He has a knee propped up, one arm behind his head, the other holding his phone. “You look like an old man.”
“I’m sorry, what?” I ask.
“The glasses.” He nods towards me. “And the book,” he chuckles.
“And how the hell does that make me look like an old man?” I raise a brow.
“They’re reading glasses, right?”
“So?”
“Only old people need reading glasses.”
“Ah, no.” I purse my lips. “Lots of people use reading glasses. I have a small prescription. Not enough to get full-time glasses. I only need them when I’m reading small text. Like in a book.” I hold it up. Rolling my eyes, I open the book to the page I last read. “If anything, I thought you’d make a comment about me looking like a nerd or something,” I mutter.
“Depends. What are you reading? Some book about art history, or boring factual bullshit?”
“First of all, there’s nothing wrong with reading non-fiction. Learning about new things can be fun. But no, it’s nothing like that.” I use my finger to push my glasses up as I flick the page over.
“Then what is it?”
“Why do you care?” I ask, not taking my eyes off the page. Not that I’m actually processing any of the words.
“Just asking, god,” he huffs. “Sorry.”
Rolling my eyes, I answer. “It’s a romance book.”
“Are you for real?” he asks, sounding surprised.
“So what?” This time, I look at him. “Nothing wrong with reading romance.”
“I just didn’t think you'd be the guy to read it.”
“Why? Because I'm a jock? People who play sports read romance, you know. It’s not meant to be for specific people.”
“I know,” he mutters. “Whatever.” He goes back to looking at his phone.
“My mom and sister own a bookstore. Reading is part of who I am. I’d spend hours there reading and learning. It’s fun.” My eyes find my book again.
“I know,” he whispers. “I remember.”
I pause as a memory from years ago flashes through my mind. Easton and I would come home from school and stop by the bookstore whenever Mom would get new shipments of books in. We would spend hours looking at the comics. The best part was that we didn’t have to buy them.
Easton loved that part, because his parents wouldn’t ever give him money to get books for himself. So, he’d come to the store with me to read them.
That's when I started gifting him comics, the ones my mom didn’t sell at her store, for his birthday and Christmas.
“You used to read too, you know,” I point out.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, a moment of silence before he speaks again. “But that was a long time ago.”
“Yeah.” I sigh. “It was.”
That's where our little chat ends. Easton doesn’t say anything, leaving me to read as he scrolls on his phone.
I get lost in the story, and by the time my eyes grow hot and heavy, telling me it’s time to go to bed, I realize it’s midnight.
“Shit,” I sigh, closing the book.
