Chapter 4 -January 21st 2009

Jess

Jess had deliberately chosen to stay in a hotel right down the road from a bookstore. He always tried to do that when travelling. Books were like his comfort blanket. Even during his early years, when his life had been a total mess, literature had been the one thing that had kept him (relatively) sane. Being surrounded by the voices and thoughts of the likes of Dickens, Tolstoy, Austen and Hemingway had always made him feel safe and protected somehow. Particularly those of Hemingway. He loved Hemingway. In fact, Hemingway came close to being the one true love of Jess' life so far . . .

Close.

It was the conveniently located bookstore that Jess had put his coat on in order to head to that night, after far too long tossing and turning in bed. He knew that it was the only place that he would be able to purchase his "sleeping pill" of choice.

He had arrived at the doors of the store just in time; they were closing in 30 minutes. He wouldn't have the hours that he would perhaps like, to fully immerse himself and create his own bookstore "bubble", but he would have more than enough time to find the required item and perhaps even a little extra time for browsing too. Hemingway was, after all, calling him!

With that in mind, Jess had set straight to work upon entering the store. He was on a mission and within 10 mins of scouring the alphabetised bookshelves, it was mission complete. Jess had found what he had come for:

"The Fountanhead" by Ayn Rand.

He had stupidly thrown his copy out years ago, in a moment of pure teenage angst and frustration. However, he had regretted it ever since. He particularly regretted it on night's like this, when he was restless and couldn't sleep. His regret wasn't due to the fact that he enjoyed this particular book. That wasn't the case at all. In fact, he hated it. Truly hated it. The author was, as far as he could tell, totally crazy. She may even beat his mother in the crazy stakes. Or Lorelai come to think of it, and that was saying something! Nonetheless, it was a book that had many memories attached to it. It was a book that reminded Jess of one of the few periods in his life that was care-free and fun. It was also a book that reminded him of somebody important to him. Somebody whom he hadn't seen for a long while now. All in all, it was a book that gave him a weird sense of calm and tranquillity, yet was at the same time so very uninteresting that for sleeping purposes, it was a winner. The Fountainhead never failed to send him snoring. It was exactly what he needed right now.

Jess was so pleased when he had found it. He had checked his watch afterwards and become even more pleased to discover that he still had 20 minutes to go until closing time. Plenty of time to devour some Hemingway.

He had rounded the corner, following the alphabetised shelves again until this time, he had seen a sign for the shelf labelled "Authors - H". He had begun approaching said shelf until a vision in front of him had stopped him dead in his tracks . . .

There, crouching down on the floor, browsing through all of his favourite Hemingway classics, was an all too familiar girl. Her beautiful brown hair was swept over one shoulder, her bright blue eyes were squinting in concentration. She was for some unknown reason wearing a tank top and shorts - did she not realise that it was January? She looked freezing, yet warm at the same time - was that even possible? Was she even real? Jess pinched himself. He flinched. This wasn't a dream. She had to be real.

As she always had done, the girl in front of him had immediately taken his breath away. He wanted to go over and hug her, but he knew he couldn't. He hadn't seen her in nearly 3 years now and the last time they had met had been awkward and had not ended particularly well.

He had to do something though. He knew that he couldn't very well stand in the middle of Barnes and Noble, gawping forever.

So, he had walked very slowly in her direction, tiptoeing so as not to startle her. He had then very simply and oh so, coolly, crouched down alongside her, placed a hand on her shoulder and said softly, before she had even had a chance to look up:

"Ernest only has lovely things to say about you . . ."