Chapter 12
A little magic sometimes happens while inside a bookstore.
Ryan and I have been staring at each other for several seconds.
I don’t know what he’s thinking, but I’m once more inappropriately noticing the way his deep-set dark blue eyes tip downward at the corners, giving him the look of both sorrow and annoyance at the world.
There’s an unnerving desire in me to know him better, to find out how she hurt him, how it ended.
Why. He’s been hurt and his entire body seems to carry some of the weight of that. It’s in his eyes, and in his shoulders.
We’ve never gone over the line of being professionals, but I wonder if it counts when we’re not technically at work now.
I break the stare fest first to look over his shoulder when the store clerk pushes a cart filled with books toward the front of the store.
“Look.” I point.
He turns to follow my gaze.
The clerk is stocking Soulmates, dozens of the special edition hardcover copies.
“Should we tell them we know the author?” I elbow him. “That might be fun.”
“No.” He takes my arm and stills my forward movement.
His grip is stronger than I would have guessed, but I still shake him off. “You’re right. It’s better if we’re here incognito. Undercover.”
“You know what this means.” He gives me one of his serious professorial don’t-mess-with-me looks.
“Yes. We can listen to people talk about the book.”
“And they won’t feel like they have to lie to…us.”
There’s a lot to unpack in that sentence. It appears I might not be the only one who’s not crazy about the book.
We stand for several minutes, watching quietly from a distance. The clerk stacks the books in a gorgeous center display with signage that might as well be fluorescent red blinking arrows ordering, “Read me!” and “Don’t get stuck being the only idiot that hasn’t read this book.”
Clearly, one of the booksellers loved this book, too.
I sidle up to the display, leaving Ryan behind me. “New release?”
“Yes, it’s a debut with high praise,” the clerk says.
Ryan joins me. “I’ve heard it’s a pedantic approach to story. Not that I’ve read it.”
The clerk, a young woman, gives Ryan the look you’d give someone who’s just insulted your best friend. “As booksellers, we get early copies and I’ve read it. I disagree. The writing is lyrical. Poetic.”
Ryan clears his throat. “Seems my information is wrong.”
I give her a wide smile. “Huh. So, you don’t think it’s a pedantic approach to writing?”
She straightens. “I wouldn’t hype anything I felt that way about!”
A middle-aged woman elbows her way into our conversation. “My book club is looking for a new selection. Do you recommend it?”
“Highly,” the bookseller said. “The book is written entirely from the hero’s point of view.
He’s neurodivergent and suffering with PTSD.
In his case, he’s grieving the man he used to be.
We read and talk so much about grief as the loss of a loved one, but not as much about the grief we feel for another version of ourselves.
This is far more than a love story. It’s truly a hero’s journey. ”
I don’t like hearing it quantified as “far more than a love story” as if that itself isn’t enough, but I’m going to be the bigger person and let that go.
I take a copy from the display. “I think I’ll give this a read.”
“You’ll love it. It’s funny, too. I love my books to have a good balance of funny and tragic. There’s plenty of both.” She walks away with a smile and a finger wave.
The middle-aged woman follows her to the register with a book.
“What a nice lady,” Ryan says. “Get her name, would you? I’d like to put her in my will.”
“High praise for a book that doesn’t have an ending.” I tuck the book in my arms.
“I’m going to buy it.”
“No, you’re not. You’ve already read it and have dozens of copies available. Put it back.”
“Nope. I’m buying it.”
“Buy something else. Someone who needs the sale.” He waves his arm to indicate all the books surrounding us.
“You are rather dominating the square footage here. I’m sorry, are we feeling a tad guilty?” I cock my head. “Poor wittle bestselling author.”
“We’re not feeling anything at all. We’re thinking it’s time to leave now.” He reaches for my elbow.
“Not until I buy this book.”
“I can get you as many copies as you’d like in case two dozen isn’t enough,” he hisses.
“That’s not the same thing and you know it. I’m the face of this book. There’s an experience here I’m not going to deny myself.”
“Put it back, and that’s an order.”
“An order?” I snort. “Don’t you even dare.”
He straightens, taking his height advantage. “I’m still your employer.”
“And we’re not at work. I don’t take orders after hours.”
“You don’t take them during work hours.”
Seriously, just because I wouldn’t go back to get his coffee order right, or immediately jump when he gives me an assignment. The point is, I always get to it.
Now I pull on the book, and he pulls back.
Like we’re children, for several minutes, we grapple over the book. Every time he tugs on it, he brings me a little closer, which is not entirely a bad thing. For one thing, he smells like leather and sunshine.
“This is ridiculous.” He smiles through gritted teeth.
I’m about to agree because people are beginning to stare. They have probably never seen two grown adults haggling over a book when there are so many of them. I let him have it, then grab another one. He tries to take that one, too.
I give him a little half-hearted kick in the shins. “Give. Me. This. Book.”
He lets go of the book because maybe he’s also noticed that we’ve definitely attracted some undesired attention.
Unfortunately, due to my kick, I lose my balance.
