After a shower and a change of clothes I drive to the last Barnes & Noble for about twenty-five miles. I love Amazon Prime as much as the next girl, but I’m starting to miss real bookstores. They’re a dying breed, but I need to be surrounded by books that I can touch, rather than just download onto my Kindle. I must have a thousand actual books at my place, but I haven’t been able to get through an entire one in a while—maybe I’ll find something good tonight.

I grab the warm, half full bottle of Poland Spring water that’s been sitting in my cup holder for about a week now and use it to swallow one the Dirty Little Secrets that I have in a medicine bottle. That’s my code for the psych meds no one knows I’m on again. I’m only supposed to take them when things get bad—as needed, in my psychologist’s words—and for the past few weeks they’ve been about as needed as it gets.

I can fake being normal with the best of them. It’s not even that hard for me anymore. I can carry on conversations, laugh at a funny joke, and enjoy a good cup of coffee at Starbucks on a Saturday morning with a friend. But I’m not what I appear to be. Not at all. I’m nothing inside. I’m an abyss with no end, which Joel finally realized before dumping my ass. Right now, I can fake about seventy five percent of it—but I’ll need my Dirty Little Secrets to close the gap. I feel it go down my throat, accompanied by the warm, funky smelling water that I almost gag on. I really need to clean out my car, I’m a mess.

Abby pulls up in the spot next to me and honks her horn as if I’m not looking right at her. I wave and force a smile. She’s maybe the most positive person in my life. My therapist keeps telling me to surround myself with positive people, but I already have that covered. “Don’t look so happy,” she jokes as I open up my car door to get out. I fake yet another smile for her benefit, but she sees right through me.

“What the hell was that?” she asks. “Eww. Don’t fake smile me. I’m your best friend. Be yourself.” This is why I need Abby in my life. She can be supportive yet also call me on the piles of bullshit that I throw her way. I drop the fake smile routine and just let my natural expression take over. “There, that’s better. Sad as hell, but better.” That line gets a real smile, and I hug her for being the best.

The first thing I do when we’re inside is take a deep breath. Bookstores have as distinct a smell as any food does—the flipping of pages create an aroma that can’t be replicated anywhere else. I miss experiencing this more often. Good call on this one, Abby.

“So, what should I get?” She looks at me like a little kid as we stand in the doorway.

“I thought you had some books in mind,” I tell her. “You sounded like you practically had a list.”

“It isn’t like that,” she says. “I’m not organized like that. All I know is that I want some books, and they sell them here. The rest is an adventure.”

“That’s good enough for me, I’m up for a book adventure.”

“You’re not too sad about. . .”

“No,” I say, cutting her off before she finishes asking me about Joel. “We’re good to go. You know how I am.”

“I do,” she says. “That’s why I’m asking.”

“I’m good, Abby. You know how I feel about being treated like a patient. Just be my friend, okay, and help me find some good books.”

“Alright,” she says. “I just worry about you, is all. Let’s explore.”

A great bookstore is an incredible maze, a series of turns that lead nowhere and lead everywhere all at once. I don’t bother reading what genre I’m standing near because a good book is a good book. I love looking at covers, reading the blurbs, and seeing which paperbacks were the staff’s favorites for that month. Now that I’m here I’m feeling less sad than normal. Maybe it’s the books, or maybe it’s my Dirty Little Secret kicking my brain into high gear, but whatever it is, it’s working, and for the time being I’m not going to analyze it to death.

Fifteen minutes come and go. Abby and I walk together for a while before splitting off and doing our own thing. I end up walking through the romance and drama sections, then through the travel books and non-fiction, until I finally end up, coincidentally, in the mental health and self-help section. “Fuck,” I whisper, not taking any note of who’s listening. “Of course.” I have to confess that I’ve never actually seen a mental health section of a bookstore. Or at least if I have, I never paid attention to what it was. But now that I’m standing right here in between two tables labeled ‘best sellers’, and an entire wall of hardcover books, I’m struck by the sheer volume of material that exists in this space. I buy a lot of books on Amazon on the subject, but seeing it in all of its sad tangibility, I wonder how many people are going through exactly what I’m going through—or worse.

If you read about mental health enough—and believe me, I do—you’ll find that authors love to speak about depression in metaphor. There are good ones, terrible ones, and great ones, but it’s always struck me as odd that metaphor is the only way to make someone who’s not depressed understand what it’s like. Physical sickness isn’t like that. If you tried to tell your friend what it was like to have the flu, you’d be very literal—my throat hurt, I had a temperature, I felt like shit. But with mental illness, descriptions are almost always metaphorical.

I’ve bought so many books on the subject that I’ve lost track of which ones I have and which I don’t. I’m so busy staring at all the books on the table and trying to read the titles that I don’t even notice there’s someone next to me until we both reach for the same title, our hands colliding on the front of the paperback.

