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In the dead of Autumn, a bookstore on the corner sat mostly untouched by a good majority of the populace. Or, well, that's not entirely true. It wants to be untouched by a majority of the populace. Nestled on the corner with neutral and unassuming signage. Faded gold letters sitting on brick above the worn little door, glass partially smudged. A place that, on the outside, looks as though it smells like cinnamon and home cooking. A place that should be separated from the main street as though it was never supposed to exist.
Wrapped tight from the Kansas autumn a woman with her burgundy scarf tucked beneath the buttons of her tan coat look as though the chill ran right through her. Cheeks dusted a rosy pink, and nose bright red as if she were a reindeer from a children's story. Hands tucked into the pockets of her jacket, she stopped when something appeared in the corner of her eye. A white roller sign with big, bold, black letters that certainly hadn't been there before was sitting just beside the front door of the bookstore littered with different colored posters, and pieces of paper with little tabs ripped off of them. Standing on the barren street, leaves rustling in the wind and rolling across the ground as they were carried by the air, impossibly green eyes blinked down at the roller sign. Brows furrowed together in confusion.
She swore it hadn't been there as she approached the building.
Admittedly, she had no reason to hurry along. Her parents didn't expect her back until dinner, and they certainly didn't inform her of anything changing that arrangement. She tilted her head and swept an unruly strand away from her face, the chill hitting her fingertips first even though there was brief contact with the outside air.
The sign read: SUPERNATURAL AUTHOR BOOK SIGNING! CARVER EDLUND APPEARING!
The words nearly made her laugh. Who in their right mind would schedule a book signing anywhere that wasn't Kansas City? And considering it didn't look like anyone was inside, it made even less sense. With the enthusiasm of the roller board staring back at her, she looked around. The street was barren, mostly. People hurried by in jackets geared for the upcoming winter. Parents with children, couples strolling along with joined hands. If the book was even remotely popular, it would make more sense for a line to be at the door. For fans to be energetically buzzing with their copies for the author to sign. Gossiping to each other, whispering theories. Going over questions to ask. She'd seen it before. She'd been in it before, excited to ask her favorite author questions about her favorite book series. Looking at the inherent absence of any presence, the way people passed by without even looking at the bookstore, her eyes wandered back to the sign. Stark against the earthy background, like it was meant to catch someones eye. Like it didn't entirely mean to be there. Then she looked at the signage in the windows, the posters shoddily stuck to the door with tape. It was such a normal bookstore she would have passed by a million times over, each time she walked back home from wherever she spent her time.
Mostly when she walked back from her few hours reading at the park, when the light was the best. When everything was quiet in that serene earthly way that made the best atmosphere for absorbing a good book. Today, the book she chose was tucked under her arm snugly. Something heavier than her usual catalog. Being and Time by Martin Heidegger. Lately, she had been in the mood for something that touched more than just the tip of the iceberg. Something that didn't fit so cleanly into the Christian lifestyle her and her parents lived. Not strictly, no, just loosely. Sex before marriage is the worst sin alive, purity, communion. All that fun stuff that people tended to parrot back and forth because they never truly absorbed the Bible, only vague teachings. If people only wanted to look closer, the Bible is about extremely contradictory, unstable, intensely emotional human beings.
Her book of choice didn't fit neatly into the frame of morality. Instead, it often acted as a mirror of sorts. Something she had been coming back to for years, since she was eighteen.
Just now, realizing she was idling on the sidewalk stuck in her own thoughts staring contemplatively at the roller board as though the letters would arrange into a solution, she hesitated just the smallest bit. She absolutely did not want to get her book signed by someone who didn't even author it, hell, she didn't even want anyone to sign it. The book was littered with pencil notes scribbled in the margins, and pages were dogeared because they seemed the most important whenever she dove back into the text like a philosopher starved of new meaning. The last thing she needed was for anyone to see her internal thoughts. If anything, they'd probably laugh. Someone so plain and ordinary having thoughts much bigger than herself, than her own being placed on Earth as if she could derive meaning from her existence.
Unable to stand there thinking, like someone stuck in suspension, she stepped forward. Not like it was divine intervention, or that her bones were screaming at her to step into the bookstore but because she didn't want anyone to cast a sideways glance, to whisper about the weirdo standing in front of a bookstore contemplating if she should step inside of if she should stroll along like nothing happened. Like she hadn't stopped as if the world wanted her to notice the dingy little building trying so, so hard to not be truly perceived.
