Page 46 of Sex Positive

Eventually, he stopped texting and stopped trying to speak with her after class. That shouldn’t have felt worse, but somehow it did. But she clung to her self-respect, knowing she couldn’t be friends with him when she wanted so much more, and he thought so little of her.

After crossing a few more streets, her gaze snags on a familiar building in the distance, one she’s only ever glimpsed in movies and television shows. A surge of warmth and excitement fills her chest, and she wonders what it would be like to visit in the summer.

“What is this magical place you insist I won’t want to leave?” she asks.

Wes gestures to the store in front of them, bold white letters blaring the name on a bright red awning, the windows full of books.

Whatever he felt earlier has passed. His eyes glitter with excitement, his grin bright and effusive.

“Why don’t you see for yourself?”

She loses him within five minutes. Not because she wants to, but because every bookstore is a magical new land meant for exploration. Whispers float around her, the tendency of book lovers to speak softly while browsing, even though there’s no explicit rule about being quiet.

She loses herself in the smell of paper and ink, running her fingers down spines. The tranquility she feels amidst books almost makes her forget she’s here with Wes, who broke her heart. Wes, who says mystifying things that can’t possibly be true. Wes, whom she’s allowing to get close to her again despite her better judgment.

She feels an urge to share her favorite books, the pages she loves, the words that leave her in tears and wanting more. She’s always thought that there’s a direct path to a person’s soul through the books they love and that sharing them, baring the secrets of your heart, is a sign of trust.

A while later, she rounds a corner and freezes. Wes’s peacoat is unbuttoned, his blond head dipped over a book. He’s oblivious to her presence, his long fingers flipping idly through the pages, and she’s thrust back to a time when she watched those fingers dance over a keyboard, dexterously twirl a pen, gesticulate while emphasizing a point. When she imagined those fingers tracing patterns across her skin.

He closes the book, replaces it on the shelf, and retrieves another. She hears the crack of the spine, and he scans the words, expression soft and contemplative. She remembers how his eyes used to light up when he debated a point, teased her, coaxed a laugh from her lips.

Her heart aches.

When she tries retreating, the floorboards creak, and his head snaps up. Her stomach swoops at his grin, and she flashes a smile without teeth, giving a short wave.

“There you are.” He closes the book.

She edges closer, feeling self-conscious, like he can see her thoughts written on her face.

“Here I am.” She makes a jazz hands motion.

“Thought I’d have to send a search party for you.”

She shoots him a look of mock indignation. “Excuse me, but I believeIfoundyou.”

“So you did.” Neither of them looks away. He gestures to the store. “What do you think?”

She smiles, the ice around her aching heart melting a little more. “I love it.”

His grin is infectious, the dimple she remembers so clearly appearing in his left cheek.

“Need help finding anything?” a male voice asks.

Charlie springs back two steps, pressing a hand to her chest. Wes turns to the employee, unaffected by the interruption, and thanks him.

She directs her focus to the shelves, scanning the section they’re standing in. “American history?”

Wes shrugs and returns the book he was skimming—something about twentieth-century democracy. “Just browsing.”

She feels compelled to ask more, but instead she returns to her own browsing. He falls into step behind her, and she is attuned to his body, like she’s on a frequency broadcasting his every movement. She wants it to last, but that’s the kind of thinking that led to disastrous consequences for her in the first place.

Holding a stack of three books to her chest, she leads him to the register. She’s not sure how long they’ve spent there, but he hasn’t pushed her to hurry like others might have, aware of the delicate nature of bringing Charlie Rogers to a bookstore. She’s grateful for it, but she doesn’t know how to tell him.

When she extends her credit card to the cashier, he snatches it from her fingers and exchanges it for his with a quick sleight of hand maneuver.

“Quinn,no.” She tries shoving him away. “You can’t pay for my books.”

“I can and I will.” He winks at the cashier. She looks to be around their age, hair black with pink and purple streaks down the center. “Feminism,” he quips playfully. “Am I right?”