The Bookshop of Second Chances by Jackie Fraser (best life changing books .TXT) 📕

incredibly, stupidly, madly, absurdly happy.’ He grabs me and whirls us round the room in a breathless and hilarious approximation of dancing. Eventually we knock over a stepladder and have to stop because we’re laughing so much. Then he kisses me.

‘I’ve never been so happy. I can’t believe it.’

My eyes fill with tears, and I’m glad it’s too dark for him to see. ‘Oh God. How lovely. If strange.’

‘Come on, let’s go upstairs. Are you hungry?’

I follow him out into the hallway, careful not to bump into the shelves beside the door. ‘I am a bit. I didn’t have any tea, for some reason…’

Climbing the stairs in the half-dark is a strange feeling. I wonder if I’ll do this often. I might. Or not. It’s all a mystery, isn’t it? You can’t know what will happen. The future stretches away into the distance, almost entirely occluded, a series of veils, some thicker than others.

I’m not sure how I feel about this, about earlier, but I recognize that sensation in my belly: lustful, hungry. I’m glad we’re going to do it again, and soon. I’m glad I don’t have to wait until next week or tomorrow to know it worked okay and that he, too, is keen to do it some more.

‘No, I didn’t have any either,’ he says. ‘Were you distracted? I know I was.’ He looks back at me. ‘Hey, I’ll be able to cook for you. I’m looking forward to that.’

I suppose it’s quite sad, the warm feeling this gives me, like he’s hugged me. ‘Are you?’

He nods. ‘Hardly ever get to cook for anyone.’

‘You need more friends.’ I disapprove of his empty life.

He shrugs at me. ‘Whatever. Anyway, there isn’t time to do anything too exciting this evening.’ We’re in the kitchen now. He flicks on the light and opens the fridge, rummaging. I lean against the wall. This is only the second time I’ve been in the flat with him here too – how strange it all is.

‘Okay, so, there’s cheese and ham and eggs. You could have a croque monsieur. Or an omelette. Or a croque madame.’

‘Oooh, I like a croque madame. Yes please. Actually, I’m starving.’

He grins at me. ‘Me too. Need to keep your strength up.’

‘Can I do anything?’

‘Put the kettle on? Or you could open some wine. There’s some in the fridge if you want white; the red’s in the dining room.’

Do I want a glass of wine? Maybe I do. Shit. Now I’m nervous again.

I open cupboards, looking for glasses. ‘You have a lot of kitchen stuff for a man who lives alone.’

‘I know, I’m a pack rat,’ he says, beginning to assemble the ingredients for our supper.

I regard the five sets of wine glasses. ‘Are these for different wines? I’m afraid I don’t know about stuff like that.’

‘It doesn’t matter – pick ones you like.’

‘Will you pity me for drinking white wine out of a red wine glass?’ I look over my shoulder at him.

He snorts. ‘Hardly.’

‘Good, I don’t wish to be pitied.’ I smile at him.

‘Yeah, I don’t pity you. Oh,’ he adds, coming closer, ‘except what’s going to happen later will be pretty awful.’

I don’t get what he means, and frown at him. ‘Why, what’s…’

He rolls his eyes. ‘You know. When you have to go to bed with me. Again.’

‘Oh! That. Yeah well, I’m terribly brave,’ I tell him, and begin to open drawers, looking for a corkscrew.

‘You are. D’you want me to do that?’

‘I can open a bottle of wine.’

‘I know. I’m just offering. To be nice, you know.’

‘I barely recognize this version of you,’ I say. We grin at each other. But then I’m serious again. I clear my throat. ‘I’m a bit worried that suddenly all my eggs are in one basket. And, like, twenty-four hours ago I didn’t even have a basket, let alone any eggs.’

‘What, when this goes tits up, you mean?’

‘I’m not saying it will.’

‘I won’t sack you.’

‘Oh right.’ I snort. ‘You so will. You sacked me once already, remember? I think’ – I lean back against the worktop and look at him – ‘you’d drop me like a shot if you felt it was awkward.’

‘No, I–’

‘Oh, come on. But maybe you’d be right to. I don’t know, if this goes pear-shaped, I probably wouldn’t want to work here. I mean, if you turn out to be a bastard.’

‘That’s not fair, you already know I’m a bastard.’

I wrinkle my nose. ‘Only sort of. You pretend to be worse than you are. Don’t you?’

‘Jesus,’ he says, ‘I think I pretend to be better, not worse. I’m afraid I have huge concealed depths of awfulness.’

We were joking before, but I feel like he’s not anymore – he believes this. I suppose he’d be insufferable if he had more self-confidence, or whatever it is that’s missing. But I think it’s sad that he thinks – or seems to think – he’s so awful.

‘I suppose I’ll have to find out about that,’ I say, ‘and see what I think.’ I laugh. ‘Don’t forget whose shoes you’re filling. Someone who stood up in front of all their friends and family and made lots of promises and massively failed to keep them.’

‘I don’t suppose I’ll ever forget whose shoes I’m filling.’ He’s serious again. ‘Someone you’ve known and loved for twenty years.’

‘Oh, well. You shouldn’t think of it like that. Really.’

‘Mm. Difficult, though. Because you love him, don’t you? Still. You miss him.’

‘It’s not quite as straightforward as that.’ I frown. ‘I’m afraid it’s more complicated than I’d choose for it to be. I don’t want to short-change you, or offer you less than you deserve.’

‘I shouldn’t think that’s possible,’ he says.

It makes my heart ache when he says things like this. And I’m not sure what to say. I put my glass down and step towards him, put my arms round his neck, stand on tiptoe to press a kiss against his cheek.

‘Don’t say that,’ I say. ‘You deserve nice things, don’t you? You deserve to have