6. Chapter 6
six
Word of the day: futurition
Definition: the state of being about to occur; the condition of something that is going to happen in the future
“We can’t. Not here.”
“Why not here?”
“Someone could walk in; someone could see us.”
“Isn’t that the best part?”
“But—”
“Don’t deny me, my heart. Not anymore. You must know what a desperate man looks like.”
Goodness, just kiss him already, Maria. It’s been thirty-two chapters of glancing touches, forbidden longing, and sexually tense chess matches, and I’m now listening at 2.75x speed just to get through this emotional edging.
I’m standing behind the counter at the bookstore, surrounded by half-unpacked boxes and a clipboard that I’ve scribbled so many little hedgehogs and bunnies on that it’s got a whole woodland border.
Every inch of the store smells like dust jackets and the ghost of spilled pumpkin chai lattes from seasons past. The front windows are fogged slightly from the overworked radiator, and the flickering ceiling bulb near the true crime section is giving horror-movie jump scares.
It’s rare that I’m the only one here, but the usual afternoon shift worker, Cliff, said he had to leave early to finish his exact replica of his Naruto costume for an upcoming convention, so here we are.
I’m trying to take inventory, but I’m juggling my phone between the crook of my neck and a clipboard in my hands while scanning the barcodes of new arrivals.
My pen is dying—its pretty, smooth ink dried to a scratchy ballpoint—my phone is threatening to slip, Maria is whispering breathlessly about petticoats and forbidden castles, the steady thrum of Edith’s autumn playlist keeps getting stuck on Frank Sinatra’s ‘You Make Me Feel So Young,’ and all I can think about is Buddy the Elf. It's pure chaos in here tonight.
I’m so caught up in said chaos that I don’t register the soft jingle of the front doorbell—despite having flipped the sign to ‘closed’ half an hour ago.
My hands continue to move of their own accord—scan the barcode, check the clipboard, mark the inventory off, set the book on the cart to be shelved before I leave. Wash, rinse, repeat.
Maria’s head is leaning close to the pirate, and she is going on and on about destined futures and something else I am blocking out, because I cannot get this stupid pen to work right. I mean, it’s a brand new one out of the box in the back, how could I possibly have broken it that quick—
“Do you think they’re about to kiss?”
A voice—sharp and sudden—slices through the quiet air.
Fletcher is leaning over the other side of the counter, elbow propped right next to my stack of new thrillers to scan.
I jump so violently my phone is hurled across the room.
It clatters to the floor and skids directly into the YA anime section— the single worst place for Maria and…
Whatshisname to consummate their centuries-old slow burn.
The audiobook does not stop.
Maria gasps, breathless and doomed, “Take me, even if it damns us both—”
Good God. I dive for the phone like it’s a live grenade set to go off ?any second.
My fingers are frantic on the device, and the volume somehow increases.
Maria moans. I fumble. Fletcher is here.
I hit everything but the pause button. My camera opens, my thumb slips and takes a picture of Fletcher’s shoes, and I frantically lock it so many times that I have ten seconds before my phone automatically calls emergency services—a feature Sloane insisted on prior to my move that I would now like a time travel machine back to tell myself not to do.
Or maybe I would use the machine to go back to the last thirty seconds of my life and just wipe the memory clean.
My thumb slams against the pause button, just in time for Maria to whisper something about lace and sacrifice. I am left with flushed cheeks and awkward silence.
Fletcher has yet to move from his position at the desk, beyond a single eyebrow quirk.
“Can I help you?” I clear my throat and hold my clipboard, like I’m the pinnacle of professionalism.
He raises the other hand behind the counter, and a familiar flash of green pops up. “You forgot your jacket the other night.”
“You took my jacket the other night,” I correct.
“It was an accident.”
“Well, you can give it back now.”
My face is still so hot that I don’t know if I’ll ever need a jacket again. But, I am no fan of Fletcher having something of mine, so I reach my hand out, palm up, with what little of my pride remains intact.
Fletcher nods and replies simply, “I will.” But, he makes no move to actually give it to me. When I stretch my hand out to grab the fleece zip-up, he stretches his arm back for miles. “In a few minutes.”
“A few minutes?”
I still can’t get the image out of my mind of this man hearing bodices being ripped and getting his own taste of what a desperate man sounds like. I can’t handle another thirty seconds of this, let alone a few minutes.
He reads my face with a considering expression. “It might be shorter than that.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“If you had turned off your…book sooner, we would probably have been done by now.”
It’s not like I wasn’t making a valiant effort, but okay. “Been done with what?”
My feet have me slowly backing up to the desk behind me, so I can hide my phone and pray with all my being that nothing else comes out of it.
“I prefer this conversation just between us.” Fletcher dips his chin at my phone. “So, if you could leave those two alone to wrap it up, that would be great.”
I narrow my eyes and direct him to a secluded space. “By all means, then, let’s get on with it.”
“This isn’t what I meant.”
“This will suffice for whatever you need.”
We’re at a round table about two feet off the ground, tiny chairs with legs designed as pencils and stickers half scraped off on the sides.
