There is a quaint little French pastry shop nearby to where she lives. She's always been tempted to go there, but has never been daring enough to go in. She'll walk past it without even looking in its windows. She's built it up so high in her expectations that she'll only be disappointed. Her imagination has concocted a glorious shop filled with macaroons, fluffy cream, pink icing, strawberries and light, sugary pastry - as though it was owned by Sophia Coppola herself.
Emily quite like the strip of shops that the pastry shop belonged to. There was the typical, in-every-suburb newsagent where she could waste away her money on photography magazines, French Vogue and spend countless minutes flipping through bridal magazines whilst never had enough courage to buy it. She loved purchasing magazines, and while she flicked through the glossy pages she could imagine herself standing in that Philip Lim 3.0 dress and entering the front door to the upcoming party. Or wearing those knee-high boots that Kate Moss had a pair of to the cinema. But that was always a fleeting feeling. Soon she crashed back to earth, and her dreams were just that - dreams. Then there was the tea & coffee shop. She liked to buy presents for her grandmother there. Mugs, tea leaves, teapots, napkins with pretty designs. Next door to the tea shop was the book store. It was Shelly's bookstore, but she had never seen a Shelly at the counter before. It was always that man. That man, who she had named Mark. He looked like a Mark. He also looked lonely, and she would create a little life for him where he would spend the day reading the books on the shelves that surrounded him, and go home to a small apartment in a nearby suburb right on the train line. Emily could see him in his spare time sipping coffee from a mug he had bought from next door and struggling over a manuscript for a play he was writing on his grandfather's typewriter. She liked the bookstore, it was small. But then again, it was almost too small for Emily. She didn't mind the large chain store bookshops like Borders and Dymocks because she was never bothered there. Never asked "Hi, how are you today? Need any help? No? Well, if you do, just let me know," and then having the feeling of being watched the whole time. No, she much preferred larger stores where she could just sit on the floor and if you wanted to, you could spend the whole day there and read the book you wanted without having to pay and without so much of a second glance from anyone.
Emily strolled down the street to which these shops belonged, as she listened to her ipod which was currently blasting Lacrosse 'Tigerlilly'. She loved that name, and thought that perhaps she would name her daughter that one day. If only it wasn't so out of the norm. But, then again, that's probably one of the reasons why it attracted her so much. That, and the fact that the name is Peter Pan. But Emily's love for Peter Pan is a story for another time. Right now the story being told is her walking past the pastry shop, the bookshop where Mark worked, the tea shop and the newsagent, and down to the very end in which a library had been placed.
The library was big, bigger than the one she worked at during the week. She'd returned her books, and paid her overdue fines. $24 down the drain on keeping her Queen Victoria biographies too long.
She was browsing through the isles of shelves, looking for something she hadn't seen before. A new book on Wordsworth. A new French decorating book with glossy pages of 18th century French antiques. A guidebook to Venice she'd never noticed. Her canvas bag would have gladly taken the books she'd chosen but, as always, she liked to carry them in her own hands; her fingers protectively clinging onto the binding. Even though the books didn't belong to her, Emily felt as though she had a responsibility towards them while they were staying with her. Those pages she'd borrowed needed her love, care and attention. There was something possessive about her feelings towards books.
When she turned the corner she stopped dead in her tracks and rushed to turn around and hide behind a shelf. It wasn't that she was afraid, just that she was surprised. He wasn't meant to be here. What was he doing here? She pretend to be interested in the particular books that the shelf she was hiding behind was shelving. How to care for your kittens. Every few seconds she sneak a look to see if he was still there.
What books was he looking at? She tried to remember what was on the third shelf from the back in the middle. The mid 600's. Music. She smiled to herself; of course, that was the only thing Riley would ever read about if he ever picked up a book. Although, she had seen him read one before - Blue Like Jazz. It was a Christian book his leader had given him and he had become, well, possessive about it during the time Emily observed him reading it. He would carry it with him everywhere. That was when they were much closer, and when she could talk to him with a slight ease because she knew he wanted to talk to her; he had told her. But it had all changed, she'd gone away for a few weeks, to New Zealand to visit her family and she'd come back and it had all been different. Sure they just chatted since, but it was different and she hadn't figured out why yet. Somehow it seemed more laborious. It wasn't fun anymore. He used to make her laugh all the time, and once he told her that he liked her laugh. She thought that maybe he'd Grown Up, become more mature. And if that was what had truly happened, then deep down Emily could never like him again, even though she didn't know it. Yes, even Emily didn't realise herself just how much Growing Up scared her. She knew how much she loved Peter Pan, and his story, and how much she longed to be Wendy, but her conscious self had not realised the true extent of it. Riley wouldn't be coming back, Peter had taught her that.
Quite soon she realised she was being creepy, and to either go up and say 'hi' or to go and borrow her books. She chose the latter.
Walking out into the sunshine and hot wind felt strangely refreshing to Emily with her new books. Perhaps it was the books, or perhaps it was because when she decided to walk away from Riley, she decided she would no longer attach herself romantically to him. She couldn't stand another four months like how she'd spent the last. In those four months she couldn't recall a day where she hadn't thought about him, and that scared her. What a waste of her thoughts. She could have used that space to think about something much more meaningful; the state of Africa, for example.
Peter was waiting for her when she got home. Peter Pan that is. She read the book a few times each year, each time discovering the child within her. Her copy was bent, creased and covered with scrawls of underlines and yellow highlighter. Emily felt that she could deal with having just three men in her life: her father, her brother and Peter, and she would be contented. Maybe life would even be easier. She certainly would have more time to think about more important issues other than how to impress boys like Riley. But she could only live in her little three-man world as long as she had her male authors still writing books she could read. Or making the films she loved to watch. Emily couldn't think of a life without the influence of Chuck Palahniuk, Ian McEwan or Johnny Depp.
