Lemon Bars as a Love Language

By Julia Rajagopalan

Victor fell in love with Fables Bookstore before he fell in love with Willow, but the timing was very close. From the time he could read, Victor loved libraries, bookstores, and most importantly, books. After traveling the world, Fables, with its fluffy armchairs and cozy coffee shop, finally felt like home.

On Victor’s first shift, she floated in on a cloud of musky perfume and wavy blonde hair. She ordered a coffee, then went to a table near the window where she stayed for five hours, typing away on a laptop. Her focus was impressive, and he wondered what she was working on. Was she a Tech nerd like him, or something else?

She gave him a soft smile on her way out, and Victor nodded a goodbye. Once she was gone, he went to Debbie in the coffee shop. Employees weren’t supposed to get coffee while working, but as Fables’ new part-owner, Debbie made an exception. Victor almost dropped a $100 bill in the tip jar, but caught himself, instead adding $5.

“Who was that?”

“She’s a regular,” Debbie said, grinning conspiratorially. “She comes in every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and orders a black coffee. Sometimes she gets a treat, but she buys a book every Friday.”

“Who is she?”

“Her name is Willow, but I don’t know her personally,” Debbie admitted. “She’s very nice.”

***

That Friday, he watched as Willow shopped, taking care to read the staff recommendations. Eventually, she approached the counter with a book of short stories written by a long-dead British author.

“I’m Victor,” he blurted as he took her book. He knew he was acting strange, and she stopped rummaging through her bag and stared.

“Hi, are you new?” She smiled kindly at him.

“I just started working here,” he admitted, fumbling the book. “Short stories, you a writer or something?” He held up her book.

“What do you mean?” She recoiled like he had accused her of shoplifting, and her brow wrinkled.

“It’s just that only writers and grad students read short stories anymore.”

“That’s not true.” She frowned, handing him a $20 bill. He took it, managing to get it into the register without further loss to his dignity. Their fingers brushed as he handed her the book, and a shiver rushed through his chest. He told himself to chill. He was a successful entrepreneur, a billionaire, though no one knew, not an awkward teenager.

“You’ll have to tell me if you like it.”

“Sure.” She walked out, leaving Victor to his books and his embarrassment.

***

On Friday, Willow again wandered the store looking for a book. Victor watched as she read his review of a new space opera, her face flushing. Abruptly, she snatched the card off the shelf and stomped up to the counter.

“Did you write this?” She waved the card at him.

“Yeah, I loved it. Did you hear they’re making it into a streaming show?” He couldn’t wait. The books were exciting, well-researched, and detailed, and he loved imagining himself in their futuristic world.

“Why’d you say the main character’s lonely? She’s resourceful and resilient. Just because she doesn’t lose herself in a relationship doesn’t mean she’s lonely.”

“The main character is literally alone for most of the book.”

“I just don’t think that you’d say that if she were a man,” Willow huffed.

“That’s not fair. You don’t know me. There are several points where the character wants to connect, but it’s like she doesn’t know how.” He knew because it hit a little too close to home.

She opened her mouth, as if to protest, but instead frowned. “That wasn’t fair. I’m sorry.”

“You’re taking this a little personally. You the author or something?” He laughed, but she paled.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She stormed out, leaving Victor in confusion. He had written a positive review. He took the card back to the shelf, then picked up the book and flipped to the back, to the author’s picture. The woman had short black hair with full bangs and glasses. Nothing like Willow’s long blonde hair, yet something was familiar. It would have fooled anyone else, except that Victor had been studying her for weeks. Willow was the author J.B. Livingston, and she had been in his shop the entire time.

***

Over the next several days, Victor read everything he could about J.B. Livingston. There wasn’t much. She lived quietly and rarely did interviews, but a minor detail struck him. Her guilty pleasure was lemon bars. So Victor called several local bakeries until he found one that sold them. Then, he made sure that they supplied the coffee shop every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

She came in that Friday, and he watched as she stared at the lemon bars. She glanced at him and then away, but ordered a bar along with her coffee. He felt a profound elation, overjoyed that he had pleased her.

That day, she stayed later than usual, and when he was finally alone, she approached.

“You know,” she said.

“What do you mean?” He tried for innocence, but Victor was a horrible liar.

“The lemon bars. I mentioned them in an interview.” She crossed her arms.

“Why don’t you tell people who you are? You’re amazing.”

“Please don’t say anything. I like it here. It’s my secret.” She wore a sad, pleading expression, and his heart ached for her.

“Believe me, I understand more than you know.” Victor knew something about living undercover.

“Because you’re a billionaire?”

“How do you know?” Victor asked, waves of panic spreading through his chest. Even his partners in the store didn’t know the extent of his wealth. He had scrubbed the web for almost all of his pictures.

“There was an article in Forbes when you sold your company. Why don’t you tell people?”

“When I tell people, they get really weird.” He thought about the uncomfortable first dates and the strangers asking for money. “Thank you for not saying anything.”

“People get weird when I tell them too,” she admitted. “They think they’re going to end up as a villain in a story.”

“Will they?”

“Maybe,” she shrugged.

“Hey, I know we just met, but do you want to get a coffee? I know a great place.” He gestured to the coffee shop.

“You don’t mind the possibility of ending up in my stories?” She grinned mischievously.

“I can handle it. Do you think you can handle vacations on my yacht?”

She snorted a laugh. “I think I can handle it.”

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