Page 29 of The Library of Borrowed Hearts

“Your last GoFundMe was to get enough money to fix Theo’s broken molar, and you closed it because he decided to pull the tooth out with a pair of pliers and save everyone the trouble.That’s not existing. That’s barely squeaking by.”

As Theo still had that tooth in a jar and liked to show it off anytime he was accused of not doing his part to help the family, Pepper wasn’t wrong. Too bad for her, I had a counterargument ready to go.

“If I’m so bad at accepting help, then why did I agree to let Jasper babysit Noodle for the foreseeable future?” I asked. At her sudden gasp, I laughed. “That’s right. You heard me correctly. I handed my beloved brother over to the meanest man in the world, and I did it without regret.That’show desperate I am.That’show willing to accept a helping hand.”

Instead of the capitulation I’d hoped for, Pepper tossed me the book. “You’re such a bad liar. You don’t think Jasper is mean at all. You kind of love him. You and this Catherine chick both have itbad.”

“You found the passage? You see what I mean about Shirley Jackson?” I was so excited I could barely keep the vibration out of my voice. “I’m almost certainThe Haunting of Hill Houseis the next piece of the puzzle, but I already checked the library database. We haven’t carried any copies of it for years.”

“I found the passage,” Pepper agreed. “But if you and Jasper are besties now, I don’t see why you can’t just talk to him about it. If you want to know the ending to his romance, all you have to do is ask.”

“Are you kidding? That’s the worst idea I’ve ever heard.” I couldhardly believe that Pepper—romantic, intelligent, literary Pepper—didn’t see things as clearly as I did. “He’s every brokenhearted book curmudgeon come to life. Archibald Craven fromThe Secret Garden? Heathcliff fromWuthering Heights? Arthur McLachlan fromThe Lonely Hearts Book Club? Come on, Pepper. I taught you better than that. He obviously suffered a terrible romantic tragedy in his youth, and he’s spent his whole miserable life trying—and failing—to get over it. It’s why he’s so unhappy now. Maybe she broke his heart. Maybe she really did die—not from murder, obviously, but the normal way.”

“You sound awfully gleeful about the prospect of your beloved C kicking the bucket.”

At the thought of such an untimely end for a woman I was rapidly becoming obsessed with, a pang of guilt assailed me. As strongly as it tugged, however, it was no match for the curiosity that was taking over all my other worries. It had been so long since I’d felt excitement—or anything other than stomach-churning, helpless anxiety—that I found myself falling under its spell.

“Fine,” I capitulated. “Maybe she’s alive and pining for her lost love somewhere, and all I want to do is reunite them in their golden years.”

Pepper’s only response to this was a flat, sarcastic stare, so I flipped open the book and read the words that were already imprinted on my heart.

If you really want to be my friend, this is the part where I should probably confess that I don’t like Hemingway very much.

I won’t tell anyone if you don’t. But if you don’t like Hemingway, why did you pick up the book in the first place?

I plead the Fifth.

Only mobsters and politicians do that.

Fine. Someone recommended it to me.

Who? A librarian?

You’re very nosy.

And you’re very cagey. I bet it was L. She likes sappy, dramatic books. She even likes this one.

It wasn’t L. And it isn’t sappy and dramatic. It’s supposed to be romantic.

Romantic?Romantic? If Hemingway hadn’t killed C off at the end, their love story would have been doomed. F is a selfish deserter who would have gotten tired of C as soon as the war ended. Poor C would have had to go on to raise her child all by herself. In the 1920s, a fallen woman with no way to support herself. That’s not a romance. It’s a tragedy.

At this point, their communication had gone on for so long that I was forced to turn the page to keep reading. I had no idea how often this book switched hands or how much time passed between each message, but the well-thumbed pages made me think it had been a lengthy endeavor.

Okay. I get it. You don’t like love stories.

And you do? What’s your favorite book?

Can I plead the Fifth again?

Only if you promise to wave at me the next time I see you in public.

There. I did it. Happy now?

Getting there. I liked that shirt you were wearing. It brings out the color in your eyes.

Compliments weren’t part of the deal.

Then don’t wear a blue shirt the next time I see you. If you won’t tell me your favorite book, how are we supposed to pick what we’re going to read next? Mrs. P is starting to get suspicious of how much time I’m spending near this shelf.