As she pulled open the door in a gentle motion, the bell in the top left corner let out a disgruntled little jingle as though it hadn't been used in decades. The warmth hit her like a wall she was meant to pass through, spreading from the top of her head down to the toes in fuzzy socks she'd squished into ankle boots. A warm, homely scent hit her nose after the smell of old books subsided. One glance at the front counter was enough to tell her no one was there, like the building was empty on purpose. And as she suspected, a fold-out table decorated with a black linen cloth was set up in a clearing just beyond the first large wooden bookshelf by the door. The flat back of the bookcase it was situated against had a woodsy backdrop draped over it. The Supernatural books with artsy covers were stacked on the corner showing the spines with white text to the world. The small stool was seemingly empty.
And yet, for some reason, she deflated. There was no doubt the author didn't stick around, most likely too fed up with spending his pretentious time sitting in an unknown little bookstore and drumming his fingers lazily on the table. At the same time, she felt the least bit vindicated. No one should have to spend their time waiting for something that just simply wont materialize. Being an author as it was, already, was mostly an unrewarding craft. Too much criticism or numbers weren't enough to justify printing extra copies. The internet littered with "reviews" that people promised were constructive but spent more time ripping apart the inner workings of a creative mind because it didn't end the way they wanted. Public attention being a wicked double-edged sword. One that she knew too well, that just barely discouraged her from writing her own book.
Mostly because she couldn't handle having the entirety of the internet seemingly ripping apart anything, if she were to create a fictional novel and unleash it on the interconnected masses foaming at the mouths to berate and destroy.
Either out of curiosity or a smaller version of contained pity, she picked up one of the books at the top of the stack. Two muscular men on the cover leaning against a black car stared back at her, extremely muscular. One of them with long hair and rippling abs un-hidden by the lack of a shirt whereas the other with shorter hair holding a map was wearing a black tank top. For a moment, she almost thought it was erotica. Supernatural as a title does seem like erotica, and she could almost pick out which man is supposed to be a monster. Barely. Turning the book over in her hands, she squinted at the white uniform font against the black back cover.
Along a lonely California highway, a mysterious Woman in White leads men to their deaths… a terrifying phenomenon that may be Sam and Dean's first clue of their father's whereabouts.
Okay, maybe erotica. She turned the book over again, opening the front cover to at least look inside. In the back of her mind, the summary felt like it was a poor attempt at a thriller novel. Or just the first edition it what may seem like a series that will go on for far too long. It still made no sense why the men on the cover were stood like male models showing their muscles as though they belonged to a book she would find in a grocery store checkout line.
The first thing that hit her was the syntax. Not that she was judging, she had never written a book before, but it almost seemed too clunky. As though someone was trying to poorly describe what they were seeing with their eyes instead of something they were imagining. Like they were trying to string together an image for a collective but leaving out that part that they had to have sensory detail that makes it feel like the reader is almost there with them on the page.
She didn't mean to laugh when she saw a very obvious typo in dialogue, but the sound rippled past her lips unfettered and uninterrupted. Not that she didn't just expend mental energy forsaking the blatant verbal violence of the literary community on the internet that comprised itself of self-proclaimed books snobs and pretentious douche bags who read far too much philosophy to enjoy a good fiction novel.
But it was a typo that could have easily been edited out before printing, if an editor had even touched the manuscript that is.
Leaning her hip against the table, she hadn't expected to actually start reading. She hadn't expected the book to pull her in at all. But it did, in a weird sort of way. Like she was reading an intimate recreation of someones typical day-to-day life without the distance of glass between observer and specimen. Although the prose was lackluster, and the writing wasn't as descriptive as it should be it took away the entire concept of separating character from reader. To hold the book with both hands, she placed the book that had been tucked under her arm on the table. The pages didn't feel like any other published novel. They felt like pristine plastic. Like someone tried to laminate the books for some special effect. It made it feel cheaply made.
Just as she turned the page to the next chapter, simple skimming the words and not truly absorbing much of the context the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. She felt the adjustment like something was aligning somewhere beyond her comprehension. Next thing she knew, when she looked up from the book, she was staring back at a guy just a little shorter than her with short, curly brown hair and a full beard that was well-maintained. Wide, blue eyes that reminded her of the shallow depths of the ocean in their hue. Staring back at this squirrely little guy who looked as startled as a deer in headlights, she glanced down at the book in her hands and straightened her posture. Closing the front cover too quickly.
"…Did you want to read it?" She awkwardly offered the book to him.
