Notes Left at Table Seven

Chapter 3

The Man at Table Seven

The stranger took two days to answer.

Not that I was counting.

I simply knew that I had left the note on Tuesday evening and that it was now Thursday morning, which is the kind of information a person can possess without attaching any emotional significance to it whatsoever.

At 8:12, I checked Table Seven.

Nothing.

At 10:34, I walked past it while carrying a stack of books.

Nothing.

At 12:16, I wiped it down after an elderly couple left.

Still nothing.

By 2:00, I had decided I no longer cared.

At 2:07, the bell above the door rang and I looked up so quickly that Nina caught me.

She said nothing.

She didn't need to.

Her eyebrows had become fluent in judgment.

"Customer service," I muttered.

She continued wiping a mug.

"Didn't ask."

"I know what you're thinking."

"Apparently I don't need to speak anymore."

"That would be wonderful."

The customer who had entered was a woman with a stroller.

I looked away.

Nina's mouth twitched.

I hated her.

At 3:23, I was kneeling in the fiction section trying to determine how someone had managed to wedge a cookbook between Virginia Woolf and Edith Wharton when a pair of shoes stopped beside me.

Brown.

Slightly wet.

Men's.

I looked up.

The regular.

He looked down.

I was still on the floor holding 101 Easy Weeknight Meals.

There are moments in life when you become acutely aware of how you must appear to another human being.

This was one of them.

"Don't," I said.

His eyebrows lifted.

"I haven't said anything."

"You were going to."

"I was actually going to ask where biographies are."

I pointed without standing.

"Two aisles over."

"Thanks."

He didn't move.

I looked at him.

He looked at the cookbook.

Then at the shelf.

"Virginia Woolf branching out?"

"There it is."

"What?"

"The thing you weren't going to say."

He smiled.

I stood, brushing dust from my knees.

"Someone put this here."

"And you've taken it personally."

"I take many things personally."

"I've noticed."

I narrowed my eyes.

"You don't know me."

"You're right."

He stepped aside as I returned the cookbook to the cart.

Then he pointed toward the shelves.

"But I know you have strong feelings about alphabetical order."

"That's enough to understand a person."

"Is it?"

"More reliable than astrology."

"What's your sign?"

"I don't believe in astrology."

"That wasn't the question."

I looked at him.

He was smiling again.

Actually smiling this time.

There was a small line beside his left eye I hadn't noticed before.

I hated that I noticed it now.

"Biographies," I repeated. "Two aisles over."

"Right."

He started walking.

Then stopped.

"Do you know if you have Joan Didion?"

"Essay collection or memoir?"

He turned back.

"Memoir."

"The Year of Magical Thinking?"

"Yeah."

"Third shelf. About halfway down."

He stared at me.

"What?"

"You know where every book is?"

"Almost."

"That's slightly terrifying."

"It's literally my job."

"You didn't know where the cookbook went."

"Because it was in fiction."

"Fair."

He disappeared around the shelf.

I watched him go.

Only for a second.

Possibly two.

Then I caught myself.

"No."

I said it quietly.

To myself.

Which was becoming an alarming habit.

I picked up the cart and pushed it toward nonfiction.

His name, I decided, was probably something irritating. Not because he was irritating. He was. But because some people looked like their parents had given them names that belonged embroidered on expensive towels.

Alexander, maybe.

Nathaniel.

Sebastian.

He looked vaguely like a Sebastian.

I was thinking about this while steaming milk for a customer, which was ridiculous enough that I nearly burned myself.

"Ow."

"You okay?" Nina asked.

"Yeah."

I ran my finger beneath cold water.

She looked toward Table Seven. Then at me.

"No."

"I didn't say anything."

"You were about to."

"I was going to ask whether you wanted a bandage."

"Oh."

A pause.

"Do you?"

"No."

"Okay."

Another pause.

"Sebastian's kind of cute."

I nearly dropped the cup.

