“Yes!”Sam leaned forward, animated now.“And Dorothea is so idealistic, but you can already see how that idealism is going to trap her.The dramatic irony is painful.”
Aiden smiled.“You’re further along than I am, aren’t you?”
“Early 200s,” Sam admitted.
“Of course you are.”But his tone was affectionate.“Are you going to keep reading at that pace, though?”
“I don’t know.It’s 880 pages.I just want to be prepared for the discussion.”
“Sam, the book club meeting is weeks away.”
“I know.But I’m enjoying it, too.That’s keeping me reading.And I’ve been busily writing notes in the margins as I go when different thoughts pop into my head.It’s the sign of a good book for me.”
“You write in the margins?”
Sam flushed.She felt like it was another very Type-A thing she did.She couldn’t even enjoy a book without marking it up with notes.“I know.It’s kind of excessive.”
“No, it’s not.It’s you engaging with the story.”Aiden’s voice was gentle.“I’d love to see your copy of the book after you’re done.I bet your notes are fascinating.”
“They’re probably just neurotic,” said Sam dismissively.But she was smiling.“I track character development, note any inconsistencies, and sometimes have full arguments with the author in the margins.”
“It seems more passionate than neurotic.Did you ever think about teaching?Maybe literature?”
“No, I’m too Type-A for that.I’d have wanted to control how the students interpreted the text.”She laughed at herself.“Which is, I realize, completely the opposite of what good teaching should be.”
They talked about books for another hour, their conversation ranging from favorites to guilty pleasures, to the books they’d been assigned in school and hated.Aiden told her about trying to get his students excited about things he’d enjoyed reading in high school, even though he was a technology teacher.“Maybe I should have been an English teacher, after all.”
“I really enjoyed my high school English classes.Although I never finishedMoby Dick.”
“It’s okay,” Aiden said solemnly.“No one actually finishedMoby Dick.We all just pretend.”
“Thank you,” said Sam with mock seriousness.“I’ve been carrying that shame for years.”
The fire had burned down to embers, and Arlo was snoring softly on the rug.Sam realized she’d been there for nearly three hours, but it felt like minutes.She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been this comfortable with someone.
“I probably should go,” she said reluctantly.“It’s getting late.”
“Or,” Aiden said, then paused.“Sorry.I was going to suggest we could watch a movie or something, but I might be keeping you from something you need to do.”
Sam laughed.“Oh, I’ve got lists waiting for me at home.I always do.”
They both stood, and suddenly the space between them felt smaller, more charged.Aiden carefully reached out and gently touched her arm.
“Sam,” he started.Then Arlo chose that moment to wake up, giving a huge, noisy yawn and stretch, breaking the tension.
They both laughed, and the moment passed.But the warmth remained.
Aiden walked them to the door.“Thanks for coming over.For the company, I mean.Not just for talking about what happened at the bookstore.”
“Thanks for the chili.And for reading the book with me.”Sam clipped Arlo’s leash on.“That was really thoughtful.”
“Anytime.”He meant it, she could tell.
As Sam and Arlo walked home, she found herself smiling.
Arlo looked up at her, his expression knowing.“Don’t say it,” Sam warned him.“We’re just friends.”
Maybe.