He watched the way her hands treated the copy carefully, barely glancing at the cover. For a moment, it seemed like he had been caught in the middle of something. As though he had been pulled to materialize like this mattered more spiritually than whatever he had been doing previously.
"I wrote it."
Realization struck her in the same way a wolf sneaks up on a bunny in the forest. Her shoulders rose to her ears and her eyes widened a fraction.
"Oh, I'm sorry– I didn't– I'm not here for the singing." She hastily tried to put the book back in place, trying to smooth the cover down. It was sticking up in an annoying way books did when they didn't want to lay flat and instead would have to be sandwiched between two others to forget the use it had seen. She just hoped she didn't crease the spine too much to seem out of place.
"I figured." He looked much like a deflated balloon, hands in his pockets leaning against a bookshelf. Wrinkling the woodsy backdrop with the pressure from his shoulder.
"It's a good book." That sounded like such a lie, and she wanted to hit herself.
His eyes traveled from the stack of books on the table, to the book she'd brought with herself that was sitting right next to it. The bold cover staring back at him like a taunting devil.
"No, that is a good book." He pointed to it. "Mine is– is contrived. And too succinct. Not enough purple prose, or poetic exposition."
"You've read it?" She tilted her head.
"Why wouldn't I?" He furrowed his brows, almost smiling like the question itself was funny. "It's about limitless self-hood and the ever expanding existence of personal reality."
"Well then," she leaned against the table again crossing her arms with a faint smile on her face. "You have quite an extensive expanse, Carver."
"Carver is just a pen name," he seemed almost bashful in a way. Looking down at his feet like he was trying to hide himself. "My name– is Chuck."
"Noelle,"
"That sounds… wintery?" Chuck laughed softly.
"Is it really that obvious?" Noelle tilted her head with an exasperated expression. "My parents adore Christmas."
"Sounds like they're good people, it is the most joyful holiday of the year."
"Yeah, but I like Easter." Noelle shrugged. "Less emphasis on presents, more about being with family."
"Who said Christmas is all about presents?" Chuck raised a brow. "Initially, it started–"
"As a pagan holiday." Noelle didn't mean to interrupt. "Then hijacked by the Christian church, which might be an explanation for why the emphasis on presents is involved."
"Well, hey now," Chuck tilted his head. "Jesus' birthday–"
"Is in the fall." Noelle was smiling now. "There's no– no spiritual justification for Christmas other than well… yule."
"Isn't that blasphemous? All this knowledge about an entirely different religion?" It almost sounded like he was testing her, like he'd seen her in church with her family. Like, for a moment, he'd known her personally.
Her father worked hard to be the head preacher at their local church. And sure, if she had been younger it would be much more scandalous for her to be debating the validity of Christianity outside of an American religious lens– even if Christianity wasn't a fully American religion– but she wasn't a teenager. It also wasn't like she was denouncing her Christianity either. They were just common facts people could learn if they knew where to look for them. Like old dusty libraries. And various intellectual forums on the expanse of the internet.
Noelle shrugged, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
"No. Not really. Not as far as I'm concerned." She shook her head lightly. "I'd rather collect an entire library of knowledge, instead of looking at one view point."
"Sounds dangerous." He chuckled.
"Then, I suppose I'm dangerous to the common populace." The corners of her mouth twitched upward even further, her smile deepening and widening.
"You sound like you're a writer, are you?"
Noelle paused. "Well, only in my spare time."
Chuck looked lost in thought for a moment, like he was weighing her answer upon a myriad of different ones he'd collected over time like knickknacks sitting atop a dusty shelf in his head. Then he pushed off the bookshelf and stepped around the table, taking a seat at the previously untouched stool. Less like an author sitting at a signing booth and more like someone who'd briefly forgotten he had a role to play. His ocean-blue eyes distant in just the slightest way that the overhead fluorescent could show the shift in his gaze. Up close, he looked tired in a way that everything had to do with the mind and spirit instead of the body. His flannel sat crooked beneath a brown corduroy jacket like he’d thrown it on without looking. Ink stains dusted the side of his hand. There were faint circles beneath his eyes that suggested either insomnia or too much thinking. Maybe both.
"Sounds rather serious, don't you think?" He leaned forward minutely. "Something only writers ever say when they don't want to admit the thousands of unfinished manuscripts piling up because something never seems to fit right."
"It's not serious."
"That sounds like something a serious writer would say."
"Awfully, pretentious."
