We Are Inevitable by Gayle Forman (read aloud txt) 📕

Ike returns, just like I knew he would. And I’m ready for him. I’ve already put aside a twenty, enough for two happy-hour pitchers at Jimmy’s. But that’s all he’s getting from me.

“We’re outa dayli . . .” Ike begins, the rest of the sentence dying on his lips as he surveys the store: the teetering piles of books, the saucepans of water, the bruise-like stains on the ceiling.

When Ike sees the collapsed shelf, he gasps. He runs his hands down the crack, frowning so deeply the furrows in his face could collect water. “Is this mahogany?”

I shrug. “I guess so.”

“Wood like that don’t splinter without a reason.”

“If you say so.”

“You gonna fix it?”

“Replace it. We have metal shelves in the basement.”

Ike literally shudders. “You can’t replace that beauty with metal. Maybe we could—”

And here it is. The revised bid. The yanked football. “Thank you for your help,” I cut him off, sliding the twenty across the counter, meeting his eye with my best tough-guy look.

Ike stares at the money, turns back toward the shelf. Then he shakes his head and, without touching the money, without saying another word, leaves.

Gone Girl

I’m closing up the following night when Chad rolls in.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“Wow. You really need to improve your customer-service experience.” He looks around the store. “Thought I’d test out the ramp. It works.” He makes jazz hands, his callused fingers poking out from his gloves.

“Good to know.” I pause. “If that’s all, we’re closing.”

“Uhh, what about that book?”

“What book?”

“The Wonder Woman?”

Right. The book. Yesterday turned into such a clusterfuck that I wound up not telling Ira about selling the store. I planned to tell him all day today but he was distracted and out of sorts, so now it’s got to be tonight.

“Do you have it?” Chad asks.

Sighing, I dig under what used to be our well-organized graphic novel/media section to find a couple of Batgirl issues. “Will these do?”

Chad shrugs. “Why not?”

“You want both? They’re two bucks each.”

Chad nods, reaching into a satchel attached to his chair. It’s black and covered in skater patches. He undoes one of the Velcro pockets and pulls out a five. “Keep the change.”

“Thanks.” I put the bill in the cash register, but Chad’s still waiting. I open the door for him, figuring he might need help, but he just waits there.

“Least I could do for all the trouble you went through to put in that ramp,” he says.

“Whatever. It’s fine.” I’m not mad anymore. I’m just tired. And nervous. I can hear Ira padding around upstairs. I can feel the weight of what I have to tell him.

“Umm . . .” Chad rolls back and forth, his version of pacing, I will learn. “I gotta confession to make.”

“What?” I ask.

“See, the thing is . . . I didn’t come here for a comic book.”

“Did you want something else?” This happens, or used to happen, a surprising amount. Guys coming in making a lot of noise about political biographies they heard about but then quietly asking if we also happen to have that Fifty Shades of Grey book.

“I didn’t come for any book,” Chad says.

“What’d you come for?”

“So, this is gonna sound mad shady . . .”

I get that feeling, that midair, about-to-land-on-my-back, Charlie Brown dread.

“And like I’m hella sly,” Chad continues, “which I am, but that’s not what happened yesterday.”

“What happened yesterday?”

“See, the reason I came over was not to buy a comic book or any book or even because I wanted a ramp.” Chad inspects a stain on his pants with great interest. “I came over because after I saw you at the gig the other night I wanted to see if you wanted to go to another Beethoven’s Anvil gig. I thought you could try to sell your brother’s records again.”

“I’m not selling his records.”

“Oh. Well, either way, I thought you might want to come with me tomorrow night, which is now tonight. Right now in fact.”

I let that settle for a moment, unsure if I heard right. “You conned me into building a ramp because you wanted me to go to a music show with you?”

“Con is a strong word, wouldn’t you say?”

“Is it, Chad? Is it? I wrecked my hands.” I hold out my swollen fists. “And we got all the Lumberjacks involved and I’m pretty sure they’re going to shake me down for it.”

Chad chuckles. “Yeah, things did kinda spin out of control, but it’s cool you have a ramp because now I can come visit you and I’m sorry I didn’t just ask you if you wanted to come to the gig, but I was worried you’d say no.”

“You were scared I’d say no?”

Chad shrugs. “I don’t have a lot of friends left in town, you know. And I’ve sure as shit never seen anyone I know at a Beethoven’s Anvil show.”

“I wasn’t at the show! And Chad, you and I are not friends. We’ve never been friends.”

“Harsh!”

“You want harsh? You threw a beer can at me! From a moving car. I was walking with a girl I liked and who liked me back but after that she didn’t.”

“Oh, man, I cockblocked you . . . ?” I wait for Chad to laugh. To tell me to lighten up. Take a joke. That it’s ancient history. That I should put it in perspective because he’s in a wheelchair. But he just stares at his lap, shaking his head. “I used to be a real tool.” He looks up at me. “I’m really sorry.”

The apology catches me completely off guard. “It’s okay. It was a long time ago.”

“That it was,” Chad says solemnly. “Anyhow, I won’t bug you anymore. I’m sorry about the ramp. And your hands. And the beer can. And, you know, all of it.”

He heads toward the door, shoulders slumped. He looks so pathetic. And Ira, well, I can tell him tomorrow.

“Hey, Chad,” I call.

He turns around.

“Let me grab my jacket.”

It’s only when we’re zipping down the interstate, forty miles out of town,