Page 8 of Safety Net (Mendell Hawks #3)

LINCOLN

Iwasn’t supposed to be at another bookstore today.

But something about Mendell’s campus bookstore unsettled me.

The shelves were too glossy, the lights too bright, and the air reeked of cleaning supplies.

The books I needed for this semester lost half their value as soon as I swiped my card.

The visit was a necessary evil—a rite of passage to becoming a serious student.

I often delayed buying textbooks until after the first week of classes.

But between Jonah’s concern and Sam’s skepticism about my ability to pull it together, I needed to try. I needed to break my bad habits.

So, to make up for the torture of being an adult, I went to my favorite bookstore directly after stuffing my textbooks into my gym bag. I knew the old book smell would cleanse my palate, and Lenny was going to be on shift.

My new friend was an ex-retiree who knew all about the lore of Tinsel and hated how much I loved new-age mystery stories. Lenny preferred keeping things old-school and non-commercial.

“Not Doyle,” he would huff when I assumed. “And do not speak of Christie in front of me.”

“Oh, Len, you’re breaking my heart,” I lamented. “What did my girl Christie ever do to you?”

“Nothing. That’s the problem.”

See, Lenny was a fan of ultra-stuffy writing that waxed poetic about the meaning of cloudy summer mornings.

There was a time and place for all kinds of literature (in my humble opinion).

But God, if I contemplate the meaning of blue curtains again, I might quit reading for good.

And that’d be terrible considering I started to develop a decent enough attention span for it.

While getting my weekly “bug Lenny” quota in, I also got to inquire about Carter sales. Sometimes I worried I was the only person keeping Mountain Pines’ mystery section alive. But then, I ran into Celeste.

She stood in the middle of my favorite section.

My heart raced when I saw my favorite Carter book tucked under her arm and my favorite Holmes book in the other hand.

The orange glow pouring in from the windows gave her quite the halo effect.

Celeste’s smile was small, and her gaze was distracted, as if she were looking for something or someone else besides me.

Maybe Naomi? She even seemed to prefer Finn’s presence.

My mind began its familiar game of how to say the right thing to Celeste without fucking it up.

“I need to get a cart. Took too many books by hand again,” Lenny grumbled. He could read a room, and to be honest, wasn’t exactly working at the bookstore to make new friends. I just happened upon him like a stain on his Sunday’s best or a stub on the toe in the middle of the night.

“Need help?” I called after him as he shuffled away. He gave me a look and rolled his eyes before continuing.

I laughed and told her, “Believe it or not, I’m his third-best friend.”

“Oh?” She hugged the books to her chest, and they doubled as a shield.

I stepped back a half foot to give her space and glanced at the shelf to offer her some sense of privacy.

I touched a few spines, feigning interest. It’s difficult to fake the need to look at books when she was here.

Celeste was in my favorite store, holding my favorite book, and wearing my favorite color ribbons around her jean loops.

Every time I’ve seen her in jeans, they include some type of bow.

Today’s color was green. The ribbons reminded me of a jersey, and I couldn’t help but wonder what she’d look like in a Mendell Hawks hockey jersey. My jersey.

It was an embarrassingly attractive fantasy that made me lightheaded with want. A couple of minutes in Celeste’s presence already had me forgetting how to breathe. And I liked the struggle. Got high off it in some weird, pathetic, ‘I think this crush will consume every part of my self-respect’ way.

“Who’s one and two?” Celeste asked.

I barely heard the words. I replayed the sentence in my head a couple of times, but the meaning still didn’t click. I got distracted by her hair. It was braided in two, the green ribbons woven in there as well.

When we’d met a year ago, and I learned my typical nonsense wouldn’t capture her attention, I set off trying to figure out what would.

The investigation didn’t get me much closer than an occasional polite greeting or rare smile.

But it did confirm Celeste held the key to triggering a fire in my veins.

She had a peaceful confidence about her.

It was in those small details. The things that set her apart from me, Lenny, and every person I’d ever encountered.

In her quiet, Celeste was her own person.

She didn’t have to run her mouth like yours truly to be seen or heard.

I couldn’t imagine her walking into a room unnoticed.

