When I had all the answers, the questions changed.
—paulo coelho
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AUDREY
The habitual tinkling of bells greeted me as I pushed open the door to Rivera Books. Instantly, the crisp aroma of freshly printed ink on paper embraced my senses, feeling like a warm hug that welcomed me back into my world—the world of books.
"Oh, Audrey! Welcome back! We've missed having you here," Lydia called out kindly, as she walked towards me to give me a hug.
Lydia was a woman with a genuinely friendly aura of around forty who, along with her husband, owned this bookshop. Being the bookworm that I was, I'd discovered this place when I was thirteen and soon became its most regular customer. I suppose Lydia grew to like and trust me, because, to my delight, a year after she was offering me a part-time job as a bookstore clerk here.
Books had always been my safe place, my secure source of comfort. Working in a place surrounded by bookshelves felt like home. It was the storage space of hundreds of different wonderful worlds, each one bearing a collection of breathtaking feelings inside itself. Feelings that have been captivated by them when written and were waiting to be released when read. I could happily get lost in this marvelous universe.
"How have you been, dear? How's school? How's everything? How are you?" She began gushing.
"It's all very good. I'm fine, I really am," I provided her with an amiable smile. "What do you want me to do?"
"Well, there's actually not much. . .but if you are in a hard-working mood today, there are boxes over there that have arrived this morning—"
"Got it. I'll sort them out!" I burst out before she could add anything else.
Leading my finger through the infinity of book spines, I let out a sigh of relief. Being here brought peace to my mind and, especially after everything that'd been going on lately, I really needed it. My tangled thoughts needed a break from the hazel eyes that appeared every darn time I closed my own.
I began categorizing each book into its appropriate section. Abruptly, I stopped when a particular book appeared in my hands, the glossy hardcover smooth against my touch. The sight of a black tree with lime leaves over against a bold orange background triggered some heart-stirring emotion in me. Was it nostalgia? It'd been a while since I held this classic in my hands.
Smiling to myself, I opened the hardback to the first chapter and started reading the opening I remembered all too well.
When he was nearly thirteen, my brother Jem got his arm badly broken at the elbow.
"Reading during working hours again, shortcake?" I contained my eyes from rolling and a small smile from striking my lips, as I recognized the cocky voice from behind me. Still without turning around to face him, I heard him skip down the steps, getting closer to me. "Good thing you've settled down for, huh, reading paid books for free," he continued, his teasing tone distinctive.
I turned around, at last, to face his towering figure and meet his playful emerald eyes. I almost forgot the fascinating deep hue of green those eyes concentrated.
Dominic.
It took just one glance at his smug grin for a multiplicity of synonyms of the word annoying to surge into my brain, like a dam wreckage.
Dominic Rivera was Lydia's happy-go-lucky son, and —what therefore made him be— the co-owner and co-manager of this bookstore. Though there were little clues of him doing any managing at this place whatsoever.
You'd think that as a twenty-year-old whose parents owned a successful business, you'd have your life practically sorted out. Well, that might apply to others but certainly not to Dominic. After graduating from high school, he took a gap year to travel through the southern states, working as an extreme-sports camp monitor. Then, he chose to major in Adventure Education—a course that I didn't even know existed and which pretty much defined Dominic as a person.
He was, however—despite being tremendously irritating at times— a good friend, and somehow always managed to make me laugh.
I slammed the book with a thump which hopefully produced a forceful shot of air at his face, which was exaggeratedly close to mine. My hopes were confirmed when he snapped his head up muttering a 'damn' under his breath.
"I missed you too," he went on, the annoyingly smug grin never leaving his face.
"Firstly, stop calling me shortcake. And secondly, why would I want to 'read for free' a book I have at my house and have read over ten times already?"
"I don't know, you tell me, shortcake."
This time I didn't contain myself from rolling my eyes.
"Dominic, stop hassling my assistant," Lydia's voice reverberated from behind. He turned around, his grin dissipating marginally.
"I'm not hassling anyone, Mom. Audrey enjoys my company," he said, chucking a laid-back wink at me. Lydia raised her eyebrows at him in an unimpressed manner, clearly not thinking likewise. I just shook my head, the corners of my lips curving, and proceeded to organise the books.
"Dominic, Dominic. Tell me, when are you planning on getting a life?"
"What are you talking about, Mom? I have an excellent life." He ran his hand through his dark curls, the muscles in his arms flexing.