I couldn’t quantify how many times I’ve touched another person’s skin in my life—hundreds of thousands, probably. It’s a predictable feeling, skin on skin, nothing special. You know the sensation it’s going to cause when you touch another person, but when the back of my hand touches this stranger’s, something happens that completely throws me off guard. It only lasts a second—maybe less than a second—but it’s such a unique thing that I don’t recognize it. And then I realize. His touch is making me feel. It’s something hard to describe, a type of electricity that runs the length of my body in an imperceptible amount of time—starting at my arm and going all the way to the tips of my toes. It’s, like, amazing that I feel like I’ve seen a ghost—a ghost of me—the ghost of the Lia who existed before depression.

“Oh, excuse me, I’m sorry.” The sound of his deep voice draws me out of my moment of self-realization, and I get to put my eyes on the source of my electric shock, the owner of the hand that made me feel something for the first time in forever. “I didn’t see you reaching for it.”

“That’s okay,” I say. “I didn’t see you either.”

“Honest mistake, then.” His eyes are really unusual. They’re grey toned, with flecks of blue throughout, and the way the light is hitting them it’s difficult to perceive which color they are—gray or blue. Either way, they’re piercing—intense without being intimidating, and they look right into me. His face is less intense, an interesting combination of hard and soft—his jawline is rugged, and he has just the slightest bit of brown stubble covering his face, but the expression he wears is one of kindness, and even though I’m not the girl who stares at guys, I’m finding it hard to look away right now.

“Honest mistake, yeah.” I sound like a moron. I can do better than that. “For you?” I ask him, motioning to the book we’re both touching titled “Tackling Your Anxiety—Tips from a Survivor of the Disease”

“No,” he says. “It’s actually for my sister.”

“Oh, okay.” Fucked up that I was kind of hoping it was for him. Not that I want a guy with a mental health problem, but sometimes the only people who can understand what I’m going through are people who have been through it themselves. “Anxiety?” I ask.

“Among other things, yes. I’m not sure why I’m telling a total stranger that. Alexa would probably kill me if she heard me spreading her business in the middle of a book store.”

“I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”

“And how about you?” He laughs “Are you a. . . what is it called? Are you a ‘Survivor of the Disease?”

I should have seen that coming. It’s a natural question for him to ask after I was being so nosey, but I’m not ready to disclose much of anything about myself. “My brother.” Fuck! Why did I say that? I don’t even have a brother!

He raises an eyebrow, not in a you’re full of shit kind of way, but like he’s genuinely interested in the fact that I also have an anxious family member. I don’t know why I lied to him, or why the lie came out so fluidly, but I didn’t know what else to say. “Oh, what’s his name?”

“Henry,” I lie again without missing a beat. I’m starting to feel terrible about myself. “He’s had anxiety for years. It’s a terrible disease.”

“I’m sorry,” the strange, beautiful man says. “I know how challenging it can be. It robs you of quality time with them.”

“Yeah,” I say, stupidly. “It sure does.”

I don’t like myself at the moment, but I’ve already gone too far to change trajectory. If I manned up and confessed to my record-setting lies, he’d never talk to me again. I’m not the lust-at-first-sight type, but he’s a beautiful man, and I really want him to keep talking to me more than I want to be honest.

“It’ll get better, I promise. I speak from experience.” I don’t even know this strange man’s name, but there’s such a kindness in his tone—a love for his sister, and a compassion for her condition, that I feel even worse about lying to him. But then my guilt fades because he does something I don’t expect. He reaches out and puts his hand on my shoulder. It’s a gesture of empathy, of understanding—at least that’s how he intends it—but I feel that surge through my entire body again, only this time much more intensely. It’s like a drug. My whole body feels him, and I’m intoxicated by the sensation. I must be making a face because he asks me, “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, all good,” I say, lying for the fourth time in a minute. “I’m fine, just. . .something I ate didn’t agree with me I guess.”

“I hate when that happens. Are you sure you’ll be okay?” he asks. Not if you keep touching me like that, I won’t.

“I’m good.” He finally takes his hand back and I’m amazed at what just happened. I’ve felt things since my spell began, but I haven’t felt much that was so. . . real. When he touches me, something happens inside, and I feel like a wilted flower brought to life, if only for the few seconds his skin is touching my body. It’s like he has some magic in his hands—even though I don’t believe in that sort of thing.

“Good. Look, you take the last copy, okay? I insist.”

Shit. It is the last copy. I didn’t even notice that. I can’t possibly take the last one. “No, no, you take it for Alexa, I can always grab a copy online or something.”

“But why should you have to do that? You could have it in your hands right now, and then you could hand deliver it to Henry.”

This guy’s really throwing me for a loop. First the intensity of his eyes and rugged face coupled with his gentle expression, then his sense of confidence that also goes along with his obvious vulnerability. And that touch. I don’t even know what to say about it. I have to admit it, I’m intrigued.

