17. Seventeen
After a long day of errands, I putter into the driveway at home to see Jack bolt from his front porch waving The Other Us in his hand—my copy of The Other Us, I realize, seeing its multi-colored mohawk of sticky notes.
“That’s my book!”
He opens the car door for me. “Unrealistic? Ridiculous? A guy’s version of a woman? What the hell, Rowan?”
Rising from the car, I shut the door and lean against it, my notes coming back to me as he spouts them off. “A few tiny things didn’t ring true for me, but you’re a guy writing a female character, so that’s to be expected. Didn’t you see all my positive notes? In my torturous annotations, which you stole from my house?”
A heavy sigh raises his broad shoulders, accented by a navy-blue t-shirt that somehow brings out brown flecks in his eyes. Or maybe that’s the afternoon sun. He runs a hand through his unruly hair, which draws my eyes to his motley collection of tattoos. I catch glimpses of a raven, random books scattered like confetti, and fire. Fahrenheit 451, I think. His other arm boasts a rocky island, eerily dark and disturbing. Could it be And Then There Were None? He moves too quickly to make everything out.
But I want to, I think, with growing unease.
His brown eyes find mine—he looks amused, like he can read my inner Jack-thoughts. “Would you mind explaining what you meant, please?”
I move to the front of the car, open the trunk, and grab bags. He does the same, tucking the book under his arm.
“Well, a down-to-earth girl like Jasmine wouldn’t care about designer shoes—that’s a Sex in the City cliche. Not all women are shoe crazy,” I say as we shuffle inside.
He groans, looking almost murderous. “Do you know how much time I spent researching fucking Jimmy Choos and Louboutins?”
I laugh—can’t help it. “No. Don’t want to know, either. Those shoes don’t fit her character. She has enough to worry about, anyway. Someone who’s been through trauma wouldn’t be so… happy-go-lucky with a strange man in her apartment. Most women, traumatized or not, feel uneasy about it.”
Jack looks perplexed as he sets his bags on the counter. “What? You mean the plumber?”
“Yes. You accomplished your goal in the scene—to show how her OCD tendencies appear to outsiders. That part’s good. But what you don’t capture is her inherent vulnerability in that situation. Just the fact that he notices her peculiarities would unnerve her. Instead, she’s way too relaxed about it, even talkative. She’d be reluctant to open up.”
“Like you.” His dark eyebrow cocks slightly, looking skeptical. “So, you feel vulnerable with repairmen?”
“Vulnerable with anyone at my front door.” My voice trails off weakly. I’ve wandered into a conversation I don’t want to have.
“Why, exactly?”
“Um, it’s hard to…” I take a breath, remembering this is about his novel—not me. “Letting a stranger in is always overshadowed by what-ifs for a woman.” My shoulders slump in a sigh. “Men are inherently free of half of a woman’s worries, and ignorantly so.”
Avoiding his quizzical glare, I put the groceries away, hoping he doesn’t notice my unease.
In a quiet deliberation, Jack’s hands go to his hips. He looks upset, and I worry that this might kick off another one of our cordially volatile arguments or an interrogation.
“Jack, these are small, incidental things. The story is beautiful, regardless. Why are you so bothered?”
A light scoff putters from his lips. “Nearly every adult woman on this street beta reads for me, and they never pointed this out.”
“Yes, but my critical thinking skills are banging. You’ve seen what I do to books. Besides, these are only my opinions. My private opinions—not notes for the author. If I’d known you’d steal the book, I probably would’ve gone easier on you. Could it be that they don’t want to discourage you?”
His response is a mild groan.
Sara pops into the kitchen, grabbing a soda from the fridge. A quick introduction brings a pleasant exchange, baffling me since I never had the same courtesy.
“What’s for dinner?” she asks.
“Um, let’s see…” I haven’t thought about dinner yet.
Jack whips out his wallet and hands her a credit card. “Order whatever you want.”
My mouth bobs open to protest, but Sara’s face alights in a smile—the first I’ve seen. She bounces as she leaves the kitchen. With a sigh, I let that go and refocus on Jack.
“You really shouldn’t have helped yourself to my personal annotations. Those notes were for me. Not you. I probably went too far.”
His brows scrunch into a pocket at the top of his nose. “No, you… You’re exactly right. Not only did you spot my few flaws, but every nuance, device, trick, and even my convoluted metaphors. Hell, you saw things that even I didn’t. Nothing got by you.”
“Well, it’s what I do. But I read it for pleasure first. You were right, too. Once I relaxed into the story, it was the immersive experience it should be. I’m grateful to you for that.”
