Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 128430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 514(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 514(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
“Salenger might not be your name?”
I laugh softly. “No, it’s my name. It’s even on my birth certificate. But I wouldn’t put it past my mom to make up her own rules as she went along.” This is nice so far, better than I thought, freeing even in some small way. “I have a theory.”
“Which is?” he asks, his tone tipping into intrigue.
“Calliope Salenger was a very complex woman. Some days, she wore flowers in her hair. Others, she dressed in all black like she was going to a funeral. Most days, she was caught somewhere between Holly Golightly and Holden Caulfield.”
I hear him hum. “She had good taste in authors. I can’t say I’ve read Breakfast at Tiffany’s, but I can say that I read Salinger’s book. ” He nods as if he’s uncovered treasured secrets. “So you were named after the author?”
“I never got a straight answer, but my mom thought the E made it more unique.”
The lights from the dash reflect onto his face, giving me the advantage of seeing him over Cooper seeing me sitting in the dark of the passenger’s seat. Call me selfish, but I like looking at his face. His handsome features are already so defined that I can only imagine he’ll get better with age. Although it would be fun to zigzag my tongue over the days’ worth of scruff or stare enviously over his lashes, it’s his eyes that mesmerize, and I can’t see those properly in the car at night.
“Believe it or not, I have to spell Haywood every time I make a dinner reservation.”
I’ve never eaten somewhere that required a reservation, but I don’t tell Cooper. I hate when he feels bad over our money situations. I return to the details of my mom. “I have her old copy of Catcher in the Rye. It’s one of the few things I have left from her.” Picturing it in my nightstand with its tattered pages and broken spine, I know that book was well-read and even more loved. “I think she had some Holden Caulfield in her, some little aspect that made her always feel like an outcast in Atterton. She’s from there, the town of Atterton. Grew up down the street from the bus station.”
“I don’t know where that is.”
No, of course not. The guy drives a Jaguar.
“Yeah, she just never quite fit into society. But I’m not sure if she ever tried or if she tried and failed and then decided to do the exact opposite.” I take a breath, hating that I’m starting to feel sad. When will the sadness around my mom’s death end? “I spent so many years trying to fit in but realized I didn’t want to after she died.”
The sound of gravel grinds under the tires when he exits the freeway. The car slows to the speed limit as we pass a gas station with a cop car parked in the parking lot. He watches like he’s doing something wrong.
He catches hold of my gaze, making him smile, and then redirects his attention back to the road. He takes a right. The tall pine trees are covered with inches of snow as we drive down a curvy road. Careful, he slows down even more, and I can imagine we’re under the speed limit by now, but I don’t mind because I’m with him.
Glancing at me once more, he says, “I can’t tell if you had a good or bad childhood, Story. But I get the feeling that either way, it made you who you are today.”
“Aren’t we all the products of our childhood, of our parents’ flaws and qualities—
good or bad?”
He seems to weigh the words, not rushing to say anything for my benefit, but I assume he’s thinking about what fits his circumstances best. “Holden wasn’t alone in Catcher in the Rye,” Cooper starts. “He just felt like an outcast in his head, and maybe he was in life as well. That was his self-protection, though, his MO, and I get it. It was just the way he preferred to exist in life. Alone.”
“So you think he chose that path?”
I see worry crossing his brow and digging small lines into his forehead as he mulls over the question. “Do any of us get to choose our path in life?” He glances over at me. “Or do we just continue following the one chosen for us?”
The conversation veers into a deeper ravine of reflection that I’m not sure we can dig ourselves out of at this juncture. But I’m fascinated, more than riveted by how this man thinks, what makes him tick, the way he expresses his emotions to me, opening up in a way that makes me feel special. My gut tells me he doesn’t do this with many people.
His eyes narrow as the snow gets heavier. Peering through the windshield, I stare ahead at the road, thinking it must have been salted days ago since it’s beginning to cover with snow again. “It’s easier to do what others want. I did for a long time.”