“I really appreciate that,” I say, getting ready for what will hopefully be my last lie in this conversation. “I forgot, I think he has the Kindle e-book version, you go ahead. He can get a paperback some other time. Seriously, you take it.”

I practically shake the book in his face. I can handle my lies, for now, but I can’t take the copy of a book he was going to buy his sick sister just to cover up the fact that I invented a brother named Henry. That’s too far, even for me. He considers it for a second and, once he realizes that I’m not going to give up, grudgingly takes the book from my hands, just missing my fingers with his. I was hoping for one more touch— just one more feeling before I went back to being dead inside.

“Well, thank you, then.”

“You’re welcome. Tell Alexa it’ll be okay. Maybe that book will do something for her.”

“You’re really kind, you know that?” That one hits me like a dagger in the heart. I’m not kind, strange, beautiful, sir. I’m trouble. I’m a liar. I’m an empty shell who only looks like a woman. You should run from me as fast as your long legs will carry you. I’m no good for you.

“I try,” I say, ignoring my inner dialogue and putting on my flirty face. “It’s a talent.”

There’s a silence that follows our brief little banter that’s both awkward and interesting. I’m trying to gauge his interest in me, but I can’t get a good read on him. He doesn’t seem to have the need to fill silence with words—and that makes him my personal hero. “Do you. . .” He stops mid-sentence, like he’s trying to put his words together properly, “Come here a lot?” He makes a face as soon as he finally gets the sentence out of his mouth, like he’s disappointed in himself. “Wait, don’t answer that, that was a terrible line. My brain ran out of good words to make sentences, I’m sorry.”

“Brains are funny,” I say. “They can play all sorts of tricks on us. Don’t apologize, ever. There isn’t much you could say that’s any worse than what I say to people on a regular basis.”

He smiles. “That bad, huh?”

“You have no idea.”

“I’d never know it. You hide it well.” Yeah, strange sir, I hide a lot of things really well. If only you knew the half of it. “I don’t know what you mean. I find you incredibly easy to talk to.”

Now he’s making me feel things without touching me at all. Shit, I’m not used to this. My cool and calm exterior is masking a slow melt inside, and he transitions from just being interesting to being incredibly hot. “Thanks. I have my moments. But to answer your question, I haven’t been here in years. My friend brought me tonight because she thought I needed a night out.”

“Was she right?”

“I think she was. I’m glad she did.”

“And you wanted to spend your Friday night at a bookstore. It says something pretty incredible that a beautiful woman wants to spend some precious time surrounded by books and not out at some bar or something.” Beautiful? Did he say. . . “I hope you don’t mind me saying that. . .” He ends his sentence in a way that reminds me we don’t know each other’s names yet. Weird that we’ve been standing here talking and our names never ever came up.

“Lia,” I tell him, the faintest hint of a smile coming across my face. “Actually, it’s Talia, but everyone calls me Lia.”

“Why’s that? Do you not like your name?”

“That’s what I tell people,” I explain. “Mostly because when I was a kid everyone mispronounced it. Everyone would call me TA-LEE-AH instead of TAH-LIA. Drove me nuts, so I just switched it to Lia at some point. Made my adolescent world a kinder, simpler place to exist in.”

“It’s a beautiful name,” he says.

“Aww, thanks. I like Lia too. . .”

“No,” he says, interrupting me gently. “I meant your full name. Talia. It’s beautiful. It fits you perfectly.”

That’s the second time he’s called me beautiful and I don’t know how to handle it. It’s not like I haven’t been called that before—most women have, hundreds of times in their lives—but it’s the way he says it that gives me pause. He says it like it’s an undeniable truth, not a compliment. He doesn’t want anything from me, and he’s not trying to pick me up like most guys do when they say those words. It isn’t flattery to him, it’s actually how he sees me, and I have no idea what to do with that kind of sincerity.

“Thank you. . .” I do the same thing with my voice, letting him know it’s his turn to go from handsome stranger to an actual man.

“Brandon,” he says. “I’m sorry it took so long to get that out. I’m Brandon.”

“And what about you, Brandon? Do you come here a lot?”

“Every week,” he says without pause.

“Every week?”

“Yup. I never miss one. Only one time, last year, but that was unavoidable.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Oh, I had a meeting. . .”

“No, no. I meant, why do you come once a week?”

“To get a book for the week. I read at least one every week, without fail.”

“Every week?” I ask, like I didn’t just hear him perfectly well.

“Every week. The trick is to stay under three hundred pages. Any more than that and I have to carry the book over into the next week, so I mostly stick to short paperbacks I can digest in five to seven days.”

