Page 21 of What He Doesn't Know

“It’s a first edition,” she said, almost as a question. “It’sbeautiful.Where in the world did you find it?” She narrowed her eyes then. “Wait, is this one of yoursurprises?Please tell me you didn’t steal this from Juilliard.”

I barked out a laugh.

“Nope, actually bought this one. It wasn’t too long after the shooting, actually,” I said, voice softer as I watched Charlie flip through the pages as gently as she could. “I passed by an older couple selling books out of old boxes in front of a bookstore in Manhattan. They were closing their doors after ninety years. It was the woman’s father’s store before he passed it on to her.”

Charlie’s brows bent together. “That’s so sad.”

“It is. But they were in good spirits. They told me a lot of great stories, and I bought a few books from them, this one included.”

She shook her head, closing the book to run her fingers over the gold text on the cover. “This must have cost a small fortune, Reese.”

“They practically paid me to take it,” I lied. “Trust me, it would have been crazy for me not to buy it at the price they offered.”

The truth was it hadn’t even been in the boxes at all. It was one still locked behind a glass case inside the store, the most expensive book they still owned. I bought it off them for just under three thousand dollars.

And I’d buy it again if it meant I got to watch Charlie open it one more time in the back of an empty library.

“It’s too much,” she whispered.

“It’s a gift. I figured I’d run into you again someday, and you’d kill me if I told you that story and I’d walked away from a first-edition Tolstoy.”

She smiled, but it fell quickly, and her eyes were glossed over as she tore them away from the book and found my gaze once more. “You thought you’d see me again someday?”

“I hoped,” I answered honestly.

Charlie smoothed her fingers over the cover, her eyes sad. “It’s beautiful. Thank you, Reese.”

“You’re welcome, Tadpole.”

I wanted to ask her why she’d been avoiding me, why she hadn’t said a word to me since Friday night, but I didn’t get the chance before the alarm on her phone signaled it was time to walk back to her classroom.

We cleaned up the table, wrapping ourselves back in our scarves and coats for the walk, and Charlie talked the whole time about when she first read Tolstoy as we crossed campus. She told me she knew exactly where she’d put it in her library, and she loved it even more for the bumps and bruises.

“Books aren’t meant to be in perfect shape,” she said when we reached her room. “They’re meant to be read, to be inhaled like oxygen.” Her fingers ran over the spine again, and she smiled. “This book has been breathed. It’s been loved.”

That smile alone confirmed it was the best three grand I ever spent.

Charlie

I used to love my library.

That’s what I kept thinking as I slipped inside the beautiful room later that night, dark now that the sun had set, but still cast in a warm glow from my favorite reading lamp. I hugged the copy ofAnna KareninaReese had given me to my chest, walking over to a shelf on the far-left wall that held my classics. I eyed the spines, deciding where Tolstoy’s new home would be, and I wanted to love being in that room again.

But I just didn’t.

We’d had so many rooms in the house when Cameron and I first moved in. It was just the two of us. I remembered him carrying me like a new bride through each and every room when the house was still empty. He’d set me down, my bare feet on the polished wood as he excitedly showed me where everything would go.

We’d have our master bedroom, of course, and an office for him. We were both really into fitness at the time, so we saved one of the five bedrooms for workout equipment. There was the guest bedroom, and then there was the room closest to ours, with large bay windows and a beautiful view of the sunset at night.

It became my library.

It used to be one of my favorite places in the house. I’d come up after a morning of gardening and relax in the little reading nook Cameron had built me under the window. I’d re-read old favorites and discover new ones, too. One bookshelf grew to two, which quickly multiplied into four, and before I knew it, every wall was lined with books.

I thought there was nothing I could want more in the world.

And then, I got pregnant.

My stomach dropped at the memory, and I placed the brown cloth-covered book between my well-kept editions ofWuthering HeightsandThe Scarlet Letter.My eyes flicked to the closet in the corner, right near the window I used to sit under, and then back to the worn spine. It didn’t feel right, that it was so beat up and yet it sat next to two practically brand new books. So, I pulled it out again, running my fingers over the gold lettering as I surveyed other options.