“That’s not true. At all. You have what’s in your heart. You don’t need a book—”
Going from feeling sick to angry, Henley said, “It was more than a book, Mother,” she spat the word. “It was... everything!” Henley closed her eyes, concentrating as hard as she could, eager to hear the whisper, the muse, inside her soul. It wasn’t there. Only silence met her. Come to think of it, Henley thought, she hadn’t had any new ideas since she’d come to. No itch to write. No... It couldn’t be gone, could it?
“No, honey, it wasn’t. And we’ll get you a new one. If it means that much to you, we’ll find another copy. It’s not a big deal.”
But it was. It was a huge deal. Henley believed that the book—the last connection she felt she had with her father—was the reason for the constant fill of endless concepts just waiting to be written. Ever since she’d sat down to read the book, all those years ago, and carrying it around with her since, she never, never struggled with ideas, or something to write about. They were always just there. Loud and clear, and infinite.
Of course, Abigail didn’t see that. Couldn’t understand. At that moment, it felt as though a piece of Henley was missing. It wasn’t just the book, but rather, a void in her heart, a flaw in her soul, the loss of something that had become what Henley thought was a permanent fixture in her life. Writing, those ideas, and her father were what made Henley who she was, and who she aspired to become. And without those things, she felt, again, as though she’d begun to let down the dream they had shared together. It was the one thing she knew, if she tried hard enough and didn’t give up, was attainable. The only hope she had was that it wasn’t going to be a lasting mark on herself. That perhaps, given some time, the desire and passion for writing would come back, full force.
Henley calmed herself down. “Sure. Okay. We’ll find another copy.”
* * *
The weeks passed by in a blur, between physiotherapy once she got her cast off, and the incessant babying from her mother and the complete and utter lack of voice in her head . . . Henley was ready to get back to her life. To begin to decide how she was going to get through the rest of it, if her one and only dream had now become unattainable. Henley had spent her time on her mother’s expensive couch, leg in the air, sifting through the files on her computer. She flipped through the pages of the notebooks she retrieved from her apartment, praying she’d be able to find the will to write. She read and re-read everything she had ever laid down on paper—tidbits of plots, character demographics, random lines of dialog—and yet, nothing came to her. Not a whisper, not an inkling, not that familiar tingle in her stomach when she got excited and couldn’t wait to get to work.
She started to believe her muse was trapped in the disintegrated book. And now that she didn’t have it, she’d never be able to pick up those pieces and work on another novel. She couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing her father, from beyond the grave, yet Henley couldn’t figure out how to get it back.
Abigail had painstakingly done what she could to track down another copy of the book. Though Henley knew it wouldn’t quite be the same. It would be missing that familiar scrawl of her father’s writing on the page; where she’d brushed her fingers over the indentations; could close her eyes and remember each curve of his letters, how he’d pressed down harder, deepening the blue ink and the impression it made, when he’d written the words “Don’t give up.”
The new book would lack the adventures she’d taken it on, carrying it with her through the final years of high school. And on a road trip she’d taken with some girlfriends where they turned around and drove two hours back to a small diner where she’d left her purse. She remembered what it had felt like—not knowing if the book would be inside. To her relief, it was still there. Henley had also carried the book with her to the hospital after her half-sister, Hailey, was born, and how reading it in the waiting room sparked a few ideas. A new book wouldn’t hold those same memories, or that mumble of constant encouragement, which came from her father. He’d been the one to believe in her right from the start. But Henley wasn’t willing to give up hope entirely.
Although, as it would turn out, the book—long since out of print—was written by an author who produced that one and only piece. It was impossible to come by. Searches of the internet came up empty. A rather nasty phone call to the publisher ended with Abigail finally giving up as they no longer held the rights to the work and weren’t interested in helping her find a copy. Henley did what she could, but she supposed when you only wrote one book, selling a less than spectacular amount, it would be easy to drop off the face of the earth and become a recluse. Her only hope was finding it wedged on a shelf of a used bookstore. But that was like searching for a needle in a haystack. Henley called dozens of them and most hadn’t even heard of the book or the author, and were unable to help her.