"What?"

She laughed.

"Oh my God."

"What?"

"You looked at him and then started smiling."

"I was not smiling."

"You were."

"I burned myself."

"Apparently pain makes you happy."

"I hate you."

"I know."

I handed the drink to the customer with considerably more force than necessary. When I looked toward Table Seven again, he was reading. Not Persuasion. Didion.

One hand rested against his mouth, thumb beneath his chin. His coffee sat untouched beside him.

I looked away. The stranger who wrote the notes could not be him. I had decided this yesterday.

There were reasons.

Several. For one, the person in the notes seemed— I stopped.

What did they seem like? Thoughtful?

This man read Joan Didion voluntarily.

That proved nothing.

Sensitive?

I had exactly two notes. One of which had begun with an apology for ruining books forever.

Also nothing.

Older?

You couldn't determine age from handwriting.

Female?

Possible.

I realized, with some embarrassment, that I had automatically imagined the writer as a man.

There was no reason to.

Seven could be anyone.

Seventeen.

Seventy.

A woman.

A married father of four.

Mr. Whitaker.

I physically recoiled.

Absolutely not.

I had once watched Mr. Whitaker type an email using only his index fingers.

The handwriting was too elegant.

At least I hoped so.

I glanced toward Table Seven again.

The regular turned a page.

No.

Too obvious.

The universe wasn't that tidy.

At four, the rain started.

Again.

The city had apparently decided sunshine was a limited-time offer.

Customers drifted toward the windows and frowned at the sky as though personally betrayed.

By five, every table was occupied.

Except Table Seven, which contained exactly one man, one book, one Americano, and three empty chairs.

A woman approached the counter.

"Excuse me?"

"Hi."

"Are there any other seats?"

I looked around.

"No, sorry. But you're welcome to share a table if someone's okay with it."

Her eyes traveled across the room.

Table Seven.

Before I could say anything, the regular looked up.

"You can take this one."

He was already gathering his things.

"Oh, no, that's okay," the woman said.

"It's fine. I was leaving soon."

He closed the book.

I don't know why I noticed that he marked his page with the receipt from his coffee instead of folding the corner.

But I did.

My opinion of him improved by approximately four percent.

He brought the empty cup to the counter.

"Look at that," I said.

He glanced at me.

"What?"

"You returned it."

"I returned it last time."

"No, you didn't."

"Are you sure?"

"I found it after closing."

"That could've been anyone's."

"Small Americano. No sugar."

"Maybe I have a coffee twin."

"Maybe you're incapable of admitting wrongdoing."

He leaned against the counter.

"That's a serious accusation."

"I have evidence."

"Again with the documentation."

"Occupational hazard."

He looked over his shoulder.

Rain hammered against the front windows.

The woman had already settled at Table Seven.

"Guess I'm not leaving."

"No umbrella?"

"Had one."

"Had?"

"Wind."

I waited.

He didn't elaborate.

"What happened?"

"It became structurally ambitious."

I stared at him.

"What does that mean?"

"It turned inside out."

A laugh escaped me.

I tried to stop it.

Too late.

His eyes changed.

Just slightly.

Like he'd been waiting to see if I would.

I looked down at the register.

"Tragic."

"It fought bravely."

"I'm sorry for your loss."

"Thank you. We're asking for privacy during this difficult time."

I laughed again. Damn it.

He smiled.

Then Nina appeared beside me.

"Hey, Mara, I'm taking my break."

I wanted to kill her.

Not because she was taking her break.

Because of the way she looked between us before she said it.

"Okay."

"Twenty minutes."

"Okay."

She untied her apron.

"Have fun."

I stared at her.

"On your break."

"Of course."

She walked away.

Traitor.

The regular watched her leave.

"She seems subtle."

"You have no idea."

"Friend?"

"Unfortunately."

From the back room:

"I HEARD THAT."

He laughed.

And there it was again.

