Page 17 of Wish You Were Her
Jonah opened Brooks Books the following day and took advantage of his solitude to check the email.
[email protected]
to: [email protected]
Subject: Not Myself
Dear Friend and hopefully not so sad bookseller,
I totally know what you mean! I often find myself looking down, or back, at my own behavior and wonder why I sometimes have this massive break of communication between what my brain wants to express and what actually ends up coming out.
I wish people could hear and see intentions, as well as actions.
I’m sure you are lovely. I know you are, because of these emails. You’re being too hard on yourself.
I’m also sure the festival will be fine. I would like to meet you there. Maybe near the end of the run? That way, it won’t ruin the whole experience for you if you think I’m not worth all of these emails we’ve been sending. I’ve been loving your pictures of the town; I can’t wait to see it.
Feel better soon.
Friend
Jonah felt a tightness in his chest as he read the objectively kind email.
He hurriedly googled the address, hoping it might lead to a social media account or anything he could use to identify this joyous person who brought him relief during a troublesome summer.
Nothing turned up so he began to draft another response.
[email protected]
to: [email protected]
RE: Who Are You?
Dear Friend,
Your email pulled me out of a bit of a shame spiral. Even though you don’t know who I am, and I don’t know you, thank you for making me feel a bit human again. I’ve made so many stupid errors lately, I’ve not been my best self, and this was something I really needed.
Who are you? Are you an eighty-five-year-old lady who emailed the shop one day? Are you my age? Are you as great as you seem over email? As kind? I know we’re both really enjoying this anonymity thing but I’d love to put a name to my friend. Who, right now, feels like the only friend I have left.
God, that sounds pathetic. I’m not actually that sad.
Please let’s meet. The festival is so soon, I could never be disappointed in you.
There’s always a party to celebrate the program launch.
It’s next Friday. Pete’s Cafe in Lake Pristine is very pretty.
We could grab a drink there at seven and then head to the launch?
No pressure. Seriously. And if I’m too intense, that’s fine. Ignore me. But don’t stop writing. Your emails are the one thing I have to look forward to these days.
Wish you were here.
Bookseller
He sent it before he could start to doubt himself and as it swept from the outbox into the sent folder, Simon flew through the door.
“I’m doing the boring computer stuff this morning,” Jonah told him quickly. “Can you do the click-and-collects?”
“Ah, yes, my favorite,” Simon said loftily. “Trying to find that one copy of Mrs. Dalloway that the online system is adamant we have, yet I can’t find anywhere.”
Jonah ignored him, printing off the orders and handing them unceremoniously to Simon.
A reply pinged into his secret folder and his heart stopped for a moment.
[email protected]
to: [email protected]
Subject: Who Are You?
Okay! Yes! I’ll see you there on Friday. Seven? Can you put a flower in a book so I recognize you? Just kidding.
This is scary and exciting. Promise you won’t be disappointed or mad?
Yours,
Friend
Jonah was typing furiously, enough to make Simon look over at him.
[email protected]
to: [email protected]
RE: Who Are You?
I’ll have a copy of Middlemarch by George Eliot. I know Anna Karenina or Pride and Prejudice would be more romantic, but you can’t miss Middlemarch , especially with a flower inside of it. I’m actually not kidding.
Seven it is.
Bookseller
PS Still wish you were here. But soon, you will be!
I don’t have a picture of it, but today’s book cameo is My Story by Marilyn Monroe and you can picture it sitting on the cluttered shop desk with me.
Maybe I should read it myself, so I can learn more about the glamorous arrival we have staying in town with us.
He dashed off the email and fled from the computer, as if it were hot to the touch.
He raced to the little festival corner they had set up and he began to organize the books of the mostly confirmed authors.
The Monroe memoir remained on the counter but he would reshelve it later, he told himself as he focused on the selection before him.
Quentin Morrison’s books were notably absent. He had dropped out in an enormous huff and was apparently deriding the festival in one of the newspapers.
Simon moved to the computer, muttering about a missing book that he needed to find for a customer.
He picked up the Marilyn Monroe book and turned it over to read the blurb.
As he did so, the door to the upstairs flat burst open and Allegra appeared.
Her hair was down, her face wore no makeup and yet she looked fresh and bright.