“Sorry.” I shook my head, trying to stay on task and not admire how pink her cheeks were. God, she was so beautiful. So out of my fucking league. “What do you mean?”

“Oh…” She looked down at the floor for a second. “You said you were number three. Maybe I misheard. I thought…”

“No, you heard right.” My assurance came quickly, paired with a wheezy laugh.

“Ms. Lane works cashier here during the night shift. She can get him to smile within two minutes of talking to him. And Andy, the delivery guy, is number two. The man is an incredible trumpet player, and Lenny likes being reminded of his old club days, back when they had more live bands and fewer stereos. I don’t know much about music, but I’m sure Andy’s one of the best out there. ”

Celeste nodded with a small smile. The gentle quiet returned. She shifted from one foot to another. I scratched the back of my neck.

Though I enjoyed the entertainment of a back-and-forth, silence wasn’t always terrible if you liked the company you were in. If it were anyone else, I would have said my goodbyes and forgotten about the whole exchange. I’d never do that with her. Any second Celeste had to spare, I selfishly wanted.

The bookstore grew warm, despite the constant turn of the dusty fans overhead.

I tapped the side of my thigh, fingers restless as I tried to come up with something I knew she would feel comfortable sharing.

Nerves squeezed at my throat, unfamiliar and taunting as words got stuck there.

I tried to swallow, but my mouth was drier than scorched earth.

“You’re into music, right?” I blurted, hopeful.

I knew she was into music. I’d seen her scribble down notes in the lines of a notebook behind her desk at the community center.

On campus, Celeste was never without her pink flute case strapped to her like some cartoon character, wearing the same thing day after day.

I pretended not to know in hopes it’d give her a comfortable excuse to share.

“Mm.” She nodded and looked at the floor again, adding, “I’m studying it.”

“I’ve seen you carrying a case around campus,” I said, and then quickly added (so I didn’t sound like an absolute creep), “Music department’s close to the Liberal Arts building. I had most of my courses there last semester.”

Mendell was big, but not so big you didn’t run into people on campus.

Every time I saw Celeste, it was the product of a happy accident.

Or, maybe (as I liked to imagine ) the universe making our paths cross over and over, so we had ample chance to talk.

Just like now, she was here and actually conversing.

Asking me questions (or, maybe just one question, beggars couldn’t be choosers) and it was thrilling.

I had too much to say. Every thought I’ve wanted to share with her over the course of the last year bubbled to the surface.

I continuously reminded myself, slow down.

“I play the flute.” There was a slight spark in her eyes when she said it.

I took down a mental note to look up facts about flutes.

Some funny ones, preferably. The possibility of making her laugh made my chest heavy with anticipation.

I needed to make the most of our small window of opportunity, and the one way I figured I could was by eliciting a laugh.

“That’s incredible. I can’t keep a beat to save my life. All my music teachers hated me. I couldn’t for the life of me remember which note was which on the…what’s the line thing where the symbols go?”

Celeste smiled, amused at how I mimed the lines in search of the term.

“Staff.”

I snapped my fingers. “Right, the staff.”

“It’s difficult to get the hang of at first.” Celeste nodded. “Did you…um, ever learn the mnemonic for remembering the notes?”

I shook my head. Maybe I had at one point, but that knowledge had fallen to the wayside along with thousands of other things my teachers attempted to impart.

“The common one is Every Good Boy Does Fine for the treble clef—those are the five lines,” she said. “E’s at the bottom… and g-go up to F. And between the lines—they’re called treble clef spaces—is FACE.”

“That would have been a lifesaver in middle school. I made a fool of myself in front of an auditorium of extremely bored parents. We got booed. Talk about traumatic.”

“I bet.” Celeste’s stance had softened, shoulders curved down, and feet hip distance apart.

She still glanced down at the floor now and then, but when she looked up, she didn’t look away anymore.

Her gaze maintained contact with mine, and her gentle smile inspired me to keep this up.

I couldn’t put a finger on exactly what I was doing right, but whatever it was, I needed to keep doing it.

I rested my hand on one of the shelves above our heads, using it for stability. My heart continued to race. Learning to manage the lightheaded excitement I felt from prolonged conversations with her was going to take some time.