The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue - V. E. Schwab Page 0,36
been right behind her. But still. He followed her out.
“Well?” he demands, hand dropping from her shoulder and coming to rest, palm open, in the space between them. She could run, of course, but it’s not worth it. She checks the cost on the back of the book. It isn’t much, but it’s more than she has on her.
“Sorry,” she says, handing it back.
He frowns, then, a furrow too deep for his face. The kind of line carved by years of repetition, even though he can’t be more than thirty. He looks down at the book, and a dark brow lifts behind his glasses.
“A shop full of antique books, and you steal a battered paperback of The Odyssey? You know this won’t fetch anything, right?”
Addie holds his gaze. “Who says I wanted to resell it?”
“It’s also in Greek.”
That, she hadn’t noticed. Not that it matters. She learned the classics in Latin first, but in the decades since, she’s picked up Greek.
“Silly me,” she says dryly, “I should have stolen it in English.”
He almost—almost—smiles, then, but it’s a bemused, misshapen thing. Instead, he shakes his head. “Just take it,” he says, holding out the book. “I think the shop can spare it.”
She has to fight the sudden urge to push it back.
The gesture feels too much like charity.
“Henry!” calls the pretty Black girl from the doorway. “Should I call the cops?”
“No,” he calls back, still looking at Addie. “It’s fine.” He narrows his eyes, as if studying her. “Honest mistake.”
She stares at this boy—at Henry. Then she reaches out and takes back the book, cradling it against her as the bookseller vanishes back into the shop.
PART TWO
THE DARKEST PART OF THE NIGHT
Title: One Forgotten Night
Artist: Samantha Benning
Date: 2014
Medium: Acrylic on canvas over wood
Location: On loan from the Lisette Price Gallery, NYC
Description: A largely monochromatic piece, paint layered into a topography of black, charcoals, and grays. Seven small white dots stand out against the backdrop.
Background: Known largely on its own, this painting also serves as the frontispiece for an ongoing series titled I Look Up to You, in which Benning imagines family, friends, and lovers as different iterations of the sky.
Estimated Value: $11,500
New York City
March 12, 2014
I
Henry Strauss heads back into the shop.
Bea’s taken up residence again in the battered leather chair, the glossy art book open in her lap. “Where did you go?”
He looks back through the open door and frowns. “Nowhere.”
She shrugs, turning through the pages, a guide to neoclassical art that she has no intention of buying.
Not a library. Henry sighs, returning to the till.
“Sorry,” he says to the girl by the counter. “Where were we?”
She bites her lip. Her name is Emily, he thinks. “I was about to ask if you wanted to grab a drink.”
He laughs, a little nervously—a habit he’s beginning to think he’ll never shake. She’s pretty, she really is, but there’s the troublesome shine in her eyes, a familiar milky light, and he’s relieved he doesn’t have to lie about having plans tonight.
“Another time,” she says with a smile.
“Another time,” he echoes as the girl takes her book and goes. The door has barely closed when Bea clears her throat.
“What?” he asks without turning.
“You could have gotten her number.”
“We have plans,” he says, tapping the tickets on the counter.
He hears the soft stretch of leather as she rises from the chair. “You know,” she says, swinging an arm around his shoulder, “the great thing about plans is that you can make them for other days, too.”
He turns, hands rising to her waist, and now they’re locked like kids in the throes of a school dance, limbs making wide circles like nets, or chains.
“Beatrice Helen,” he scolds.
“Henry Samuel.”
They stand there, in the middle of the store, two twenty-somethings in a preteen embrace. And maybe once upon a time Bea would have leaned a little harder, made some speech about finding someone (new), about deserving to be happy (again). But they have a deal: she doesn’t mention Tabitha, and Henry doesn’t mention the Professor. Everyone has their fallen foes, their battle scars.
“Excuse me,” says an older man, sounding genuinely sorry to interrupt. He holds up a book, and Henry smiles and breaks the chain, ducking back behind the counter to ring him up. Bea swipes her ticket from the table and says she’ll meet him at the show, and Henry nods her off and the old man goes on his way, and the rest of the afternoon is a quiet blur of pleasant strangers.