As time wore on, Henley accepted she’d never be the same without finding the book that had inspired her. Would never be taught another lesson she needed to know in order to craft, what she thought, were brilliant works of fiction. It was just another thing that had her life spiraling slowly out of control, quickly losing sight of who she was.
Yet, every time Henley walked past a bookstore, she had to go in. It was like they were a beacon, calling to her, and she couldn’t move on without at least knowing. Without looking. It became like a nervous habit. Just the possibility of finding the book gave her the shakes, tingling her body, speeding up her heart rate. The anxiety was overwhelming. Something she assumed was similar to a drug addict searching for their next fix; an unfortunate comparison, maybe, but the truth. She’d stop whatever she was doing just to go inside.
On a particularly hard day, Henley found herself driving several hours in one direction, just to get away. She had discovered Abigail’s way of “taking care of her” was putting in her resignation at the café where she waited tables. It also meant giving up the lease on the apartment she’d secured for herself, a few short blocks away from her school. And even though she had gotten the missing assignments from Henley’s professors, Abigail had begun to nudge and nag her into accepting a different direction in life. Abigail suddenly wanted full control over her affairs. She’d offered to pay the tuition for her college courses if she chose a different major. Was willing to help her find another apartment, closer to where Abigail lived, and would pay for that, too. She said it was so Henley could concentrate on her education. Naturally, so she could secure a new, more realistic, career option. Or better yet, she’d allow Henley to live, for free, in the tiny guest house on the property her mother owned.
Henley was suffocating. The deceit and the lies she had been told built up to the point that Henley couldn’t take it. She couldn’t look her mother in the eyes without seeing hatred. She knew her mom was a force, and almost always got what she wanted, but to manipulate her daughter... Henley was disgusted. And she hated the day she had ever gotten into a car with her mother, that moment having been the catalyst that began to unravel her entire life.
As the sky overhead began to darken, and Henley still feeling no better over the outburst she and her mother had hours before, she took the next exit, which made way to a small town. Part of her knew she should probably find a gas station, fuel up, grab some snacks and make the long journey back home, but she couldn’t do it; couldn’t bring herself to pull into the gas station, and passed by it without much thought. Her mother would still be furious. Hell, Henley was crazed with anger over her mother believing she could tempt her into making drastic changes, and throw money at any problem, just to make it better.
Instead, Henley found Main Street, the tiny shops, cafés and restaurants still aglow with tourists enjoying the summer holidays. She pulled into an angled spot and cut the engine, only to rest her head against the steering wheel, breathing deeply. A few minutes later, she shoved open the door, the humid air of the hot summer night surrounding her instantly. It felt good. Being someplace else. Far, far away from her contr
olling mother and her broken dreams.
Though she’d graduated from having to use crutches, Henley still walked with a less-than-graceful gait; the pain in her leg a dull pestering ache that might never go away. Another perpetual reminder of how wrong she’d been about seeing her mother. She’d helped Hailey, but it was the only small glimmer of light that made it okay. It was also why Abigail was so sure that Henley would bend to her will. She couldn’t walk or stand for extended periods of time; still many hours of therapy ahead of her, and medical bills left unpaid, making her employment options limited.
Henley ambled up the street, stopping abruptly at the corner. On the other side was a used bookstore. She scrutinized the list in her mind of all the stores in the area that she called in search of her elusive muse. The name, Re: Read Books, came to mind, and Henley hesitated for only a moment before crossing the street, making a beeline for the store. There was that slight chance, no matter how small, and Henley couldn’t pass it up. She’d pulled into the town, parked and got out to stretch her legs, but also to get her mind to focus on something else. The hope that propelled her forward was enough of a reason to open the door and go inside.