"Yeah." Chuck nodded. "Writers are kind of awful."
That pulled a laugh from her, one that people would fight wars over. Genuine and ringing like it was an angelic horn at the gilded gates of Heaven. One that managed to seep through him like it was touching his soul, and for a moment he softened like he'd forgotten why he'd even considered leaving. Then, Chuck looked down not at his book hers. The weathered cover and the cracked spine that had seen the test of continuous use. That looked as though it had been loved enough to open a million times over.
"You read Heidegger recreationally?"
The question carried disbelief, genuine but unlike he was some snobbish book nerd looking for a smug way to put her down. More like understanding.
"That's a… strong word." Noelle looked down at the weathered cover where her hand lingered just slightly by the cracked and damaged spine. "More like self-inflicted psychological damage."
"That… tracks."
"I don't agree with all of it," Noelle's eyes flickered up briefly. Taking in the thoughtful expression that painted his face. "It just– provides insightful questions. I like the questions."
Chuck hummed softly. "Like?"
She hesitated for a moment. It registered unfettered, the way he asked like he was cataloging something instead of just trying to sound intelligent to steer the conversation away. Like he was storing this information somewhere in his brain to slot into a pristine filing system of expansive neurons. Attentive in a strange consuming way.
“The idea that most people never truly confront their own existence,” she said slowly. “That they spend their whole lives performing whatever version of themselves is easiest for other people to digest.”
The atmosphere around him tightened. His expression shifted, not dramatically but subtly like he was recalculating something he'd already assumed. Outside, leaves rolled across the pavement dragged by the wind like they were tied with invisible string.
"And you think that's true?"
"I think…" Noelle's fingers grazed the weathered spine. "That people hate to be perceived in an honest, truthful way. They package themselves in different forms to be experienced like an abstract painting."
Chuck stared at her with an unreadable expression, falling silent. Not awkwardly silent, not hesitant to say something next. Perhaps contemplative, like she'd hit something she didn't mean to. Something rippled in his eyes, like a stone disrupting the surface of a river. He blinked, and it was almost like the moment shifted.
“Well,” he cleared his throat awkwardly, “that’s definitely deeper than most conversations I have at signings.”
“You mean people don’t usually corner you with existentialism?”
“They usually ask which brother gets more girls.”
Noelle snorted.
“That bad?”
“One woman threw a bra at me in Nebraska.”
“Oh my God.”
“I signed it.”
“You absolutely did not.”
“I absolutely did.”
That pulled another laugh out of her, genuine and bright she nearly surprised herself the same way it surprised him. The kind of laugh he wanted to hear again and again, one that he would try to be purposefully funny for but ultimately end up making a fool of himself unable to achieve the same effect. With it, the bookstore creaked around them. Shelves shifted and settled with the old building like they were particularly proud of themselves.
Noelle glanced around properly for the first time. The place felt… strange. Not haunted. Not magical exactly. Just layered. Like every inch of the building had absorbed years of stories and conversations and secrets whispered between shelves. The warm lighting making it feel less like just a random bookstore and more like an uncovered gem that had been sitting in plain sight, like another place to settle instead of the public library with all its noise and chatter. Now, that the cold had left her skin the warmth settled like a comfortable weight around her. Like the chill of the Autumn air had truly been chased away by the little old building.
"I have to admit, your prose is clunky."
"Oh God…" Chuck groaned and leaned his head back.
"In a charming way!" Noelle jumped to correct herself quickly. "The writing is, honestly, from the little I read it seems very vulnerable. Like we're not truly inside their heads enough to hear them waxing poetic but more like, you're adjusting the veil between fiction and reality."
"And you say you're not a writer." Chuck raised a brow, giving her an unimpressed look. "Pretty sure you have the craft down to a science."
Noelle rolled her eyes.
"Yeah, well. I'll be sure to send you a manuscript if I ever finish it."
"Now, that I'd like to see." Chuck instantaneously brightened and the lights just so happened to flicker over head, not enough to disrupt but enough to seem like faulty wiring.
Noelle pretended not to notice it, because it seemed like the most normal thing on the planet. Like bad WiFi, or broken windows that let a draft wander in.
"Oh, please. As if I'd loved to be judged by a season writer who's written–" she looked to the stack of books next to her, observing the descending numbers on the spines. "It looks like you have five individual books here, not just a collection of the same copy."
"Actually," Chuck reached for his book and turning to the middle like it was muscle memory. "I've written fourteen, so far. Most people say the later books are the best because of character consistency, and the first few are going through 'growing pains.'" He emphasized with air-quotes.
