TWENTY-SEVEN

Dani

‘Dani, Dani you have to get up. Someone’s at the door.’

I hear the voice, I even hear the words, but it all drifts over me like smoke wafting over my head. Next moment, there are hands on my shoulders, and my body is shaking.

‘Dani, your boss is here. You know, from that job you worked so desperately hard to get?’

Toby’s eyes are wide and he looks almost as tired as I feel. Slowly, slowly, his words reverberate through me.

Job.

Boss.

Sam.

Oh god, what the hell is he doing here for? I may be almost catatonic but I haven’t missed one single deadline. My work has remained as meticulous as possible even as the rest of me frays at every possible seam.

In a haze of movement, I pull a hoodie on over my stained and creased t-shirt, I scrape my hair back into a bun and quickly splash some water on my face. On my way to the front door, I spray myself all over with deodorant in the vague hope that it might mask the smell of body odour and sadness.

Yet when I reach the front door, I find that it is already open. Elle’s voice floats toward me, she is mumbling, and I know without a doubt that she is talking about me.

In horror, my eyes drift to who Elle is talking to and… there he is. Samwell King.  Standing in my doorway, dressed in one of his impeccably pressed suits – though without a tie and his top buttons undone, is this what he considers casual?

For a moment I simply cease.

I cease to breathe. I cease to move. I cease to be.

It is as though I have become detached from myself, and I am delirious for seeing something as bizarre and miraculous as my boss standing outside my house. There is something surreal about having him here. Not for the first time, I notice just how handsome he is. Charming really.

Fuck, I’m tired.

Sam’s eyes narrow as he takes in the full sight of me. And I am a sight. My hair is coated in an inch of grease, my eyes are bruised purple, and I don’t think anyone has seen me in my joggers since mandatory sports lessons in school.

‘Take a shower and get dressed,’ Sam says in that authoritative, calm voice of his. ‘I’ll wait for you.’

I don’t say anything, I simply nod and make my way to the bathroom.

It isn’t until I am submerged in the water that I even question why I’m taking orders from him in my own home, or why he is even waiting for me at all.

The following half-hour is a blur of movement and sounds and… I’m not even sure what.

The shower has made me feel more lively than I have any right to feel – as if the water has siphoned off some of my guilt and fear.

Somehow, I am dressed and am convinced to leave my bungalow – which is to say him, my dad – in the hands of Elle, Toby and Mae.

Even more absurdly, I am led from my bungalow and into Sam’s car.

Which is where I sit now, as we zip over the bridge and into the centre of town.

Clean, confused… kidnapped?

Unclear.

‘If this is about the quality of my work…’ I begin. ‘I swear I am still –’

‘It’s not,’ he says, not looking away from the road. ‘Frankly, I’m impressed by what you’ve been delivery considering… well, if I’d known the state you were in, I’d have checked in on you sooner.’

‘And what state am I in exactly?’

He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t answer. It was a stupid question, I may have been in a pit, but it was most definitely of my own making.

‘Where are you taking me then? To the office? I’m not –’

He cuts me off again. ‘Are you even aware of what day of the week it is?’

I say nothing.

Because no, I do not know something as inconsequential as what day it is.

‘It’s a Saturday, so no, we are not going to the office.’

I open my mouth to ask more questions but decide against it, and instead just settle for watching the well-worn scenery pass me by.

Soon enough the car turns a corner and slows to a stop down Peter’s Street. Sam swerves his car to the side, effectively parking it and the two of us hop out. Faintly, I am aware that his car is a nice car – very sleek and shiny. But I am not, nor have I ever been, a car person. So, all I know is that it looks vaguely sporty and is black, and that is looks ever-so-out-of-place down Peter’s Street. Home of the “mum cars,” teen BMXs’ and the odd run-down moped. It’s one of the main free parking streets that lead into town.

Again, I wonder what exactly we are doing here.

