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

What I think is that these guys are playing us, even if I don’t know how.

What I also think is that the books will need to be boxed up to ship to the bulk buyers.

“I dunno,” I suggest, casually, kicking my leg back and forth. “Maybe we should box all the books.”

“All the books?” Ira replies. “That seems unnecessary.”

“It’ll give Ike more room to maneuver, maybe widen the aisles like Chad said, and allow us to organize better.” I sound so convincing, I almost persuade myself.

“No problem here,” Ike says. “I got plenty of boxes in the truck and with three of us, it won’t take long.”

“Thanks, Ike,” I say brightly before turning to Ira. “Hey, I was thinking, maybe we should go out for dinner tonight?”

“Why?” Ira asks, justifiably surprised. Eating out is not something we do. We eat because our bodies require us to. But asking Ira to dinner will signal an event. It will force me to tell him. Plus, I’ve read how restaurants are good spots for breakups; being in public discourages a scene.

“Are we celebrating something?” he adds, ever hopeful that we might be.

Getting out of this damp, moldy, godforsaken crater, I think. But I don’t tell him that. Instead I say, “Celebrating second chances.”

Ira’s tentative smile blossoms into a high beam and a piece of my heart dies. It’s one thing to be cowardly, another thing to be cruel.

I settle in on the porch with the Brusatte, opening to a random page about the discovery of an allosaurus in Wyoming that the paleontologists nicknamed Big Al. Big Al was such a find, he got his own TV special. I wonder what he would think about that, not just dead but extinct too, and getting his fifteen minutes of fame. Not everyone gets that kind of second chance.

But not even Brusatte can hold my attention today. The residue of this morning’s time travel still clings to me, and somehow I’m not totally in this world.

I pull out my phone and open a video of Beethoven’s Anvil that I discovered last night. It’s grainy, and the sound quality is terrible, which doesn’t matter because the sound is not why I keep watching. It’s her. It’s Hannah. I watch the video a few times. Replay our conversation from the club the other night. Pick up the Brusatte, put it back down, watch the video again.

Every time I see her, I feel that thing: the inevitable.

The thing is: I don’t trust the inevitable.

I mean, what has inevitable done for me?

Ruined my life is what.

I put away my phone and pick up the book again but wind up just kind of staring into the gloom. There’s not a ton of foot traffic on Main Street on the best November day, but today it’s particularly sparse, so when I see someone heading this way, someone looking remarkably like Hannah, I am pretty sure I am hallucinating.

She comes closer, high ponytail springing, wearing an oversized hoodie, HILLSDALE CHEER SQUAD emblazoned in peeling letters.

It can’t be her.

I mean, why would she be here? In my town? Walking down my street? Waving?

This is not how life works. And definitely not how my life works.

I wave back.

Am I still sleeping? Has the olfactory bulb catapulted me not into the past but into someone else’s future?

“What are you doing here?” I bark. She flinches because it comes out rude, like I’m questioning her right to be here when really I’m questioning the reality of her being here. I soften. “I just didn’t expect you, is all.”

“Sorry I didn’t make an appointment. I can see you’re very busy.” She picks up the Brusatte. “Dinosaurs, huh?” She opens to the table of contents, running a finger down the listing. “Somehow I thought you’d be reading brooding literature. Dostoyevsky or Goethe or something.”

She just name-checked two of my favorite authors. Who is this person?

“Any good?” she asks.

“Probably.” I shrug. “I mean, I’ve read it like four times in a row.”

“Four times?” She shakes her head, flicking the points of her ponytail. “It must be really good.”

“It’s really well written, but that’s not why I keep reading it.”

“Why do you keep reading it?”

“I don’t know. I guess it’s comforting.”

“Dinosaurs are comforting?”

“Not them, but more like the reminder that everything ends. Dinosaurs. Families. People. The human race.”

“Oh, yes, very comforting.”

“You think I’m weird?”

“Contemplating extinction at eleven thirty on a Saturday morning is definitely weird.” Hannah pauses. “But my kind of weird.”

My heart pit-pats.

“So let’s go see them books.”

“Shit. I didn’t know you were coming. They’re pretty much boxed up.”

“Why?”

“Minor construction work.”

“Tragic. I came all this way,” she says.

“Is there something specific you’re looking for? I can try to find it.” I know this is impossible. It’s hard enough to find things when they’re on the floor. But for her, I will tear the place apart.

“Nah.” She glances at me, her dark eyes sparkling and full of mischief. “If the books are a no-go, I guess you’ll have to show me the records instead.”

I lead Hannah through the store while Garry gapes, open-mouthed, as if I’ve brought in a centaur. Ike doffs an invisible hat. Richie makes a kissy sound.

“Don’t mind them,” I tell Hannah as I lead her down the stairs. “They were raised in a barn.”

“Ahh, they’re harmless,” she says.

“Don’t know about that.” I flick on the lights. Hannah’s curious eyes take in the Mom rubble. The bike. The robe. The addiction books. I see the questions forming on her lips. Quickly, I point in the opposite direction. “Behold, the vinyl.” I shake my keys.

“Locked?” Hannah asks. “Is this a vinyl crime zone?”

A little on the nose, there, Hannah. “You’d be surprised.”

I unlock the bins and she starts going through one. “Holy shit. Versus. Velvet Underground.” She turns to me. “Is it all like this?”

“I guess so.”

“Pretty impressive for a music hater.”

For a second, I can see Sandy, stooped over the bins, obsessing over his beloveds.

And