The inside of the bookstore is more massive than I thought it would be. It’s like they took the skeleton of an old bank building and removed all the boring walls and furniture and cubicles and replaced them with books, books, and more books. There’s even a giant piece of art made entirely out of books hanging up high on one of the walls. Jordan would have had a field day in this place.

Zach has been silent since we walked in. He’s wearing a dazed expression, like the sheer number of books overwhelms him. We’ve only gotten about ten steps inside because he keeps stopping to gape at everything. About a third of my body is still icy cold and sick feeling, and I hate it and all I want to do is walk and ignore it and not let Zach see even more of the brokenness inside me.

“Hello? Can we please keep moving?” I cringe—I sound like a bitch. Zach’s cheeks get all red, and in any other circumstance it would be adorable, but right now I just need to go.

“Yes. Sorry. I…” He trails off and then shakes his head. “This place is awesome.”

I shrug. “Yeah.” I guess it’s cute that he’s so excited, but at the end of the day, it’s a freaking bookstore, not the Grand Canyon or some Wonder of the World.

I follow him through the racks. He runs his fingers over the spines of some of the books like he’s making sure they’re real. To me, they just look old and dusty. I’ve never been much of a read-for-fun person. Jordan’s copy of The Art of War is the first book I read outside of school in years. Jordan, he was the reader. When we were little, he would try to get me interested in the stuff he’d read—but he was always so ahead of my reading level that it was impossible for me to keep up. I finally had enough in seventh grade, when he tried to start a banned book club, and wanted Lucy and me to join. Over summer break. When we were thirteen. He wanted the first book we read to be Naked Lunch by William S. Burroughs. I told him in no uncertain terms to fuck off.

“Want to go up?” Zach points to a sign in the far corner for the stairs to the second floor.

I nod.

The farther we move into the store, the bigger the stupid lump in my throat grows, until it feels impossible that my voice can fit around it.

That panic that dissipated when we left the bar is back, lingering around the edges of my mind. I grip the strap of my bag in my fist, and it digs deep into the center of my palm. I don’t know what I’m doing here.