Sam begins to walk and he doesn’t even check to see if I am behind him, so I half-jog, half-walk to keep up.

We walk into town past the haberdashery, the old gastro-pub and the pharmacy before turning into one of the main highstreets where, abruptly, he stops.

Right outside Otter’s Bookshop.

For a brief second, I have the mad impulse to smile.

Otter’s is the largest chain of bookshops going and while I love my independent stores, Otter’s has just always been there. In fact, this is the same store I used to visit after first being adopted. Once a month my mum would bring me here and let me wander round for hours until I picked the perfect book to take home. And in all the time since I started visiting, it almost hasn’t changed. Its burgundy logo remains the same and inside it still has the same old, ugly brown carpet. But it has had a new lick of paint in recent years, and of course the table of books is often updated and rearranged.

Sam opens the doors and ushers me inside where he promptly picks up two baskets and hands one over to me.

‘Fill it up,’ he says, ‘Consider it market research.’

My hand wraps tightly around the handle. ‘Are you serious?’

The corner of his lips tug into a small smile. ‘I’m rarely anything but.’

I stand there, gawking at him – entranced. Then he turns away from me and the bookshop comes back into focus.

There is something about a bookshop. There is a stillness to them that is somehow both comforting and cozy. Because despite its quietness and its openness it still feels welcoming – as though the books themselves are waiting for you. And so there you are, leisurely browsing alongside other bibliophiles in this land of communal comfort and appreciation – a thousand different worlds and stories at your fingertips.

Sam and I both wander to the fantasy section, our feet falling into a soft, steady rhythm. Occasionally he will show me a book and it will invariably be added to one of our baskets. I show him books too, presenting him with titles that are of interest or books that I know some titbit of information about. He never seems bored, only genuinely interested in what I have to say.

Steadily, our baskets grow fuller and fuller until –

‘Oh, I’ve been meaning to read this for ages!’ I half-exclaim, half-whisper. Reaching down I pull from the shelf a bright blue coloured spine.

‘What is it?’ Sam asks, peering over my shoulder.

‘S.N. Travers, The Chalice and the Kasillas, it’s supposedly one of the earliest instances of fantasy in novel form. It’s one of those classics I’ve always intended to read but never gotten around to.’

That’s the thing about reading. There will always be books you want to read, and you will never catch up. This is doubly true for the classics, every time you think you’re making headway you will find new old classics to read and the list goes on and on forever.

Tis both a source of great comfort and deep sadness that I will simply never be able to read everything.

‘You know what? Same here. I just assumed I’d get around to reading it eventually,’ Sam says, eyeing the cover appreciatively as I clutch it almost protectively in my hands.

I loosen my grip and crouch down to the bottom shelf where there is one other brightly blue spine.

‘Well, there’s two copies,’ I say. ‘Shall we both get a copy and then buddy read?’

I pass Sam the book – it’s cover is grey with an ornate blue chalice as the only  illustration.

He frowns. ‘Buddy read?’

I grin. ‘You know, when you read a book together?’

It’s his turn to grin. ‘You mean, like a book club?’ he says sardonically.

‘Yeah, except book clubs require a group, this would be just the two of us.’

The words linger in the air.

Just the two of us.

Suddenly, the book seems like some kind of shared secret – something private and intimate just for us two. A warmth floods my chest, and I can feel heat rush to my cheeks. I immediately regret my choice of words and wish I had a way to swallow them back.

But Sam is oblivious to my panic. He simply adds the book to his basket.

‘Fine, I’ll be your buddy reader, but I expect updates and detailed feedback of your thoughts throughout. Okay?’

I nod. I can’t quite bring myself to say oh hell yes!

A book review assignment? For fun? The perfectionist in me is ecstatic.

And, if I stare a little too long at Samwell as he pays for all the FORTY different books at the counter, I tell myself it’s because I am grateful – and truly I am.

I’m grateful.

 And absolutely nothing else.