Fletcher's long legs push against the table, forcing him to twist on his side. He starts to complain that his feet are falling asleep, and I delight in the pins and needles in his toes right now—as though I placed them there myself.
“I can’t take you or myself seriously here.”
Good. I gesture with a hand forward, indicating my permission to proceed.
He sighs with his shoulders slumped over and my jacket across his lap. Something about seeing him so…humbled has satisfaction seeping into my bones.
“I need your help.”
“I gathered as much when you sat down at a table fit for four-year-olds.”
“The other night…when I said I didn’t get romance. I meant that.”
“If you are about to ask me for dating advice, I should make it clear I am not the person to ask.”
I have never even had a real first date. A funny thought, considering my ten-year long relationship. I know less about dating than I do about making friends, and I feel like that really says something.
“I don’t need help with that.”
My chin jerks back, and I assess him with narrowed eyes: dark, fluffy chestnut hair, scruff along his jaw and above his nose, and disheveled in a way that’s borderline concerning but leaning just on the right side of attractive.
Objectively, Lennon was right. Fletcher is nice to look at, if you were into his kind of tall and brooding.
I suppose he wouldn't need help in the whole dating realm. Or maybe it’s one of those, is he cute or is he just six-two situations?
He clears his throat, and I force my eyes from the way his henley stretches across the expanse of his chest.
“I work for Ashford & Elm Publishing.”
Now that has my attention.
“An editor?”
“No, I’m a content writer—articles and what not. I usually cover more…classic literature. Or men's nonfiction. But, the other writer in my department is on maternity leave, and she writes about women’s fiction and—”
“Romance?”
“Yes.” He slumps forward, an excellent image of him hunched over in these tiny chairs for me to carve into my brain. I can’t wait to see what it looks like when he gets back up.
“So, you need me because…?”
“My boss is very unhappy with the article I tried to submit about romcoms. He said I needed to do research—” Which explains the tragic love stories.
He sounds exasperated when he keeps going, head shaking toward his lap and fingers digging into his temples.
“I tried. I really, really tried. I’ve resubmitted twice, and now he’s looking for someone else to take over. ”
“But, you want to do it because—”
“There is a position open for a career advance if I can satisfy him, but he doesn’t exactly like me.”
“Shocking.”
He glares. “My point is, you know what you’re talking about with all this stuff.”
He waves a hand around the room before landing on my phone back at the desk, like he is pointing directly to my previous audiobook for ‘stuff.’
“I do.”
“So, I’d like you to teach me.”
Back up just one minute.
“You want me to teach you about romance?”
“Romance novels, precisely. Yes.”
“And how would I even do that?”
I don’t know if that’s something that can be taught.
You either get it or just…don’t. It’s like playing cards with someone—after two or three rounds, if you don’t understand how seven up, seven down works, I’m not sure what else there is to do other than just go for it.
And Fletcher, in all his shitting on romance, is not exactly someone I’d like to work with on this kind of project.
I need a hobby, not a death sentence.
“You would give me recommendations on books, I’d read them, and you’d give me feedback on my general thoughts to make sure I understand the overall plot points.”
I think back to watching Fletcher the other day.
Nose scrunched, lip curled at each romance question on trivia night.
The little scoffs at the mention of some of my favorite authors in this world.
The condescending raise of a brow when I knew that Jane Austen once accepted a marriage proposal, only to change her mind the very next day.
All of it tells me a very clear answer to his question. I could dedicate years of my life to teaching the themes and understanding of classic romances to Fletcher, and he would be left with nothing but a humorous, pitying laugh.
I have subjected myself to mortification for the sake of pushing a friendship with others more than I care to admit, and I refuse to do it again. Certainly not with this man.
“I am a romance expert. It’s ninety percent of the content I consume.
I listen to audiobooks when I’m walking anywhere, and I read on my Kindle at night.
I like enemies to lovers. I like pirates.
I like shy hockey players and female leads who are learning their way through life.
I watch early 2000s romcoms religiously.
I like slow burns and gentle touches, kind words and tender moments, and forced proximity.
I like contemporary romances with underwater welders.
I like historical romances with Scottish men in kilts. ”
“Kilts?”
“And, as much as I like all romances, I can look at someone and know that they couldn’t possibly understand them.” I lean back as much as my pencil chair will let me. “I look at you, and I know that it would be a waste of my time.”
Fletcher is frantic, arms out and hands pointing. “Well, anyone would think that if they saw me in this chair. Here, let me stand up and I’ll show you, I don’t usually slouch like this—”
“No, that’s okay.”
He is still trying to stand up, his narrow hips caught between the chair and table.
“Fletcher.”
Dark eyes look over to me.
“I appreciate you thinking so highly of me—”
A splotch of pink stretches along his cheekbones. “Well, I wouldn’t say—”
“But I have to decline.”
It’s true. I am borderline desperate for friendship—for regular, platonic human contact—but I will not enter an arrangement to teach the values of a good romance book to someone who does nothing but put down on this genre.
I learned long ago that it's far better to stand alone with integrity than be surrounded by people who don’t even like who you are at your core.