Henley inhaled deeply. The dimly lit store cased shelves and shelves of books. They were stacked on the tops, lining the floor in teetering piles, resting on tables, and underneath them. The smell, that musk of old leather bindings, dust and something else, was calming.
“Can I help you find something?”
A man popped out from behind a stack of books, clutching a few titles in his hand as he looked warmly towards her with a friendly smile. It caught her attention immediately. It was an honest smile, and as he set the books down and came towards her, Henley couldn’t help but be drawn by the way he carried himself. He was full of masculine features. A toned body underneath a snug t-shirt and jeans slung low on his hips. Tattoos covered his arms. Henley could make out the etchings of books with wings, which disappeared beneath the fabric. His hair was cut short, a bronzy brown, held in place by gel. Severe features of an angular jaw were clean shaven. But his eyes, the closer he came to her, drew her attention further. A soft blue you could get lost in, that held all kinds of emotion and secrets, even a hint of sadness.
Her heart picked up pace, rumbling inside her chest. Henley wasn’t sure if it was because of the man or the buildup of anticipation of finally finding the book. It would seem almost fitting, Henley thought, that it could potentially find its way back to her when she needed it most. Having that book might easily be the thing that helped her decide the rest of her future.
Then, ignoring the slim chances, Henley pushed that aside, suddenly so sure that the store owner would have it. She’d have bet her life on it. She needed the book so badly, she wasn’t willing to believe that it might not be among the hundreds of others.
“Um, yeah. Maybe. I’m wondering if you have a copy of a book called, “The Write Way.” It’s sort of a how-to guide. By an author named Trent Holbrook.”
Henley could have sworn there was a flicker of recognition in his alluring eyes, and yet after an excruciating amount time, he replied, “No. I don’t think I do.”
Nodding, while holding her disappointment at bay, Henley responded with a quick, “Alright. Thanks,” and turned to leave. She’d made it a few steps when a splinter of pain shot up her leg, causing her to stumble, just as what felt like the weight of the world came crashing down on her. She’d been so sure. Positive. And yet, she couldn’t think past the moment, and how much hurt suddenly wrenched at her heart, mirroring what she felt from her no longer broken leg.
“Hey, easy there,” she heard the man say.
But all Henley couldn’t think about was getting away from the books, the man, and her life before the dam she’d built up broke. She wanted to have a choice when she released the flood of emotions that were building so forcefully inside her, and it certainly wasn’t going to be in the company of a stranger. It all wasn’t just about the book, or her father, even Abigail; it was about how lost she suddenly felt. Alone.
Henley took a few calculated steps towards the door; her leg hell-bent on giving out on her, as tears began to burn her eyes, blurring her vision. She hated how weak it made her feel. And she’d almost made it to the door when a sob involuntary pierced through the air.
A second later, a strong hand slipped into hers, pulling her back. “Wait. Please. Is everything okay?” He turned her around, just as the first few tears managed to slip free and roll down Henley’s cheeks.
She couldn’t find the words, her lips pressed in a tight line, chin quivering as a few more tears spilled free. Instead, she shook her head. No. She wasn’t okay. If that hadn’t already been abundantly clear.
“Here, why don’t you... Sit down for a moment, okay.” He tugged lightly on her hand and began walking just a few steps from the door where a chair rested, covered in books. Without a thought, the man swept them to the floor with a thud.
Slumping into the chair, Henley put her head in her hands, hiding herself. She had hoped he would just leave her be, alone, crying in a chair, surrounded by books, hours away from home but that wasn’t the case.
“Here, take this,” he said. When Henley looked up, he was kneeling on the ground in front of her. He pulled a square handkerchief from his pocket. “It’s clean, I swear.” It was an odd sight, and something that didn’t seem to suit the tough guy persona that encompassed him. Had she saw him on the street, she wouldn’t have thought he’d be the curator of bookstore either.