That line beside his eye.

I looked at the rain. He looked at the rain. For a few seconds, neither of us spoke. It wasn't uncomfortable. That somehow made it worse.

"Do you always work evenings?" he asked.

"Most days."

"Do you like it?"

The question caught me off guard.

People usually asked whether I liked working at a bookstore with the answer already prepared for me.

Must be nice.

You probably get to read all day.

That sounds relaxing.

Nobody asked it like an actual question.

"Sometimes."

He nodded.

No immediate follow-up.

That made me continue.

"I like the books."

"Good place to work, then."

"Very observant."

"I'm known for it."

"And I like the quiet."

He glanced around at the espresso machine hissing, a child crying near the front, and Nina dropping something metallic in the back.

"Quiet?"

"Relative quiet."

"Right."

I wiped a perfectly clean section of the counter.

"What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Do you like..." I gestured vaguely at him. "Whatever you do?"

He smiled.

"Very smooth."

"I don't know what your job is."

"That's usually when people ask."

"Fine. What do you do?"

He was quiet for a second.

"Right now?"

Something in the way he said it made me look up.

"Yeah."

"Not much."

I waited.

He scratched his thumb along the edge of his wallet.

"I used to work for an architecture firm."

"Used to?"

"Used to."

"What happened?"

He looked toward the window. Rain blurred the street outside.

"I stopped."

That wasn't an answer. He knew it wasn't. I could tell from the small curve of his mouth.

"You know," I said, "most conversations require both people to provide information."

"I provided information."

"You provided a verb."

"A very important part of language."

"Why did you stop?"

He looked back at me. For the first time since he'd walked into the bookstore, he didn't have a joke ready.

"I didn't like who I was becoming."

The words landed softly. I stopped wiping the counter.

He seemed to realize what he'd said at the same time I did. Then the expression disappeared. He tapped the counter once.

"That got depressing."

"A little."

"Sorry."

"No. It's okay."

The espresso machine clicked behind me.

Outside, thunder rolled somewhere far away.

I wanted to ask more.

I didn't.

Maybe because I knew what it felt like when people treated uncertainty like an interrogation.

So what are you doing now?

What's the plan?

When are you going back?

What comes next?

Questions could sound innocent while still pressing on bruises.

So instead I said, "For what it's worth, I'm not doing much either."

He looked at my apron.

"You're currently employed."

"Technicality."

He smiled.

"Still counts."

"Tell that to my relatives."

His laugh was quieter this time.

"Relatives?"

"Apparently everyone I share DNA with has formed a committee to determine what I should do with my life."

"Have they reached a verdict?"

"They're waiting on further evidence."

"Documentation?"

"Obviously."

He nodded solemnly.

"I hope the proceedings are fair."

"They aren't."

The bell above the door rang.

Three customers entered, shaking rain from their jackets.

I straightened.

Conversation over.

He seemed to realize it too.

"I'll get out of your way."

"You're not—"

I stopped.

He looked at me.

"You're not in the way."

Something shifted between us.

Tiny.

Barely there.

Still enough that I became suddenly aware of my hands.

I picked up a cup.

He pushed away from the counter.

"See you, Mara."

"You still don't have an umbrella."

"I'll wait."

"Where?"

He pointed toward the history section.

"Churchill seems dry."

I laughed.

He turned away.

"Wait."

He looked back.

I had no idea why I'd stopped him.

Then I realized something.

"What's your name?"

His eyebrows lifted.

I wanted to take the question back immediately.

Not because it was strange.

Because it sounded like I cared. Which I didn't.

Obviously.

He walked backward one step.

"Eli."

Eli.

Not Sebastian.

Thank God.

"Eli," I repeated.

"Now your records are complete."

"Last name?"

He smiled.

"That's classified."

"Then they're incomplete."

"You'll survive."

He turned.

"Eli," I called again.

He looked over his shoulder.

I pointed toward the biography section.

