Chapter 16: Lunchtime Visit
The scent of fresh bread and something sweetly herbal drifted into The Rusty Page just past noon, a delicious intruder amidst the familiar papery dust. Kenny was halfway through alphabetizing a cart of returns when the bell chimed. He looked up, a customer-service smile ready on his lips.
It died into something far more genuine, far more private.
Buck stood just inside the door, haloed by the midday sun, holding a large, old-fashioned wicker picnic basket in one hand. He wore dark jeans and a simple gray henley that stretched across his shoulders. His smile was a little hesitant, a little hopeful, entirely disarming.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey.” Kenny put down the book in his hands. “No fires to fight?”
“Early shift. Got off at eleven. Thought I’d see if you had lunch plans.” Buck hefted the basket. “Maggie around?”
As if on cue, Maggie emerged from the history aisle, her eyes instantly zeroing in on the basket. Her expression shifted from curiosity to profound approval. “Evan Buckley. Are you here to sell me girl scout cookies or to woo my employee?”
Buck’s ears went pink, but he held his ground. “The latter, ma’am. If that’s alright.”
“It’s more than alright. It’s the best entertainment I’ve had all week.” She grabbed her purse from under the counter. “My book club is at the diner. I’ll be gone a solid ninety minutes. Don’t burn the place down. Metaphorically or otherwise.” She gave Kenny a significant look, patted Buck’s arm as she passed, and was out the door in a swirl of floral perfume.
The silence she left behind was sudden and thick. The only sound was the creak of the old ceiling fan.
Buck set the basket on the counter. “I hope you like pesto chicken sandwiches. And strawberry lemonade. And these weird little oatmeal cookies Laura’s mom makes.”
“You made a picnic.” The statement felt inadequate, but it was all Kenny could manage.
“I assembled a picnic,” Buck corrected, a faint smile on his lips. “Big difference. The chicken’s from the deli. I just spread the pesto.” He unpacked with a careful focus, laying out napkins, wrapped sandwiches, two glass bottles sweating with condensation, the cookies in a paper bag. It was methodical, thoughtful. It undid Kenny completely.
They ate behind the counter, sitting on the floor between the lower shelves and the cash register, their knees touching. Sunlight cut a bright rectangle across the worn wooden floorboards, illuminating dancing motes of dust.
“This is the best pesto chicken sandwich I’ve ever had,” Kenny said, his mouth full.
“Liar.”
“It is. Context is everything.”
Buck grinned, wiping a crumb from the corner of his own mouth. “How’s the inventory going?”
“Slow. Maggie keeps buying estate lots. We have twelve copies of ‘The Hunt for Red October’ now. It’s becoming a safety hazard.”
They talked like that, easy and meandering. Buck told a story about a training exercise where his captain got stuck in a mock window. Kenny recounted the saga of Mrs. Gable, who spent forty minutes yesterday deciding between two nearly identical books on quilt patterns. The conversation was a gentle current, pulling them along without effort.
After they’d eaten, Buck leaned back against a shelf of travel guides. “So. Give me the tour.”
“You’ve been in here a dozen times.”
“Not the customer tour. The Kenny tour. The one where you show me the stuff you actually like.”
A flutter of nervous excitement took wing in Kenny’s chest. He stood, offering a hand to pull Buck up. Buck’s hand was warm, calloused, and he held on a second longer than necessary.
“Okay,” Kenny said, leading him into the narrow aisles. “But you have to promise not to judge my organizational biases.”
“I promise nothing.”
The tour was not linear. It was a hopscotch through Kenny’s mind. He showed Buck the hidden nook in the back where the single, cracked leather armchair sat, perfect for reading in a slant of afternoon light. He pointed out the shelf of damaged books—water-warped, spine-cracked, coverless—that Maggie let him sell for a dollar. “The wounded soldiers,” he called them. “They still have all their words. They just need a gentler home.”
He ran his fingers along a row of pristine sci-fi paperbacks. “These are new. But these,” he said, sidestepping to a messier, more crowded shelf, “these are the ones people actually read. See the broken spines? The coffee rings? These are loved.”
Buck watched him, listened. He didn’t just look at the books; he watched Kenny’s hands, his face, the light in his eyes.
They ended up in the fiction section, the heart of the store. The air here smelled richest—old glue, fading ink, time.
Buck plucked a thick, grim-looking fantasy novel from a shelf. “This your speed?”
“Sometimes. When I want to escape to a world where the problems are solved with a sword, not an awkward conversation.”
Buck chuckled, sliding the book back. He was quiet for a moment, his gaze tracing the colorful rows. Then he turned, leaning a shoulder against the shelves. The playful glint in his eyes had softened into something more curious, more vulnerable.
“What about you?” he asked, his voice lower. “What do you read when you’re not… escaping?”
Kenny felt seen, in the best possible way. He shrugged. “Everything. Historical biographies that read like novels. Poetry I don’t always understand. Thrillers that make me check the locks.”
“Romance?”
The word hung in the dusty air. Direct, but not aggressive. A simple question.
Kenny’s throat felt a little dry. He met Buck’s blue gaze, seeing no mockery there, only genuine interest. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “If it’s good. If it feels real.”
Buck nodded slowly, as if filing the information away. He pushed off the shelf, closing the small space between them. The aisle was narrow. Their shoes almost touched.
“Show me one,” Buck said. His tone was casual, but his eyes were intent. “A good one. A real one.”
For a second, Kenny’s mind blanked. A hundred titles, a thousand covers, all vanished. Then it clicked. He turned, walking a few paces down the aisle, around a corner to a brighter section near the front window—the young adult display Maggie let him curate.