Suddenly, all I could see in front of me were Cameron's toned arms, running his hand through his straighter, messier, and slightly lighter hair. I even remembered the exact tone of brown it was. A dark shade of toffee.
Toffee. Brittle, but tender and sweet—
I shook my head harshly and Cameron turned back into Dominic, who was still bantering with his mother.
Okay, so the bookshop turned out not to be the best distraction.
Dominic's physique was too similar to Cameron's. No, Cameron was shorter. Dang, I even remembered his exact height.
Maybe the problem wasn't the bookshop. Maybe it was me. No matter where I went, my mind always kept going back to Cameron.
I needed to do something about it. And fast.
* * *
Time froze as I sat slumped in my chair in French class, doodling on the margins of my notebook.
I couldn't concentrate today. Not when being markedly aware of Cameron's loud presence at the far seat of the classroom. Conveniently for me, out of all the languages our educational program offered—and there were five—Cameron happened to have chosen the exact same one as me.
And here we were.
Madame Deschamps was scribbling some illegible phrase on the whiteboard while explaining it in French. The fact that we couldn't read it nor understand it did not make the task more complicated in any way.
Something or someone seemed to be displeasing her because there was a sudden twitch in the eyes behind her glasses and she halted her incomprehensible gabbling.
"Excuse me, Monsieur Alvarez, if you're quite done with your reverie, I would appreciate if you paid some attention to my lesson."
I turned around, along with the rest of the class, to find out whom the surname belonged to.
Oh. Of freaking course it was him.
So, turned out, what Madame Deschamps meant by "reverie" was actually "staring at the back of my head". Now the whole class was observing as he stared at me and I stared at him. It was beyond embarrassing but that wasn't my biggest concern at the moment.
My biggest concern was the fact that this game couldn't go on. I could not take it.
So at the end of the school day, I found myself mustering whatever courage I still had in me and walking up to Cameron. His eyes were trained on his phone, a skateboard with auburn flames painted on its inside under his other arm.
"Hey! How's life?" Was the best phrase I could have picked to start this conversation.
He looked up from his phone, eyebrows furrowing when he realised I was, in fact, talking to him. He covered it up quickly with the calm and collected air he always had about him.
"I'm guessing that was a rhetorical question."
"I'm guessing it's polite to answer it."
"Yeah, but I'm not polite," he chuckled, leading his hand through the messy hair of his.
"Okay, whatever. Listen, I'm actually here for a reason. What were your plans for this evening?"
He raised a brow, clearly not expecting that. Heck, I wasn't expecting that myself. "Well, call me lame but heading home and revising for my physics quiz?"
"Well, you can revise later because we need to talk. Come." I yanked his wrist and began striding.
"Woah! What the hell?! Where to?"
I sighed, letting go of his wrist and slowing down. After all, he did deserve some sort of explanation for my strange behavior. "There's this new smoothie place nearby I haven't had the chance to check out yet. Mind accompanying me? We need a few words."
He contemplated for a second, before shrugging. "A smoothie date wouldn't hurt, I guess," his tone fell, adapting a teasing mien, "cinderella."
My stomach tightened. "It's not a date. I just need to talk to you 'bout something quick and that's it. And stop calling me that."
He glanced sideways at me, a hint of a smirk crawling onto his face. "Okay."
Okay? So he was going to stop? Well, that was easy—
"Princesa," he added, matter-of-factly.
"Princesa?"
"I don't need to translate that to you, do I?"
"What? No—"
"Cinderella was a princess, wasn't she?"
I just grunted and ignored him, deciding that it was the best method to deal with annoying people.
We reached the cafe in about five minutes, a smiley waitress keenly greeting us and handing us the menu. I went for the classic strawberry & banana while Cameron ordered a mango, pineapple & yogurt one. The waitress arrived with two exquisite-looking glasses and a mini-jar of flowers.
It took me a few minutes to note that flowers were for tables that had couples on them. I widened my eyes internally. She must have thought we were dating.
I couldn't have been more thankful for the fact that Cameron didn't notice. Or at least so it seemed, because he didn't comment on it.
"First of all," I began, brushing back the strands of hair coming out of my bun, "thanks a lot for embarrassing me in front of the whole of the French class."
"You're welcome," he uttered, in between sips, his attention exclusively on the smoothie in front of him.
I puffed out. "You know what? Never mind. Let's get straight to the point. I have questions, you have answers."