"Well, then I guess I just have to experience the entire catalogue." Noelle's smile softened. "Though, in your opinion. What book was your favorite?"
"Changing Channels." Chuck answered automatically, his smile widening. "Less horror and existential dread, and more adapting to chaos. Though," he rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "Online critics will say the plot went absolutely everywhere."
"That's part of the fun, right? The journey taking you all over the map."
Chuck blinked twice, staring up at her. The words dissipated from his brain leaving nothing but static and silence. He'd planned for her to laugh, or to say something about not listening to the internet reviews.
"Your eyes are… really green up close. Like, a sun-kissed forest reveling in the quiet of nature."
Someone sneezed somewhere in between the bookshelves that made Chuck tense, but Noelle chose to ignore it. Most likely a lone patron browsing for a good book to curl up with, probably searching for their next imaginative adventure. She scratched the back of her neck like something tingled.
"Wow. I–Uh– I don't know what to say?" Noelle laughed awkwardly.
Chuck looked like he immediately regretted it.
"That didn't– I wasn't– I'm sorry…" Chuck closed his eyes, and his shoulders dropped. He wanted the ground to swallow him whole.
"Are you sorry that you said it, or that you mean it?" Noelle smiled gently, a shimmer of something that looked too close to hopefulness swimming in her eyes.
Chuck's lungs stopped working correctly, and his pulse skipped a beat. The way it thrummed in his veins, it was hard not noticing it.
"I–" He cleared his throat, blinking a couple of times. It was almost like he was recalibrating. "It came out wrong. I meant it."
"I don't suppose you flirt with everyone at a book signing, do you?" Noelle tilted her head just slightly, and he swore the world had stopped spinning for a moment.
"No." His voice was just an octave higher than his usual cadence. "No, I pretend I'm normal. Answer questions, sign books. Regular stuff,"
"Regular stuff?"
"Yeah. I don't– I'm never in the one-on-one capacity to be direct with anyone."
"Well, you have very nice eyes too." Noelle giggled. "It's not as poetic, but…"
Chuck looked like his entire system was rebooting like a frozen computer.
"…You can't just say that like an addendum."
"Not an addendum. Reciprocity." Noelle's smile warmed.
Chuck rubbed the back of his neck, looking down at the table immediately.
"Well," Chuck coughed into his hand and a sheepish smile wobbled across his face. "This sure isn't an experience I've encountered before."
"No? That's concerning."
His expression flickered for a moment. Something ancient and experienced crossed his features, briefly but flickered away as soon as it appeared. For a brief moment he looked almost surprised. By himself or her? That was unknown. But it wasn't unwelcome or unpleasant either. Simply just surprised. He sheepishly scratched the back of his neck.
"I'm sure you've never noticed it before," Noelle adds. "It's very easy to not notice something is happening as it is."
"What's happening?"
And to Chuck, that questions hangs in the space between them as if someone painted closed captions in glowing white letters. Not like it hangs catastrophically, as if its the impending doom of the apocalypse but at least to him, it sound more like a question directed at the universe. But all Noelle sees is his awkward smile, the the confused but adorable look in his eyes. All she sees is an awkward writer clearly flirting with a woman and not knowing where to take it or what to do with it. He's just a man. And that part, that part right there, is the most disarming things he's ever encountered in his life.
Noelle tilts her head, not looking away from him. Not look around the room like she can notice it too. Him. Chuck shifts in his seat awkwardly, rubbing suddenly sweaty palms against his pants to try and quell whatever tumultuous feeling has risen in his chest that's daring to make his heart thrum like a mythic instrument that heeded total planetary destruction and chaotic reverence. Just that small little soft look in her eyes that appears to outdo him, unwrap his soul more than anything has ever tried since the moment of creation.
"I– I think what's happening is… I'd like to take you for coffee." He's drumming his fingers at the edge of the table. "If that isn't too bold of me to ask."
And Noelle, thinking nothing of it, looks as though she actually brightened. Like the lights in the room are trying to compete with her smile, and the warmth of it appears to touch the very essence of his own being. Her eyes are bright, impossibly luminous to get lost in.
"Okay, yeah." She nods once. "I'd like to get coffee with you, Chuck."
Somewhere, stirring deep in his soul is something he didn't quite know he would understand. Like a small crack in the foundation, the edges of his vision brightening like creation reached out and touched him for the very first time. Just that simple sentence proves something more.