Henley took the hanky and forced a smile. She dabbed at her eyes and inhaled a shaky breath.
“Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?” He looked up at her through long lashes.
A flush of embarrassment heated her cheeks further. “Not really.”
He lifted his chin slowly. “Sure. Okay. Well, I was just about to close. If you give me a minute, I can help you home.”
At the mention of home, Henley shed a few more tears of frustration. The absolute last place she wanted to go was back to Abigail’s. She’d rather sleep in her car if she had to. “I-I’m not from around here.”
“Oh. Well, where you from?” Then he said, “My name’s Garret, by the way.” He held out his hand, and Henley took it. He grasped firmly, touch lingering, sending another blush to work over her face and neck.
“I’m Henley,” she responded, his hand still laced with hers. “I sort of just drove here. Needed to get away. I live in Castlegar.”
Garret whistled. “And you came all the way here?”
She shrugged. “I just drove. Trying to clear my head, I guess.”
“Alright.” He stood up. “How about I make you a cup of coffee? Might perk you up before you have to drive all the way back.”
It was a nice gesture. Thoughtful. But Henley looked between Garret and the door, apprehensively.
“I promise. I’m a good guy. Not that my word means much. But I’ll be a complete gentleman. I swear,” he said.
It was more than two hours home, in the dark, on a two lane highway. Though she’d been able to get back into a car after her accident, she still felt uneasy about being behind the wheel. That, she’d been told, would just take time. But it also meant that the idea of driving back wasn’t an appealing thought.
“Okay. That sounds nice.”
“Great. Follow me,” he said over his shoulder as he began to walk away. Henley stood on shaky legs and pushed herself to keep up as he disappeared into the towering stacks of books. He weaved through them effortlessly, occasionally flipping his gaze over his shoulder, just to make sure she was still keeping up, until they were at the far end of the store, staring down a door.
He pushed it open to reveal a stock room and a rickety old staircase. “My apartment is just up here,” he motioned to the area above them.
Clutching the handkerchief tightly in her hand, Henley climbed the stairs, which led to another door at the top. Once inside, Henley marveled at the amount of books kept hidden up ther
e. The store could have had an entire second floor of merchandise. They were crammed into every nook, covering every surface, save for a small ledge of counter in the kitchen area, and a bed at the other end of the space. There was an ornate table and chairs, and Garret was quick to say, “Sit down and I’ll put the coffee on. It’ll only take a minute.”
She did as he’d said, and sat down. He pulled a bag of coffee from the freezer, filled the pot with water, and flicked the switch. He kept a close eye on the coffee that sputtered from the maker as he leaned against the counter. Or perhaps, he was just giving Henley some space. Either way, she was happy to have him not so close in proximity. She didn’t deny herself the opportunity to look, letting her eyes sweep over him. He was handsome, without a doubt, and she felt the faintest hint of butterflies in her stomach.
* * *
They stayed silent for a long while, the only sound, Henley’s constant heartbeat—loud in her ears—and the coffee machine percolating. When it was done, he grabbed two mugs from a cupboard. “I don’t have any cream. Or milk, for that matter. Or sugar. I hope that’s okay.”
“I take my coffee black, so you’re in luck.” She smiled and admired how easily the words and emotion came out. She was beginning to feel better.
“Well, if that’s the case, we can definitely be friends.”
This time, it wasn’t just a smile, but laughter too, that came from Henley, catching her a little off guard. But she liked the effortlessness of being with Garret. Bizarrely enough, it didn’t feel quite like they were strangers.
He came to her side and set down the coffee before taking a seat across from her. Henley took a tentative sip, testing the flavor and the temperature. It was nearly perfect.
“So, I’m curious, what does one want with a how-to guide that’s been out of print for more than a decade?”
Henley’s eyes grew wide. “So you’ve heard of it? Are you a writer?” That was more than she could say about the dozens of bookstore owners she’d talked to. Most didn’t recognize the author or the title.
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