I try to regain said balance by grabbing on to the tower of books on the display, not a good idea.
Books, as much as they add to the richness of our lives, aren’t intended to hold the weight of a human being.
The display goes down, scattering copies everywhere.
“Look what you made me do!” I’m laughing but set the book down and start to pick up all the others.
“You’re ridiculous. This wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t tried to kick me,” he says, chuckling and shaking his head.
“This wouldn’t have happened if you’d just let me buy the damn book.”
The clerk has joined us, but so have a few other customers, and they are not only picking up the book but reading the back cover copy and heading to the register with it.
“I’ve been hearing a lot about this book,” one of them says. “I don’t know why you were fighting over it. There’s plenty of them.”
“I’m going to recommend it to my sister. She hates everything,” the first woman says.
They all head to the register with a copy.
“See?” I say in a hushed tone. “This is so classic. All it takes is for a few people to be highly interested, leading to even more people. When you get right down to it, we humans are pack animals and we never want to be left out. You’re welcome. I got them to buy your book.”
“You must mean your book.” He gives me a warning look despite my whisper. “They don’t already have several copies at home. You don’t need to buy the book.”
“But I want to support you…us.”
“You already are.”
In the end, we reach a détente. I absolutely don’t buy the book.
Ryan buys it for me.
A few minutes later, we walk together toward street parking, and I’m holding tightly to my copy of the book.
It must be surreal to find one’s book in a bookstore, especially given such star treatment.
Tonight, maybe I’ll practice signing my fake name.
I haven’t done that yet. The publisher might at some point set up a book signing and I should be ready.
Elizabeth Brogan needs a signature and I have to come up with something.
It should have a nice flourish. Maybe I’ll add a heart to the i like I do with Luci when I want to be super whimsical.
Should it be legible, or should I do one of those authorly things some do where the name is little more than a scribble no one can identify?
“I’ve been thinking and I agree with your offer of a field trip to Santa Cruz for the uh…” He clears his throat. “World War II history you suggested. It might be the distraction I need.”
I pause by my old reliable clunker car and clutch my chest. “I’m shocked.”
“I doubt that. You’ve made your case and, yeah, maybe a single date between the two protagonists might be helpful. Otherwise, how else are readers going to believe there’s a love interest?”
“When should we go?”
“Soon. I need to start writing this book. Sometimes I get too caught up in research. It’s time.”
“But has it been nine months? The baby comes when it’s time, and not a moment before.” I open my door, setting the book down. “See you tomorrow, professor. Bright and early. I’ll bring the coffee.”
Ryan takes a step toward me. “In case I haven’t said it enough…”
“I know, thank you. And you’re welcome very much.”
“We’ll figure out what to do about the sequel later.”
“You mean the one I may have accidentally suggested?” I wince.
Naturally, the show didn’t cut that part out of the interview.
He meets my eyes. “I won’t lie. Kate saw the interview and she’s onboard, already pushing for a second book.”
“If I haven’t said I’m sorry enough…”
“I know. You meant well but that book took a lot out of me. I can’t do it again. I’ve told Kate but I doubt she’ll listen.”
This is my chance but I’m still too kind to tell him the entire truth. I hate the book.
“At least it would be a chance, you know, to improve on what you wrote in the first one.”
He quirks a brow. “You didn’t like it either, did you?”
I can’t admit to this. I’ve always believed in supporting other authors and this even includes Ryan.
“What? Did I say that?” I press a hand against my chest.
He quirks a brow. “One can’t improve on something that they like, can they?”
“Well, the ending…”
“Not this again.”
“You left him at sort of a crossroads. Was it Grayson? The other guy?”
“We’ve been over this. I think you know. We all know.”
“But it’s not clear.” Even to my own ears, my voice sounds like a whine. “I don’t like the vagueness. Besides, the other guy was a chump.”
“Did you ever stop to think that we don’t always pick the right person? That sometimes we live to regret our choices?”
I resist telling him that we both know this is true. We’ve both lived this. But fiction is supposed to be the one place where justice reigns and happiness is assured. Forever, amen.
“You can clearly see that the other guy can’t possibly love Lula as much as Grayson does!”
“Did you ever stop to think that maybe Lula doesn’t think so?”
“What? Of course she does! She’s no dummy. You didn’t write her that way.”
“Then she chooses Grayson. Happy?”
“Not really.”
We’re arguing over imaginary people, but for me, it’s not the first time nor will it be the last.
Ryan shakes his head, holding up hands like, “I can’t win with you,” and we part ways as he walks to his car.
I’m home before eight, turning the key into the makeshift lock Eddie has devised for my security.
Since I’m back here in the yard among overgrown trees and bushes, he sometimes worries it’s the perfect place for a thief, or someone worse than a thief, to “lie in wait.” Honestly, my family comes by histrionics the natural way.
The sound that comes out from near the bushes, however, does make me jump and I reach for the pepper spray Eddie makes me carry.
“Why do you live in the shed?”
I turn to the sound of the voice in the dark.
Mami.