Jack stands there, hand going through his hair periodically like he’s unsure what to do or say. I reach for the book still tucked under his arm and battle his tight grip to repossess it. He lets it go but in a catatonic way. Then, he leaves, taking my stack of folded paper bags with him.
Damn it, I’ve upset him. Again.
Sara announces the imminent arrival of Thai food while I plod down the hallway. A maroon T-shirt and sweat shorts replace my blouse and dark jeans. My hair goes up in a loose bun before I pour a glass of chardonnay. I meet Edgar Allan Poe in the living room, where he saunters up with a soft meow before collapsing at my feet and pawing the air in my direction. I plop beside him, delivering belly rubs and playful tugs to his ears.
The doorbell rings, followed by a quick pound. Sara rushes to answer it.
“Food’s not here yet,” she announces dryly.
Jack wears the same bothered expression as moments ago. He sets a full paper bag on the floor beside me.
“What’s this?”
“Books. My books. Will you read them?”
I smirk, confused. “Sure. I was planning to, anyway. Just haven’t checked them out from the library yet.”
“No, I want the full dissection. Every muscle. Every vein. Every nerve. Critique each word if you want to. Hold nothing back.”
“Um, okay.”
“For your trouble, I’ll take care of the tree.” His pinched face reminds me of frustrated students bargaining for extra credit.
“What’s with you and that tree? You’re obsessed with it. No need to do anything except meet my classes, as we agreed. Reading and annotating your books to death will be my pleasure.” A coy grin stretches over my cheeks at the last word, pleasure, a not-so-subtle I-told-you-so over him valuing my annotations after all.
“Don’t worry, Jack. I went all out with dinner. It’s going to be a feast.” Sara hands him his credit card with a devious smirk.
My smile joins hers as I peek inside the paper bag. Cape Moon sits on top—the one I want to read next.
“Jack, do you have other books I might borrow? Contemporary books?” I say tentatively. “I want to read other genres my students might be drawn to. I’ll read the hell out of these, but I’m having trouble scoring recent bestsellers at the library. There’s a waiting list for everything good.”
He holds out his hand to help me up. “Come, check out my library.”
We traipse across the lawn to his house barefoot. His study is an add-on—a sunroom with long windows, tacked onto the side of his house closest to mine like an afterthought.
Upon entering, I gasp. It’s something out of a whimsical Instagram post. Books wrap the room like wallpaper. All available wall space is a bookshelf, even the few inches above the window frames. Books form funny stacks in odd places like stalagmites in caves. Three pieces of furniture occupy the room—a rustic wood desk in the middle with a matching chair, and an oversized cushy red chair tucked into a corner with open books perched upside down along the armrest and back to save his place. He reads multiple books at a time.
I peruse the shelves like a quaint bookstore, starting with the nearest to my left. The Magic Treehouse Books, Little House on the Prairie, The Hardy Boys, Tolkien, Choose Your Own Adventure Books, Shel Silverstein and Dr. Seuss—the shelves are a timeline, starting with childhood, moving into classics and college books, then a mystery and horror phase, and wrapping around the room to current reads—including every book I’m waiting for at the library. Contemporary romances share the space with thrillers and science fiction, as if he indiscriminately pulls books from shelves without noticing the genre. From the looks of it, Jack Graham has never met a book he didn’t like.
Funny bobbleheads, including one of Edgar Allan Poe, decorate the shelves. In front of The Hardy Boys, I pick up a small framed photo of him and his brother in their Coastal baseball uniforms. Devin shared Jack’s devious side grin and thoughtful eyes, and seeing them together makes me sad. My finger traces over their faces before returning the picture to its perch.
The desk is scattered with Moleskin notebooks and pens—good pens. Pilot G-2s and expensive gel pens sit beside heavy gold pens—the kind I see in cases in antique stores. The other paper bags from my earlier stack remain on the desk’s corner. He snatches one and whacks it open.
“I hit a few local bookstores every month for whatever looks intriguing.” He motions to the shelves with the latest titles. “Take whatever you want… except the ones on the chair. I haven’t finished those yet.”
“It’s amazing.” I’m a little breathless. “Where should I start?”
My question makes him smile—he wanted me to ask. He picks books from the shelves while delivering elevator pitches like he’s been dying to talk about them. The bag fills quickly. He goes for another, but I stop him.
“Jack… thank you. That’s enough for now. I promise I’ll return them in pristine condition.”
His brow furrows. “No, don’t do that. Do your fucking worst on them. I’m actually hoping they get worse marks than mine. Counting on it, really.”
Through the open window, I hear Sara giggling into her phone in my kitchen just across the hedges.
My eyes return to Jack’s. “Come back and have dinner with us.”
He heaves the stuffed bag into his arms. “Definitely.”