Aidan
I gawk at Charlotte for a long second and blink a few times.
There’s no way in hell I’m going to say no. One, it would be rude. Two, I want to walk her home. This is my chance to talk to Charlotte and she created it. I didn’t even have to find an opening. She swung open the door and said, Come on in!
This should be so easy. Incredibly easy.
Conjuring courage out of thin air, I reply, “S-s-sure.”
Xander slaps me hard on the back and walks by me toward the concrete stairs that lead down to Main Street. “Good luck, buddy,” he mutters before saying louder, “I need to let the dogs out. Bye Charlotte.”
She waves at him. “Bye Xander. Come by the store sometime.”
He calls over his shoulder, “I can’t read.”
I turn to her, jabbing a finger in his direction and spluttering out, “He can definitely read. I know he can. He just doesn’t read books.”
One of her eyebrows raises. “I know. It’s an old joke that he used to tell to annoy the teachers. Several took it seriously. He just says it to annoy me.”
Anxiety bubbles in my stomach and a lump starts to form in my throat. “I didn’t know you guys were close.”
What if she wants to go out with Xander? What if he wants to go out with her? He didn’t say anything when I mentioned my crush when I first moved in a month ago.
She lifts one shoulder. “I’m a lot closer to his sister. But his role has evolved from being my best friend’s annoying older brother to being my adoptive annoying older brother.”
I nod, relief coursing through my veins.
“Shall we?” She gestures toward Main Street below us. The night air is soft and somewhat balmy, but it’s still cool. Summer is coming and, with it, those blasted mosquitoes.
“Where do you live?” I ask.
She turns to me. “Above the bookstore.” She points to the building that I recognize as Sunflower Books. The lights of the bookstore glow on the wet pavement. A Pride flag hangs just over the door, shifting in the late spring breeze.
Not a long walk. Damn. Not much time for me to somehow gather some courage and be charming.
Platypuses can be charming, right?
“Cool. I live on Willow Street, with Xander,” I somehow manage to squeak out despite the lump clogging my throat.
“Yes, I know,” she replies with a smile that looks wicked in the streetlight, but her voice seems light and friendly.
Not at all strained like I would expect from someone who thinks I’m too weird to talk to.
She shoves her hands into her pockets, and we start walking down the stairs.
The library is situated on top of a steep hill that overlooks town.
“Right. So, you like books?” I squeak out, groaning inwardly. Fuck, I didn’t anticipate small talk. Platypuses don’t like small talk.
She lets out a soft chuckle. “I do. It’s why I have the bookstore. What’s your favorite book?”
Suddenly, I’ve forgotten every book I’ve ever read. “I can’t choose.”
She nods, dancing lightly on her toes. “Let me guess, you love so many that you can’t choose just one. What about a favorite genre?” she asks, her eyes sparkling in the twinkling lights wrapped around the iron handrail bordering the stairs. “Surely, you have a favorite genre?”
I bite my lip and let out a sigh through clenched teeth. “I don’t have a favorite genre.”
She chuckles again, but there’s a hint of annoyance in the sound. What am I doing wrong? I’m not good at this whole conversation aspect, and I’m clearly not doing it right.
We reach the bottom of the hill and step onto the concrete sidewalk of Main Street. The bookstore is across the street.
“You like a bit of everything. Makes sense. Any favorite authors?”
“I don’t have one.”
Oh my god, give her something to work with. Think of an author you like! Just think of one author!
“Wait, no, Travis Baldree.” Feeling more comfortable, I add, “Legends and Lattes is my favorite book.”
Her head turns slowly. “I love Viv and Tandri so much. Although Amity is my favorite character. I’ve got a soft spot for cats in books.” She points to the book tucked under my arm. “How do you like Legendborn?”
“I’m only about a quarter of the way through, but I like it,” I say, the lump is getting smaller as my mind focuses on the book instead on how the gold in Charlotte’s hair gleams in the streetlights. I’ve always found it easier to talk about books and literature. “I like her writing style.”
Letting out a chuckle, she says, “It is such beautiful writing. Do you read anything outside of fantasy?”
I nod. “Uh yeah.” I hover at the curb while looking both ways.
“Like what?”
We cross the street. I’m running out of time. Soon she’ll go into her bookstore, up the stairs, and I’ll have lost my chance. Until tomorrow. But by tomorrow, she may have already written me off as an ugly bookish dork.
Standing in the glow of the bookstore light, I spot a book, and I blurt out the genre, “Romance.”
Her eyebrows lift in the dim light. “You read romance?”
“I do.” I’m not lying. I occasionally read romances. I may have binge read the Game Changer series in one week.
Her face widens into a grin, and she puts her hands on her hips.
“I’m impressed. Most men don’t read romance, which is a shame, in my opinion, because they’re such an interesting study on human behavior and relationships.
But I guess, since because it’s a,” she air quotes, “woman’s genre, it doesn’t get the respect it deserves. ”
Courage builds in my core now that the subject has switched to literary themes. “Some of the greatest pieces of literature have been romance. Pride and Prejudice, Taming of the Shrew, and yet no one seems to question their validity as critics do with modern romances.”
She doesn’t interrupt me, so I continue, “Have you ever wondered if the classics of our time are actually going to be a Booker Prize winner like, Orbital, or will it be something beloved by the masses, like A Court of Thorns and Roses?”
“I haven’t really thought about it. What do you think?”
“I predict the literature experts will be studying Harry Potter and the rise of fan fiction in publishing, which is a shame because then people are going to study J.K. Rowling’s horrible transphobic opinions, and not authors who are not only better writers but also not…
” My voice trails off as I watch her face, searching for any indication that I’m annoying her.
Her expression is soft, open. Not at all judgmental, harsh, or even bored like I expected her to be.
“Garbage human beings?” she finishes my thought with a quirked eyebrow.
“I’d like to think that another author will come along and totally disrupt the publishing industry like Harry Potter did.
” She lets out a breath. “Someone who isn’t an asshole.
Ideally someone not white and cishet. But I’m putting way too much faith in the publishing machine. ”
Wait, she’s agreeing with me?
Is this a sign that maybe she likes me? Or is she just being polite?
“We’re being watched,” Charlotte says in a low voice, and thus saving me from having to say anything else.
She points to a pointy-eared silhouette perched on a platform in the window, its tail swishing back and forth.
A yellow-eyed, gray tabby cat with thick fur glares at us from the bookshop window.
Thelma, the bookstore cat. I’ve only ever seen her asleep.
One time I stroked her because I was worried she was dead, and she meowed at me.
Loudly. To be fair, she was sprawled in the window display of the bookstore not moving.
“She looks displeased,” I remark.
A hearty laugh comes from Charlotte. “That’s Thelma for you. She has resting-bitch-face.”
“What?”
“Resting-bitch-face. She looks pissed off all the time, but in reality, she’s the sweetest cat ever.”
“She’s beautiful.”
“Thanks.”
“Well, this is it.” Charlotte pulls out her keys and steps into the alcove of the door. “Tomorrow at one? Triple C?”
I nod and parrot back, “Tomorrow at one. Triple C.”
With a nod, she opens the door and slips in without another word.
Thelma lets out a loud meow that I can hear through the glass.
That cat has some lungs for such a small animal.
Charlotte turns, gives me a little wave, and vanishes into the back of the bookstore.
Thelma following behind, her meows growing fainter as they recede.
A frown creeps onto my face as the lights come on in the apartment above the bookstore. I shove my hands into my pockets and walk home.