Used Books: Boston Novels & Stories

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.

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.”

“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?

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.

Boston was not apart of her perfect story and clearly she was not apart of Scott’s. Before making any assumptions, let me clarify: we are all friends—best friends, but more than that. We do everything together because we simply enjoy being in each other’s presence. After school, after breakups, after parties, during breakfast, during parties and even grocery shopping, we were always there for one another. When Grady got a job in Boston after graduation, it felt like a goodbye that none of us were ready for. So, Scott and I found remote jobs, moved to Boston, and we bought a townhouse, ensuring we could continue living together for the foreseeable future. It was the most natural decision we m

Deep replied, pulling her closer as they gazed at the panoramic cityscape. Their honeymoon in Boston was a tapestry of enchanting moments—stolen glances, heartfelt conversations, and the warmth of shared experiences. Each day was a new chapter in their love story, a testament to the beginning of their journey together as husband and wife, creating lasting memories amid the allure of the city's charm. Amidst the vibrant atmosphere of Boston City, Deep and Gia found themselves immersed in a lively night of culture and entertainment. They had secured tickets to a renowned live performance at one of the city's iconic theaters, where artists from various genres showcased their talents.

Two years later Walking out of my Law and Business class I am gasping for a decent coffee. So, I go toward my car to one of the area's best coffee shops. Well, that’s my personal opinion, their pumpkin spice latte is to die for, and that’s the drink I am craving for right now. The fall season in Boston, Massachusetts is more breathtaking in person than what you see in pictures, in magazines, or on social media without those stupid filters. It’s the end of October and the leaves are this gorgeous red, brown, orange, and yellow color you could ever see in pictures, and I am here witnessing them falling from the trees around me.

“So where’d this last batch of donations come from?” “Let’s see. Bassler Memorial Library sent over a box of discards,” she says, quickly becoming all-business, “mostly teen paperback novels from the eighties. All in good shape, but stamped BASSLER LIBRARY on the leafs, with the sign-out-cards still pasted in the back. I put those in the twenty-five cent bin like you said.” “Cool. What was in those UPS boxes dropped off this morning?” “A donation from the used bookstore in Binghamton that closed. Paperbacks Plus? A whole collection of Leisure Horror paperbacks. Keene, Kenyon, Braunbeck, Ketchum, Sangiovanni . . . big catch, all brand new copies. How’d you work that?”