Page 7 of The Now in Forever

TEN YEARS AGO

P atient is not a word I would’ve associated with Ed when he ran into me on the street. But as he shows me how to enter an inventory number for the third time, it strikes me that he is. After I successfully enter in a tiny plastic frog and we delete the sale, we move on to shelving books.

“If you don’t know the genre, you can leave it on the cart behind the counter and let someone else put it away.”

“I think I can figure out the genres of the books, Edward.”

“It took me longer than I’d care to admit to figure out some of them, Harriet.” He laughs. “My name is not Edward, though.”

“Ed’s not short for anything?”

“Oh, it’s short for something, just not Edward.”

“What’s it a nickname for?”

A tiny smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth, but he doesn’t say.

“Come on. You can tell me. I’ll tell you who I’m named after.”

“Harriet Tubman.”

“Nope.”

His green eyes search the ceiling and send a tiny buzz straight to my toes.

“Huh. I’m not sure I know any other Harriets.” He snaps his fingers, and his face lights up. “The turtle. ”

“The turtle? Like a Ninja Turtle? Wasn’t the girl one named Ashley? I never got into that cartoon.”

He scoffs. “Um, no. The girl was April O’Neil, and she wasn’t a turtle. She was a reporter who helped them. Either way, that’s not what I meant. I was talking about the little turtle that learns all the lessons. He has a younger sister.”

Ed runs away, off into the children’s section. From my spot at the counter, I can see into that section perfectly. He goes right to the shelf, pulls a book, and then he’s back in a blur, quick as he left, this time holding a copy of Franklin’s Baby Sister .

“Truly impressive detective work, but no.”

He slumps on the counter, burying his head in his hands. “I give up.”

“ Harriet the Spy. It was my mom’s favorite book as a kid.

” I always hated my name growing up, wishing I’d been named Taylor or Hannah or Madison.

But my mom said I should be grateful for a unique name.

Her name is Sarah, and she had five other Sarahs in her kindergarten class.

When I was young, though, I would’ve given my bike away for a name that just blended into the crowd.

“Huh.” Ed says, startling me out of my thoughts. “I don’t even know what my mom’s favorite book is now, let alone when she was a kid. She’s more the have a few beers in the backyard to relax kind of lady. That’s rad, though.”

A small swell of pride blooms in my chest. It’s rad . Maybe Mom was on to something. “Your turn.”

He blows out a long breath and heads back up to the counter as I follow.

“Come on. I won’t tell a soul.”

He smiles wide again and grips me by each arm, looking deep into my eyes. He is touching me. Ed is touching me with his large hands and looking at me with his mossy green eyes. My knees are jelly. If I swooned right now, would he catch me?

His voice is low. “You promise not to tell anyone?”

I nod .

“Promise?”

“I don’t even live here, so who would I tell?”

He lets me go, and it feels like getting to the other side of a loop de loop on a roller coaster. Suddenly, the world is right side up again. He still doesn’t say his name, though.

“I promise.”

He lets out a long breath. “It’s short for Edgar.”

“Edgar?” I laugh. Of all the names I thought he might say, that one didn’t occur to me. I thought maybe Theodore, or Edmund, but Edgar?

He nods with his eyes closed, like it pains him to admit it.

“With a name like that, you should be writing horror. Is your middle name Allen?”

He ruffles my hair, and my scalp tingles at his touch. “And you should write middle grade.”

I stick my tongue out at him.

“What did you mean, you don’t live here? Where do you live?”

“Montana.”

“Hell of a commute.”

I laugh. “I stay with my grandparents for the summers. Have since I was a baby. She lives here—well, just a little outside of town on a farm.”

“Ahh. Why get a job if you’re visiting? Couldn’t you just loaf at your grandparent’s? Eat their food, watch movies…”

“I’m saving up for college. Anyway, spending all day in a bookstore sounds more fun.”

“Really?”

I shrug. “I love bookstores. Someday I want to own my own.” My cheeks burn at the admission.

I only ever talk about that with Mom, Grandma, Anh, and Robin.

I actually took a gap year, thinking maybe I’d skip college and open my bookstore instead, but Mom talked me out of it.

Said I should see what career options there are, try some things. She said she’d help with tuition.

He smiles as he gets a stack of books to put away, and I notice the tattoos on his other hand that spell out W-R-IT-E on each knuckle, the tiny I and T sharing his ring finger. “Bookstores are pretty rad.”

A woman walking hand in hand with a small boy with curly brown hair walks in. The boy drops his mom’s hand and runs straight to Ed. “Is it time? Are we late?”

Ed’s eyes go wide as he looks at his watch. “Nope, you’re early. We’ll start in about twenty minutes.”

More adults with children come in and head back to the children’s section.

Ed whispers to me under his breath, “I almost forgot about story time today.” His lips turn up at the corners. “You distracted me.”

I straighten the Post-it pad on the counter, take a pen out of the cup, and then put it back. “Me? I’m super busy working.”

He laughs. “I’m going to grab my guitar from the back. If anyone asks, we start at 11:30. Just point them in that direction.”

“Got it.”

He moves past me, but his spicy sweet scent lingers. Ed is cute, and funny, and he does story time for kids.Is he even real, or did he leap off one of the pages of one of these books?

At 11:33, Ed perches on a tiny purple chair in front of a horde of kids of all ages and sizes sitting with their families. The little boy with the curls is right at Ed’s feet, his face shining as he stares up at him.

“Okay, little dudes and dudettes! Do you know what time it is?”

“Story time!” they all scream.

“Yep.” Ed holds up Dragons Love Tacos by Adam Rubin and begins to read.

He does voices, makes faces, and the kids eat it up.

Once the story is over, he grabs his guitar to the cheers of the children.

The light coming from the window highlights the strong planes of his face as he tilts his head to look at his fingers.

He turns the knobs this way and that then starts to play.

The chords are familiar, but I can’t place the song at first, until he gets to the line that gives it away.

“I don’t wanna grow up.”

The kids are dancing and hopping around. Ed stands and stomps his foot on the wood floors to the beat. It’s glorious, so amazing in fact, I realize I’ve been ignoring a customer trying to ask me a question.

“Sorry. What was that?”

I try to focus on the customer, on doing my job, but my eyes keep drifting to Ed. He catches my gaze and winks.