inventory.

Inventory mattered.

Therefore, my repeated glances toward Table Seven were technically an act of professional responsibility.

"You keep doing that."

I was refilling the napkin holder.

"Doing what?"

Nina nodded toward the door.

"Looking."

"I'm not looking."

"You are."

"I'm working."

"Your neck moves every time the bell rings."

"Maybe I'm providing attentive customer service."

"Yesterday you told a man the bathroom was behind him without looking up from your book."

"He had already asked me twice."

"Attentive."

I shoved another stack of napkins into the holder.

"I was just wondering whether that guy would come back."

Nina froze.

Slowly, dramatically, she turned toward me.

"Oh."

"Don't."

"Oh."

"I mean because of the book."

"Of course."

"He left it."

"Sure."

"And it's store property."

"Naturally."

"I don't like you."

"You'd miss me."

"Debatable."

She grinned and walked away.

I hated that she looked pleased.

More importantly, I hated that she wasn't entirely wrong.

Not about him.

About the book.

I wanted it to come back.

The realization was embarrassing.

It had been three days.

Three days since I'd written a response to a stranger who hadn't asked for one.

Maybe whoever wrote the note had never intended it as an invitation.

Maybe it had been a thought scribbled down years ago.

Maybe Mr. Whitaker had found the book, shelved it, and thrown away the paper.

Maybe—

The bell rang.

I looked up.

This time, it was him.

The regular.

He stepped inside with rain darkening the shoulders of his jacket, even though the weather report had promised sunshine.

He paused near the entrance to shake droplets from his hair.

Nina looked at me.

I did not look at Nina.

I became extremely interested in the register.

Footsteps approached.

"Hi."

I looked up.

"Hi."

His gaze dropped briefly to my name tag again.

Then to the menu.

As though he hadn't ordered the same thing every time he'd been here.

"The usual?" I asked.

"Apparently I'm here often enough to have one."

"Four times a week."

He looked at me.

"You're still defending that?"

"I have evidence."

"Do you keep records?"

"I work at a bookstore. We believe in documentation."

"Concerning."

I reached for a cup.

"Small Americano. No sugar."

He nodded.

While the machine worked, I glanced toward the book tucked beneath his arm.

My pulse did something irritating.

Not Persuasion.

Some thick hardcover with a navy dust jacket.

Of course it wasn't.

Why would it be?

I handed him his drink.

"Four dollars."

He paid.

Again, the card reader accepted his card immediately.

I narrowed my eyes at it.

"Problem?" he asked.

"No."

"You look offended."

"The machine likes you."

He looked down at the card reader.

"Finally. Someone does."

The words came out lightly.

Almost a joke.

But something about the way he said them made me look at him.

He was already putting his card back into his wallet.

Then he glanced up.

For half a second, neither of us said anything.

I looked away first.

"Enjoy your coffee."

"Thanks, Mara."

He walked toward the back.

I pretended to wipe the counter.

Table Seven.

Of course.

He sat down.

I waited until his back was turned.

Then I looked at Nina.

She was already looking at me.

"Not," I whispered.

"A."

"Word."

She mimed zipping her mouth.

Then, because she was incapable of behaving like a normal person, she made a heart with her fingers.

I gave her my middle finger below the counter.

She nearly dropped a mug.

He stayed for an hour and twenty-three minutes.

I knew this because he arrived at 3:12 and left at 4:35.

Not because I was timing him.

There was a clock.

Clocks exist specifically so people can know the time.

At some point, he switched books.

I didn't see which one.

I was busy helping a student locate a copy of The Bell Jar, then arguing with our printer, which had decided paper was optional.

When I looked toward Table Seven again, the regular was standing.

His chair scraped backward.

He slid something onto the shelf beside him.

"Correct shelf this time?" I called before I could stop myself.

He turned.

"Are you going to check?"

"Probably."

He shook his head.

There was that almost-smile again.

"Goodbye, Mara."

"Bye."

The bell chimed behind him.

I waited.

Ten seconds.

Maybe fifteen.

Then I walked toward Table Seven.

Not suspiciously.

Casually.

A person could walk across their own workplace without having motives.

The table was empty.

Cup gone.

Chair pushed in.

Nothing left behind.

"See?" I whispered to myself.

I didn't know what I was proving.

I turned toward the shelf.

Rows of books.

Austen.

Bronte.

Dickens.

Eliot.

And—

I stopped.

There.

Between two novels.

A faded spine.

Persuasion.

My stomach tightened.

"No way."

I pulled it out.

The same softened cover.

The same cracked spine.

I opened it immediately.

Page 84.

Nothing.

My heart sank so quickly that I became annoyed with myself.

"Seriously, Mara?"

I started to close the book.

Something shifted between the pages.

Page 85.

A folded piece of paper.

My fingers froze.

Same crease.

Same black ink visible through the thin paper.

I looked toward the front counter.

Nina was helping someone.

I unfolded the note.

My words were still there.

No.

But now I will.

Underneath them, someone had written:

Then I suppose I owe you an apology.

I swallowed.

Another line.

I've ruined books for you forever.

A laugh escaped before I could stop it.

Quiet.

Stupid.

Real.

I read the rest.

I wasn't expecting anyone to answer.

Now I have a question.

A small space.

Then:

What sentence did you need when you first read this book?

I stared at the paper.

Once.

Twice.

A third time.

Someone had answered.

Someone had actually—

"Mara!"

I folded the note so quickly I nearly tore it.