I feel like the shittiest reader in the world. You don’t realize how bad you are at something until you meet someone who’s good at that very same thing. It’s June, and I’ve read maybe three books this year—four if you count that mystery I came within fifty pages of finishing, and then put down ’cause I got impatient and Wikipedia’ed the ending. Let’s call it four, I’ll feel better about myself. “Wow,” I say, and it’s about as genuine a sentiment as I’ve had in a while. “That’s really impressive.”

“It’s just habit, mostly, like anything else. When you get into a rhythm of reading books as part of your day it becomes something you can’t live without.”

“Okay, you’ve inspired me. I’m going to get a book tonight. Not sure what, but I’ll grab something.”

“I’m actually part of a reading group here. We meet Friday evenings around five. Yet another reason I’m here every week. I don’t know if you have the time to read a book in a week, or even if you’re interested, but. . .”

“I’m interested,” I say, my mouth getting away from my better judgement. I don’t know what’s come over me, because I don’t feel like the Lia who slowly murdered a long-term relationship with Joel, I feel like Talia, the girl with the beautiful name who wants to read a book this week for my new book club. The thing is, it’s been challenging to read consistently since my depression set in again. One of the many lovely symptoms is an inability concentrate on anything for too long, along with losing interest in things that used to bring you pleasure. Those three and a half books I read were all at the start of the year, but I haven’t been able to keep my mind on anything much longer than a magazine article for a while now.

“Oh, wow, that was easy enough.”

“I can be easy from time to time.” I close my eyes when I hear what I just said. It’s one of those moments you want to get back. “You know what I mean.”

“I do.” He smiles when he says that, and I notice something in the way he does it. I’ve been drawn to his confidence and his energy, but he hasn’t really shown me any humor until now. A sense of humor is a big thing with me when it comes to guys, and even though he pulls back right away, I’m glad that I got to see a glimpse of funny beneath this strong, solid exterior.

“Ha ha,” I say. “Do I need to do anything? Like, fill out an application or something? I don’t know how it works.”

“Nope. You’re in if you want in. I’m actually the president.”

“The what?”

“The president of the book club.”

“That’s a thing?”

“It is,” he answers. “And I’m it. I have that kind of power. I can supersede all the paperwork. The only thing you need to fill out is a really simple form—just basic info so I can add you to the group.”

“That’s an incredible power you wield there, Mr. President. And easy enough, I’ll fill it out when I go.” I see the smile again, only this one is more bashful than devious. His smile makes him even more attractive than he already is. That’s no small feat. “But, since you’ve invited me, I humbly accept. What are we reading?”

“We’re actually starting a new book. It, by Stephen King. I was a little misleading when I said you’d have to read it in a week. Normally that’s the case, but a few of our members saw It in theaters this summer and now they want to read the book.”

“I see.”

“I tried to warn them that the hardcover is a cool 1,100 pages, but they didn’t seem deterred at all. So we’re doing pages 1-200 by next Friday if you can swing it.”

“I think I can handle that.”

I’m not sure who I’m pretending to be at the moment—some kind of hybrid between normal me, depressed me, and the woman I want him to think I am. The more we talk, the more I’m filled with those complex emotions. On the one hand, I’m happy to be talking to this great guy, and he seems like he wants to keep talking to me. But on the other hand, he isn’t really talking to me—he’s talking to a version of Lia who may or may not exist. I feel a rush of guilt over all the mini deceptions along the way from our bumping hands to me reading a thousand-page book, and I feel the familiar wave of bad rush over me. Abby emerges from the aisle next to where Brandon and I are talking. We make eye contact before she stares at Brandon. When she looks back my way she’s grinning ear to ear.

“Okay, then, I guess I’ll see you in a week.”

“A week it is. Five, right?”

“Five, in the back section, over there. Pages 1-200.”

“You sound like my professor when you say that.”

His smile emerges again—a confident one that compliments the air of self-assuredness that oozes from his pores. He takes a small step closer to me, which puts us practically shoulder to shoulder, and he leans down and puts his head right next to my ear. I freeze, unsure of what else to do. And then I hear him speak. “Well, maybe if you’re lucky, Talia, I’ll let you stay after class.” My heart starts racing. He walks away, taking his copy of the book we both reached for earlier, and disappears into another section of the store. I stand in place, my brain too busy analyzing what just happened to command my body to move.

Abby rushes over to the book display as soon as Brandon’s gone and touches me. I jump, like a sleepwalker being woken. “And who was that?” she asks.

“Brandon,” I tell her. “That was Brandon. I think his hands are made of electricity.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” I say. “He used my name, Abby. My full name.”

“And you didn’t slap him?”

“Nope. My hands wanted to do other things to him, but I held back. I actually loved hearing the sound of him saying it.”

“Your name?”

“My name. Talia. The way he said it made it sound so. . .”

“So what?”

“Beautiful,” I tell her. “He made my name sound beautiful.”