"What are you even talking about?" He finally looked up at me from his smoothie, now that I'd become the slightest bit more interesting than the drink.
"You know exactly what I'm talking about," I blurted boldly, taking a sip of my own.
"Uhh. . .no? I don't?" His voice and brow raised synchronically.
"Oh, come on," I sighed, cooling down a little, "as if you didn't realise that first day, in the CD store."
"What do you mean?"
I sighed again, heavier this time. When was he going to give in? "I'm not stupid nor blind, Cameron. And I know that you know it too. We met before." There it was, at last. "My question is: where?"
He stirred his pastel yellow drink with the vibrant violet straw, as he met my eyes with a blank stare that concealed an emotion I couldn't figure out. "You don't remember?"
His eyes were intent, expecting. The olive green infusing the soft brown, as though a drop of paint fell there by mistake but refused to mix together to form a new tint. They seemed to hold a deep forest of mysteries and I was afraid that if I kept staring, I'd get lost in it.
"I. . .I remember knowing you. I don't remember where and how. I just need you to tell me."
He held my gaze with that same expression for a split second, then cracked it for a relaxed smile instead. "It's not the big deal you've made yourself believe that it is. We just went to the same middle school, that's all."
It felt like a harsh blast of wind hitting my face. Middle school? Why didn't I consider it before? How could I have been so stupid? "What—I-I—but then—"
"And we weren't even in the same class. We didn't even talk, I think."
Something weird hit me. Sydney. She had an unbelievable photographic memory. How come she didn't recognize him?
"I left before the second year, though. So I've only been there for one." Oh, now that made sense. But something else didn't.
"Where did you leave to?" The question slipped out before I could hold it in. I had to stop being so nosy.
"New York. Because. . .my father decided so," he sounded hesitant, as if he were about to step on thin ice. And I instantly regretted asking him. I was no one to him to be answered personal questions to.
"Do you skateboard to school?" I spoke up, after a minute of awkwardly drinking in silence.
"No, I just like to carry it with me for the hell of it," he quipped, sarcasm seeping through his every word. I groaned at him and elbowed his arm playfully, but it felt like hitting a concrete wall—absolutely pointless. He didn't even flinch.
"You're sort of aggressive," he pronounced while lifting the straw up with his teeth. When he was about to put the other straw end back into the glass, it slipped on the glass edge and he missed. I snorted.
"And you're sort of clumsy."
"I am what?" he looked up at me from under his eyelashes, the straw still in his mouth. It was like watching a five-year-old and I couldn't contain the laugh escaping from my lips.
Problem was though, while I was busy laughing at him I didn't notice how I hit my own glass, spilling half of my smoothie on Cameron's shirt. I gasped at the catastrophe I'd caused.
"Who's the clumsy one now, huh?"
I frantically started reaching for napkins to help him clean it up, but it all was in vain. If anything, I only made it worse. "Oh my gosh! I'm so sorry, Cameron. This is a disaster."
"Hey, don't worry. It's okay," he was chuckling. At me— at my agitated frenzy, probably. A deep but soft sound. Its delight felt like sinking into a coconut bubble bath after a long day, to my ears.
There was a sudden silence and I all at once became very aware of my uncomfortable position—my face inches away from his, our eyes holding each other's gaze, wavering. The sudden wash of self-consciousness struck me like a lightning, and I found myself wishing I'd bothered to put some make-up on this morning and had left my hair loose, to be able to hide my social awkwardness behind it.
I was convinced that my cheeks were a dark shade of red by the time I sat back on my seat stiffly, clearing my throat.
Within seconds, the slurping sound beneath me signified that I'd already downed the whole of the considerably large smoothie, without even noticing. That had to be record time and my berserk nerves were to be thanked for that.
Unknowingly, I went back to wondering who Cameron was to me. It was ridiculous—the only excuse I had for him feeling more than a stranger to me. Sure, I've met him when I was a kid but we hadn't even been friends and that was seven years ago, anyway.
No, right now, we could be nothing but strangers to each other.
I peeked at his marvelous eyes that glinted in the sun, repeating the word that felt so odd inside my head to keep reminding me.
Strangers.
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a/n:
don't worry guys, if learning the truth about how they knew each other was disappointing, this wasn't one of the major secrets this book will uncover. . .
the book I meant was 'to kill a mockingbird ' btw
what are your thoughts on Dominic? i was so eager to introduce him already ;)
until next time!