Nina appeared at the end of the aisle.

"What?"

"Can you help me? This woman wants to know if we have—"

She stopped.

Her eyes moved from my face to the book in my hands.

Then back.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Why do you look like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like you just found Willy Wonka's golden ticket."

"I don't."

"You do."

I closed the book.

"It's nothing."

Nina narrowed her eyes.

I tucked Persuasion against my chest.

"Mara."

"Customer."

She looked over her shoulder.

The woman at the counter waved.

Nina looked back at me.

"This isn't over."

"It literally hasn't started."

"That sounds suspiciously like something someone says when something has started."

"Go."

She walked away backward, pointing two fingers at her eyes and then at me.

I waited until she disappeared.

Then I opened the note again.

What sentence did you need when you first read this book?

That was harder.

The first question had been abstract.

Safe.

This one wanted something from me.

I carried the book to the counter and slipped it beneath the register.

For the next four hours, I didn't answer.

I made drinks.

Shelved books.

Responded to my mother.

ME: Tell Auntie I'm working at the bookstore right now. I'm figuring the rest out.

My mother reacted with a heart.

I didn't know whether that made me feel better.

At six, I ate half a cookie someone had broken while putting it into the display.

At seven fifteen, Nina left.

At eight, I checked the note again.

At eight thirty, I told myself I wasn't going to answer.

At eight forty-seven, I found a pen.

The bookstore was quiet again.

Rain had returned.

Apparently the weather had commitment issues.

I sat at Table Seven with Persuasion open in front of me.

The note rested beside it.

What sentence did you need when you first read this book?

I knew the answer.

That was the problem.

When I first read Persuasion, I was twenty.

I had an exam the next morning and absolutely no business reading Jane Austen.

I had been sitting at this exact table.

Back then, I thought my life was moving too slowly.

Everyone seemed to know where they were going.

I thought graduation would fix that.

Three years later, I almost laughed.

I picked up the pen.

Wrote:

The one about people changing.

Stopped.

Too vague.

I crossed it out.

The part that made me think being uncertain doesn't mean you've ruined your life.

I stared at it.

Too honest.

I scratched it out too.

Black ink swallowed the words, but not completely.

I could still see them underneath.

I sighed.

"This is ridiculous."

The empty bookstore offered no guidance.

I tried again.

I don't remember the exact sentence.

True.

But I remember needing someone to tell me that changing your mind isn't the same as failing.

My hand stopped.

There it was.

Something I hadn't told Claire.

Or Nina.

Or my mother.

Something I'd barely admitted to myself.

I almost crossed it out.

Instead, I kept writing.

I was twenty. I thought everyone else knew exactly where they were going.

A pause.

Then:

I was wrong.

I looked at the sentence.

Added:

I think.

That made me smile.

Better.

I read the whole thing again.

Then, because apparently I had lost all sense of self-preservation, I wrote beneath it:

My turn.

Why did you leave the first note?

I folded the paper.

Slipped it back between pages 84 and 85.

Then stopped.

Names.

We hadn't used names.

I didn't know theirs.

They didn't know mine.

Except—

My stomach dropped.

My handwriting.

My name tag.

The bookstore.

If the person writing these notes had seen me—

No.

That was absurd.

Hundreds of people came through The Paper Moon.

For all I knew, the writer came in during Nina's shifts.

Or weekends.

Or mornings.

Or had left the first note months ago.

Still.

Something about answering without a name felt strange.

I unfolded the paper again.

At the bottom, I wrote:

—M

I looked at it.

One letter.

Enough to belong to me.

Not enough to find me.

I folded the note again and returned it to the book.

Then I placed Persuasion on Table Seven.

Same spot.

Near the crescent-shaped scratch. I turned off the lamp.

As I walked toward the counter, I looked back once. The book sat beneath the window. Waiting.

This time, I knew someone might come for it. And that changed everything.

I didn't notice until the next morning.

It was 9:14. The café was busy, and I was carrying two cups toward Table Three when I passed the fiction shelves.

Something made me stop.

Not the book. The shelf. The place where Persuasion had been returned yesterday.

I stared at it. Then at Table Seven. Then back at the shelf.

A thought arrived.

Slowly.

Uncomfortably.

The regular had been sitting at Table Seven. He had switched books. After he left, Persuasion had been on the shelf beside him. I stood there holding two coffees.

My brain began arranging facts I did not particularly want arranged. He had been here the night I found the first note. He had left a book behind.

Three days later, he came back. And Persuasion came back too.

"Mara?"

I jumped.

Coffee sloshed over the rim.

"Shit."

The customer at Table Three stared at me.

"Sorry."

I grabbed napkins.

Coincidence.

Obviously.

The man read books. This was a bookstore. People picked up books in bookstores. Sometimes they even put them back. Incorrectly.

I wiped the coffee from the saucer. Across the room, the bell above the door rang. My head lifted. A couple walked in.

Not him.

I exhaled.

Then stopped.

Why was I relieved?

Or disappointed?

I couldn't tell.

And I didn't like either answer.

That evening, when I checked Table Seven, Persuasion was gone again. So was my note. For the first time, I didn't tell myself someone had simply put the book away.

Someone had taken it. Someone was going to read what I'd written. And somewhere in the city, a stranger now knew something about me that I had spent the past year trying very hard not to say out loud.

I should have regretted it.

Instead, as I locked the bookstore that night, I caught myself smiling.

That was probably the first warning.