He didn’t hesitate. He reached out and picked up a book with a blue cover, a simple, beautiful wash of color with two figures leaning close. He handed it to Buck.
Buck took it, his fingers brushing Kenny’s. He looked at the cover, then flipped it over to read the back. A small, unreadable smile touched his lips. “‘Heartstopper’,” he read aloud. He looked up at Kenny. “Graphic novel?”
“Yeah. It’s… it’s gentle. And funny. And painfully honest. It feels like remembering what it was like to be that age. All the hope and the terror of it.”
Buck held the book for a long moment, his thumb stroking the cover. He wasn’t just holding a book; he was holding an offering, a piece of Kenny’s inner world laid bare. He looked from the book to Kenny’s face, his expression softening into something unbearably fond.
“Okay,” he said finally, his voice rough. He tapped the book against his palm. “I’ll take it.”
The bell over the door jangled, announcing the return of a customer. The spell in the aisle shattered, reforming into the ordinary reality of a weekday afternoon.
Buck didn’t move away. He leaned in, just a little, his voice for Kenny alone. “And I’ll return it when I’m done. Maybe we can talk about it.”
He walked to the counter, pulled out his wallet, and paid for the book as the customer browsed the mystery section. When the transaction was done, he took the paper bag, gave Kenny a slow, warm smile that felt like a secret, and left.
Kenny stood behind the counter, the scent of pesto and lemonade still in the air, the memory of Buck’s focused gaze imprinted on him. He looked at the spot on the floor where they’d sat, the sunlight now shifted. The store felt different. Not just a place he worked, but a place where something was happening, something alive and growing, page by careful page.
Not just a place he worked, but a place where something was happening, something alive and growing, page by careful page.
The customer, an older man looking for a specific book on bridge strategy, eventually left empty-handed. The bell's chime faded into a profound, resonant quiet. Kenny stood perfectly still behind the counter for three full breaths, the ghost of Buck’s smile still imprinted on the air.
Then he moved.
He walked back to the sunlit YA display, his steps soft on the worn floorboards. The space where Volume One had been was a tiny, glaring gap in the colorful row. He ran his finger over the empty spot, feeling the cool wood of the shelf. Without overthinking it, he carefully slid out the next three volumes—the rest of the set they currently had in stock.
Their covers were a soft gradient of blues and greens. He stacked them neatly, their weight solid and promising in his hands.
He took them to the small, cluttered office in the back, past Maggie’s desk covered in invoices. He opened the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet, the one that held spare price stickers and broken bookmarks. He placed the books inside, right on top of a box of receipt paper. He closed the drawer with a soft, definitive click.
It was a promise to a future moment. A reason for Buck to come back, and for Kenny to have something to give him.
Back out front, the remnants of their picnic looked like evidence of a beautiful crime. He gathered the napkins, the empty lemonade bottles, the paper bag with its single remaining cookie. He wiped the counter down until the wood gleamed, erasing the tangible proof of the noon hour. The smell of pesto lingered, though, mixed with Buck’s faint, clean scent of soap and sunshine that still seemed to cling to the borrowed shirt Kenny wore.
He folded the picnic basket and set it neatly beside Maggie’s purse under the counter.
The cart of returns was waiting, a patient, mundane beast. He wheeled it into the fiction aisle, the squeak of one wheel a familiar song. He pulled a book from the cart—a battered copy of a classic he’d read in college. He found its place on the shelf, slotted it home, and moved to the next.
The rhythm of the work was a balm. Scan the spine, find the letter, slide it in. His hands knew the motion, but his mind was elsewhere. It was replaying the easy silence on the floor, the way Buck had listened, the specific blue of his eyes when he’d asked for a romance. The memory had a physical temperature, a warmth in his chest.
He was shelving a thriller in the ‘M’ section when the bell chimed again. He looked up, a part of him hoping, but it was just Laura, Buck’s paramedic friend. She was out of her uniform, in jeans and a worn leather jacket, her sharp green eyes scanning the store.
“Hey, you,” she said, spotting him. “Maggie in?”
“Book club. Should be back soon.”
Laura nodded, wandering over. She picked up a book, put it down. Her presence was charged with a friendly, investigative energy. “So. He came by.”
Kenny didn’t pretend to misunderstand. He slotted another book onto the shelf. “He did.”
“With a basket.”
“He did.”
A slow grin spread across her face. “Good. I was worried he was going to just show up with a fire extinguisher or something. His romantic gestures can be… literal.” She leaned against the shelf, watching him. “He’s different today. Lighter. Less like he’s carrying a backpack full of bricks.”
Kenny didn’t know what to say to that. He felt a surge of protectiveness, mixed with a thrill that he might be the cause.
“He bought a book,” Laura observed, nodding toward the now-complete Heartstopper display.
“He did.”
She laughed, a short, bright sound. “Okay, I get it. You’re a man of few words. That’s probably good for him.” She pushed off the shelf. “Tell Maggie I stopped by. And, Kenny?” She paused at the end of the aisle. “Don’t break his heart. I’d have to hurt you, and I like this bookstore.”
She left before he could formulate a response. The threat was delivered with a casual smile, but the sentiment underneath was granite. It was a reminder that Buck came with history, with a squad of people who loved him. The stakes, Kenny realized, were not just his own.
He finished the cart, the weight of Laura’s words settling beside the warmth of the memory. He wheeled the empty cart back to the storage room just as the bell jangled and Maggie’s voice, rich with gossip, floated in from the street. The ordinary afternoon was reassembling itself.
But underneath it all, thrumming like a hidden current, was the quiet click of a filing cabinet drawer, and the patient wait for a story to be returned.