A mixture of emotion crossed her face when she seemed to spot Simon at the computer, the book in his hand, and she gave the smallest smile.
“You can have a longer lie-in,” Simon teased. “Meeting isn’t until eleven.”
“I’m off to explore the town a bit more,” Allegra said breezily, peering toward the computer screen. Her eyes still appeared agitated and locked onto the book once more. “Nice choice.”
“Thanks,” Simon said, putting the uncompleted autobiography of the Hollywood icon back down on the desk. “Maybe I can learn a bit about you from it.”
Jonah sighed, slightly perturbed to have made the same comment in his email. For some strange reason, he wanted to grab her attention. He wanted her to acknowledge that he was also in the room.
“Have you seen the market?” he asked her.
Her head turned and she nodded at him. “Yes.”
“The square?”
“Yes.”
“The dance studio?”
“Yes.”
“The actual lake?”
“Yes!”
“The Arthouse? The church? Main Street?”
“Yes, Jonah.”
“Then you’ve seen all of Lake Pristine.”
He expected Allegra to roll her eyes at him but she gave him a smirk and then headed for the exit.
“Thanks, Jonah. But I’m off to see how the festival site is coming along.”
Jonah watched the cogs turn in Simon’s head and, for reasons he didn’t fully want to examine, he said, “I’ll come with you. I need to check in with the board about volunteers.”
Allegra didn’t object.
“I’ll just stay here all by myself then!” Simon called after them.
The whole town was baking beneath the sun, which to Jonah felt oppressive and too intense.
The early heatwave meant that townsfolk were walking around with sunburns.
The air conditioning had broken in the post office, which had resulted in two mailmen fighting over a parking space.
Everyone was either dashing to the water, pouring into the venues that served ice or growing crabby from the scorching heat.
Jonah glanced at Allegra. She had put on her oversized sunglasses. In her white lace dress and gold locket, she looked every bit the movie star.
“Are you wearing SPF?”
“Huh?” he said, dragging his gaze from her hands and waist and hair to her face. “Sorry.”
“Are you wearing sunscreen? It’s way too hot today. The sun’s bearing down.”
“No.”
She opened the canvas tote bag that was neatly hanging from her elbow and took out a small white bottle of designer SPF. She opened it and put some on the back of her hand before tapping the cream with her fingertips.
“May I?”
He realized that she was asking his permission to protect him from the sun. “Uh-huh.”
She gently massaged the small dollops of white cream into his face and jawline. He felt every molecule react to the touch. He noticed that she smelled of lemons.
His family and teachers had always lovingly teased him about his more emotional side. While he was prone to stoicism and terse responses, his demeanor had been occasionally shattered by the odd pretty face and the adults around him had always found it extremely amusing.
“Thanks,” was all he managed to say to Allegra. He avoided eye contact and held his breath, turning himself to hardened stone in the hope that it would conceal all of his blatant awareness of her.
“ALLEGRA brOOKS!”
A voice shattered the moment, and Jonah watched Allegra’s face as she looked toward the intrusive sound.
Saffron, who worked in the newly opened Lake Pristine salon, was sprinting toward them with her phone already primed for taking a picture.
“You’re the talk of the whole town,” she gushed, on reaching them. “I didn’t believe my sister when she said you were here for the summer.”
“Hello,” Allegra said, in a serene and unflustered tone that did not for a moment convey the strangeness of this stranger’s presumed intimacy and familiarity. “Nice to meet you.”
It was a jarring scene for Jonah to watch. Saffron had greeted Allegra like they were old friends, or at least acquaintances. Allegra was warm and polite, but Jonah was waiting for her to address the truth of the situation.
Saffron did not know Allegra.
Social rules mattered to Jonah, as an autistic. Not because they made sense or felt natural to him, but because he had been punished so severely for breaking them, as a younger neurodivergent person.
He watched Allegra hold herself like a canvas, awaiting the colorful paint of another person’s expectations and wants.
He hated it.
Saffron was taking pictures with Allegra without asking. Allegra smiled into the young woman’s lens, but Jonah knew her well enough now to see that it was forced.
It was the kind of expression he had forced out of himself when the school picture photographer yelled, “Smile.” It was a plea as much as it was a surrender.