Every Little Thing

13

There are twenty minutes to go until the trolley makes a return, and Reed and I haven't exchanged a word since. Instead, he watches the world from inside, fingers rapping absentmindedly against the windowsill, and I watch him, caught up in the way a dimple cuts into his cheek when he smiles, the way his glasses shield those baby blue eyes, the way his skin is tan even in the midst of a blustery New Jersey autumn.

And then I think of myself, with my brown hair and brown eyes and not-so-memorable face. I'm not beautiful, but I'm not ugly. I'm just—plain. Nothing particularly out of the ordinary.

But he just countered that. He just called me a flocon de neige. It doesn't make sense; I've never thought of myself that way. I've always thought of myself as a normal person who just hangs around beautiful people, like Georgina and now Reed, maybe just trying to imitate them, maybe just trying to fit in, maybe to just have her presence noticed. But I've never been one to stand in the spotlight, or need attention, or anything. Hell, I hardly get attention from my own mother. Why would I want it from anybody else?

But am I unique? Is there more to myself than I'm allowing myself to see?

I don't know.

________

Reed checks his watch and smiles over at me after a while, gesturing me forward.

"Come on," he says, and in the distance, I see the trolley rumbling its way up the path. We delve into the cold, and the second I'm back outside, my entire body clenches up, the warmth seeping from my skin. Reed pushes me forward, a hand at the small of my back, the other rubbing my arm as if to get some feeling back into it. We hurry up to the trolley, and once we're on board, I breathe a sigh of relief.

"Bad idea?" He asks, and I just roll my eyes. He laughs, leaning back on the wooden bench. "Alright, well, I've got a new one."

"And what might that be?" I ask.

"You, me, Georgina and Hale should take a bus to New York City."

I laugh, incredulous. "Reed, that's two and a half hours out of town."

"So?" He says, folding his arms behind his head, "That's the fun part. We can make it a kind of road trip, you know? Leave really early and get to the city by sunrise, then spend the whole day having fun in the Big Apple. And it doesn't have to be soon or anything, it's just an idea."

The truth is, it does sound fun. And it would be a pretty awesome day. I just don't know how my mom would react, or anyone else's. It's not extremely practical to leave four high-schoolers in the middle of the second-largest city in the world.

"I'll have to see," I say, tentatively, "But that sounds incredible."

He smiles to himself, as if in satisfaction, and I feel my heart warm at the sight of it.

Can you smile like that all the time?

As if reading my thoughts, he turns to me, tilting his head to the side.

"What are you thinking about?"

You.

Out loud, I say,

"Nothing. Well, New York, actually."

And there it is. That goddamn precious smile.

"What a coincidence. I was, too."

________

Once we're back at the trolley stop, I start walking towards the coffee shop, where our original table is still empty-but then Reed's hand shoots out and meets mine. Shocked, I stop and turn to him. A smile graces his features as he brings up my hands to his lips, cupping them in his own and blowing out a breath. Instantly, I feel the warmth enter my skin, and I smile at him. He smiles back, moving our hands against each other so that there's warmth coursing through them, and I suddenly feel a lot better.

"Thanks," I say, and he winks.

"Oldest trick in the book," he says, entwining our fingers together, "It's the number one way to get a girl to hold your hand."

And then I realize what he's done, and I swat his arm.

"Oh, my God," I laugh, shaking my head. But I don't let go, and neither does he.

We keep walking, hands swinging between us, my heart stuttering in my chest and my pulse skyrocketing with each step. This is happening. This is happening. This is actually happening.

But Reed is so nonchalant about it, as if it is nothing, as if the touching and the affection and the smiles are just part of our routine, part of a normal thing that we do, even when it's not.

Maybe it can be.

I can't help but smile at the thought.

"Want another coffee?" He asks, jerking his head towards the shop, and I shake my head.

"I'm good. You?"

He pauses for a moment, and then says,

"Nah. Let's go exploring."

"But it's so cold," I protest, and he laughs.

"There's a bookstore around the corner. You like to read, right?"

I lift a shoulder. "Sometimes, I guess."

"Come on. I saw you reading a book as thick as an encyclopedia once, and you didn't stop until the very end."

I look up at him, a little surprised. I remember the exact book—War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy—and it had completely enthralled me. But that was almost an entire year ago. How could he have remembered?

Maybe Reed Bishop has been noticing me for as long as I have been noticing him.

Maybe.

We end up coming to a stop in front of the bookstore, a small corner shop that smells of paper and ink and cinnamon. Reed holds the door open as I step inside, the warmth embracing me like a hug, and his hand falls from mine. I wait for him, and he follows up behind me.

"Hello," says the bookkeeper, and then we begin to look around.

I delve into a large wall of books, my fingers running along the spines of several. Reed shadows me, and I can tell he's somewhat uncomfortable, shifting from foot to foot as if he doesn't really know what to do.

"Not your scene, is it?" I ask, and he laughs.

"Not exactly. What—what are you supposed to do?"

I shrug, gesturing to the bookshelves all around us. "Pick up something that looks interesting. Maybe read the back. And then you open the first page. But you have to be hooked from the very beginning. I always read the very first sentence. If I'm not intrigued it, I close the book and move on to another. You have to get something that pulls you in from the beginning."

He still looks hesitant, and I laugh at the look of helplessness in his eyes.

"Come on, you're a writer. You know how to tell if something's good or not."

He shakes his head, smiling sheepishly. "I've written a few French poems, Evelyn. I'm hardly a writer."

"Well, I liked your poetry, and I'm a pretty harsh critic. So give it a try."

He blows out a breath, picking out a random book and reading the first sentence. I watch as his brows slam down and he shakes his head.

"Not intruiging," he says, and I smile widely.

"Then put it up and try again."

He does so, again and again, until he comes across a thin, hardcover book and plucks it from the shelf. When he opens the page and reads the first sentence, his entire face brightens.

"Well?" I ask, eager to see what it is he's chosen.

He turns the book so that I can see it, and I read the sentence.

"Her eyes were a book of stories begging to be told."

"Wow," I breathe, "Yeah. That's a keeper."

He grins at me, tucking it under his arm. "Your turn."

I nod, moving across the bookstore with Reed trailing behind until I come across a leather-bound book, its words emblazoned in gold. All the Little Things, the title reads. I open it, trying not to seem overly eager as I read.

"Allow me to begin, dear reader, by stating one simple fact: everything we experience matters—even the little things."

I suck in a breath, and Reed laughs, leaning over my shoulder so that he can read. I feel his breath against my neck, and a little shiver climbs its way up my spine. I bite my lip to keep from smiling.

"Holy hell," he says, and I look back at him, unable to fight my grin.

"Right?" I ask, and he nods.

"Not a bad technique, Miss Moore," he says, and I shake my head with a small smile. "Actually, I think I'll use it from now on."

He looks around, seeming lost again as he asks,

"And what do we do now?"

"We buy them," I say, "So that we're fully committed."

He laughs. "It's a crime to interchange your book?"

"Oh, yeah," I reply, only half-joking, "It's a serious offense."

"Alright, and after that?"

"We sit down somewhere and read. And if we find something we like, we can—show each other, or something."

Reed smiles.

"Let's go, then."