“Furiously hungry?”
She considered it. “I guess that works.” When she smiled, it was like the sun had come out after a week of clouds. “I could eat. What did you have in mind?”
I TOOK HER TO B. MATTHEW’S EATERY,one of my favorite low-key places. It was just down the road so an easy walk. She smiled when we entered, looking around appreciatively, and in that moment, something inside me settled. I’d been nervous, uncertain what she would like. The fact that she approved of my choice allowed me to unwind, however marginally.
I didn’t know what it was about her that got me going. She made everything in me clench inwardly in ways I hadn’t clenched since I’d been in high school. At first, I assumed it was because I couldn’t stand her. She was going to do something weird to embarrass me again. She was just messing with meand would show her true colors at some point. Now I wasn’t so certain that was true.
Is it possible what had happened two years ago really was an accident and she isn’t the devil? Was I wrong about her? Or was I right, but she wasn’t the only one to blame?
I was wound tight, and maybe I had overreacted. How different would things have been had I not freaked out that day?
“What’s good here?” she asked once we were seated, drawing me out of my bubble of self-reflection.
“I’ve never had anything bad here.” I smiled. She smiled back. “What do you like?”
“I’m not too picky.” She smiled happily as she looked over the menu. “Well, other than oyster po’boys. I don’t want to agree with Nathan, because that seems like a bad idea on principle, but oyster po’boys are disgusting to even think about.”
I was right there with her. “I’m not a big fan of oysters.”
“Me either. You’re either eating snot if they’re raw or eating fried snot if they’re not.”
That made me grin. “Eat a lot of snot, do you?”
She shrugged. “According to my mother, I was a booger picker.”
“Thanks forthatvisual,” I said dryly.
She laughed in a way that made something inside me tingle. “You can’t always trust what my mother says. I’m not sure if it’s true or not. I don’t remember a lot about that time. Plus, what I do remember involves a variety of babysitters, not her.”
That was the first private thing she’d ever told me. “You’re not close with your mother?”
She seemed to consider it. “Not really,” she said finally. “She shows up when she wants something—usually money—and claims she wants to spend time with me. Then, the second something better comes along—usually a man—she takes off. I go months without hearing from her.”
My heart pinched. “I’m sorry.”
She waved it off. “I came to grips with who my mother is a long time ago. She loves me, at least to the best of her ability, but she never put me first. My whole childhood revolved around her snagging a guy. That was her goal. If she had time to spend with me between those missions, she would take me places and make it a big adventure. The thing is, when I was little, I thought that was great. I always associated her with a good time. As I got older, I realized that I was only a priority when there was nobody better to focus on.”
My heart ached for her. “I am really sorry. That is … awful.”
She shrugged it off. “She’s given me nothing but fodder for my books.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed all your heroines are the tortured sort. They all have parental issues.” I didn’t realize what I’d said until her eyes narrowed. “What?” I said, suddenly self-conscious.
“You read my books?” She looked dumbfounded.
“You read mine,” I shot back defensively. “You knew who Basilica was.”
She smirked, but it was impossible to miss the color flooding her cheeks. “Well, I felt I had to when word started spreading throughout the author community that you hated me.”
“Who said that?”
“Um… everybody I met. They said you were bad-mouthing me left and right.”
I had to consider that for a beat too long. “I … had a very bad afternoon when we met.” That part was obvious, but it felt necessary.
“Oh, I’m aware.” A little giggle escaped her. “It really was an accident. I was running late when I knocked you into Amy Ryan’s table. I’d never been a part of one of those panels before, and I thought if I was late, they wouldn’t let me participate, and I really wanted to be part of the ‘author club.’”
She had my full attention now. “What do you mean? What’s the ‘author club’?” I mimicked her air quotes.