"If you put Didion back in the wrong place, you're banned."

He raised the book.

"I'll be careful."

Then he disappeared between the shelves.

I stood there for a moment.

Eli.

It suited him annoyingly well.

The rain stopped at 7:18.

Eli left at 7:24.

I knew because clocks existed.

He returned the book correctly.

I knew because I checked.

For professional reasons.

By eight thirty, the bookstore had emptied. Nina left first. She made it all the way to the door before turning around.

"So."

"No."

"I didn't even—"

"No."

"You know his name now."

"Good night, Nina."

"Eli."

"Leave."

"Eli and Mara."

"I will fire you."

"You don't have that authority."

"I'll find a way."

She laughed and disappeared through the door.

I locked it behind her. The silence returned. I cleaned the espresso machine. Counted the register. Wiped the tables.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

Nothing.

I stood beside it.

"Okay."

I didn't know why I said it.

I wasn't disappointed.

There was nothing to be disappointed about.

Seven didn't owe me an answer.

We weren't friends.

We weren't anything.

I picked up an abandoned napkin. Then I noticed the book. Not on the table. On the shelf.

Persuasion.

My pulse stumbled. I stared at it. It had been gone when I arrived that morning.

I was sure.

I walked toward the shelf.

Pulled it out.

Page 85.

The note was there.

I unfolded it.

My writing first.

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

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

I was wrong.

I think.

My turn.

Why did you leave the first note?

—M

Below it, new handwriting.

I sat down.

Not because I needed to.

Because suddenly standing seemed unnecessarily difficult.

The response began:

M,

My chest did something strange at the sight of the letter.

I think you're right.

About changing your mind.

Then:

I wish someone had told me that a year ago.

I stopped.

Read it again.

A year ago.

For some reason, Eli's voice surfaced in my head.

I used to work for an architecture firm.

What happened?

I stopped.

I shook my head.

No.

Lots of people changed careers.

Millions.

Possibly billions.

I kept reading.

You asked why I left the first note.

The disappointing answer is that I wasn't leaving it for anyone.

I was having a bad day.

The kind where you start wondering whether every decision you've made has quietly led you to the wrong life.

My fingers tightened around the paper.

I opened the book because I remembered reading it years ago. There was something comforting about knowing people were making terrible decisions about love and life two hundred years before I started doing it.

I laughed.

Quietly.

Then continued.

I wrote the question because sometimes writing something down makes it feel less loud.

I forgot the note was inside when I left.

A pause.

Then I came back.

My eyes stopped.

Then I came back.

Something prickled along the back of my neck.

I looked toward the door.

Empty.

The dark window reflected the bookstore back at me.

I read the next line.

And someone had answered.

So maybe forgetting it wasn't such a terrible mistake.

My mouth curved before I could stop it.

At the bottom:

My turn.

What is something you've changed your mind about but haven't forgiven yourself for changing?

—Seven

I stared at the name.

Seven.

For a moment, I thought it was a joke.

Then I looked at the table.

Of course.

I ran my thumb across the final word.

Seven.

"You named yourself after furniture?"

I laughed.

No one answered.

I looked at the question again.

The smile faded.

What is something you've changed your mind about but haven't forgiven yourself for changing?

There were questions people asked because they wanted information.

What do you do?

Where are you from?

What's your favorite movie?

Then there were questions that reached inside you without permission.

This was one of those.

I knew my answer immediately.

That frightened me.

I folded the note.

I wasn't answering tonight.

Absolutely not.

I put it back inside the book and stood.

Then something fell from between the pages.

A second piece of paper.

Smaller.

I frowned.

It wasn't part of the note.

I picked it up.

A receipt.

From the café.

My stomach tightened.

I turned it over.

Small Americano — $4.00

Today's date.

3:24 p.m.

I stopped breathing.

No.

I looked toward the door. Then at Table Seven. Then at the receipt.

Small Americano.

No sugar.

