Used Books: Boston Novels & Stories

“Do you have any books of poetry? Robert Barrett Browning, or maybe Elizabeth Barrett Browning?” Mackenzie’s throat tightened. Her favorites… “Certainly, right this way,” she said, leading them over a few rows, then down a short aisle. “All of our hardbacks are here. I have a few paperbacks in the used section.” “Perfect.” The girl let go of her boyfriend long enough to snatch a book off a shelf. Mackenzie nodded as the two bent their heads over the volume. Sighing, she headed back toward the counter. Why should she be upset over a couple of kids mooning over Elizabeth and Robert and each other?

Fall had settled in Boston, bringing with it a biting chill and a sky that hung low and gray above rows of old buildings. Maple leaves scattered along the sidewalks, painting the streets in quiet shades of orange. On the fourth floor of a colonial-style office building in Back Bay, the women's restroom felt like a different world—silent, still, almost untouched.

I let out a relieved sigh and as I was going to go back in, I noticed something was on the ground. It was a really big book titled "Top Colleges and Universities in the USA". I remembered Blake said it once, that he was going to show this book to me and help me find the colleges that I might be interested in. I picked up the book and noted how heavy it was. There must be at least a thousand pages in there. I opened the first page, and there was a post-it note stuck on it: "I've highlighted all the places that I thought you might like. Hope that might help you with your search. —B"

CHAPTER 8: Dangerous Games Bronwyn The guest room smelled like lavender and old books. I sat cross-legged on the bed next to Eudora while she scrolled through N*****x on her laptop. We'd already watched two rom-coms and were halfway through a third. "Want some popcorn?" Eudora asked. "I'm good." She paused the movie and turned to face me. "So tell me about Boston. You must have guys lining up for you there." I pulled at a loose thread on the blanket. "Not really. I'm pretty focused on work."

Six years of a life that now, seen through Evie Callahan’s eyes, looks like a very expensive movie projected especially for me. The memories of Boston don’t arrive like the sharp flashbacks from Dublin—those that stab through me, physical and visceral. The memories of Beatrice Prescott arrive softly, polished, wrapped in silk and champagne and perfectly calibrated lighting. They arrive like a very well-told lie. Boston. Always Boston.

I said brightly, nearly passing out from not being able to take a deep breath for courage. Boston looked up from his phone, his gaze immediately dropping to the stretched cotton, valiantly testing its stitch strength. He scrubbed a hand over his face and turned toward the long bar, the grayish toned wood matching the room perfectly. “Okay, we have a lot to cover. Let’s start with the various wines the Cunning Ham has available.”

“Thanks for bringing me, Layton. This all sounds incredible.” That was the first time she voiced the sentiment, but as we visited the landmarks and ‘walked into history,’ as the tour was called, she echoed it many times. When we got to the old corner bookstore, Marissa gripped my hand and dragged me right to the front of our group in order to hear better. The guide was speaking. “It is one of the oldest structures in Boston, having been erected in 1712 by Thomas Crease.”

As Caleb and I left the park, turning down Court Street and heading into the heart of the historic district of Boston, the old Statehouse came into view. It was a large, brick building, perfectly preserved from the 1700s, with multiple historic windows and topped by a large, white cupola. It was stunning in its simplicity and beauty. As we reached its base, we walked around the structure, looking for the site of the Boston massacre. Finally, as we turned the corner, we saw it.

Sharing Trey with another love of a lifetime would be a deal breaker. He dropped into his desk chair, swiveling toward the long expanse of windows to stare at the city. August’s sunshine shimmered in sparks and sheets off the old and new buildings. He could see the waterfront from this direction, the wharves and the bright harbor. Boston was never all one thing or another: neither all modern nor historic, neither completely land nor sea . . . kind of like him, when it came down to it.