Eli.

For one long second, every thought in my head collided at once.

He had been here. He had sat at Table Seven. He had read for hours. He had changed careers. He had come back after disappearing for two days.

And now his receipt was inside Persuasion.

"Oh my God."

I stared at the note.

—Seven

Then at the receipt.

Then back at the note.

It was him.

It had to be.

I felt something strange bloom beneath my ribs.

Shock.

Embarrassment.

Something dangerously close to excitement.

Eli was Seven.

The man I'd spent the afternoon talking to had been reading my answers.

The man who knew my name.

The man who—

Wait.

I flipped the receipt over.

There was handwriting on the back.

Not Seven's.

Blue ink.

Large, hurried letters.

NINA — OAT MILK!!!

I stared.

Once.

Twice.

Then remembered.

At 3:24, Nina had asked Eli if she could borrow his receipt because she'd forgotten to write oat milk on the supply list.

She had scribbled on it.

Then—

I looked at the book.

Nina must have used the receipt as a bookmark when she'd been shelving.

Or someone had.

Or—

I rubbed both hands over my face.

"This is insane."

I was building conspiracy theories around coffee receipts.

I had officially lost perspective.

Eli wasn't Seven.

Probably.

Maybe.

No.

He couldn't be.

Because if he were Seven, he would already know I was M.

My name was literally attached to my chest five days a week.

And Seven had asked questions as though he didn't know me.

Unless—

"No."

I pointed at the book.

"Stop."

The book remained silent.

Good.

At least one of us had sense.

I slipped the receipt into my apron pocket to give back to Nina tomorrow.

Then I carried Persuasion toward Table Seven.

I stopped before putting it down.

Seven's question waited inside.

What is something you've changed your mind about but haven't forgiven yourself for changing?

I knew the answer.

I had known it before I finished reading.

But knowing an answer and writing it down were different things.

Writing made things real.

Maybe Seven knew that.

Sometimes writing something down makes it feel less loud.

I looked toward the dark window.

My reflection stared back.

Twenty-three.

Employed.

Fine.

Figuring things out.

All the answers I gave people because they were easier than the truth.

I sat down.

Pulled a pen from my apron.

Opened the note.

For a long time, I didn't write.

Then:

Seven,

I paused.

The name felt strange.

Like addressing someone who existed now.

I continued.

There was something I thought I wanted for years.

My hand stopped.

I could hear rainwater dripping from the awning outside.

I worked toward it for so long that everyone started thinking of it as part of me.

Another pause.

Then one day, I wasn't sure anymore.

I stared at the words.

My throat tightened.

I almost crossed them out.

Didn't.

I still don't know whether changing my mind was brave or whether I just got scared.

That one hurt.

I set the pen down.

Walked to the counter.

Drank water.

Came back.

The sentence was still there.

Unfortunately.

I picked up the pen.

Sometimes I think the worst part isn't not knowing what I want.

It's knowing everyone else thought they knew.

I stopped.

That was enough.

Too much, actually.

I should have ended there.

Instead, I wrote:

My turn.

I thought for a moment.

Then:

What do you wish you could start over?

I looked at the question.

Too serious.

I added:

And because that was depressing: what's your most irrational hatred?

Better.

At the bottom:

—M

I folded the note. Slipped it inside. Closed the book.

Then I hesitated.

For reasons I didn't understand, Eli's face appeared in my mind.

I didn't like who I was becoming.

I looked at Persuasion.

At Table Seven.

At the empty chair across from me.

There were probably thousands of people in this city who had changed their minds.

Thousands who felt lost.

Thousands who drank Americanos.

Thousands who read old novels.

Coincidences weren't evidence.

I knew that.

Still, when I placed the book on Table Seven and turned off the lamp, I found myself wondering about two men.

One whose name I had learned that afternoon.

And one whose name I still didn't know.

The strange part was that I wasn't sure which one I wanted to know better.