When he’s recovered, Riley huffs. “That’s it. I’m barbecued out. I’ve got to hit the bookstore and pizza shop on my way home, then I’m done with today.”
“Oh come on,” I say, teasing a little, and make a mental note that he’s a reader. “You can’t seriously act like a butterfly ruined your day.”
He waves his big hand in front of his face again, even though it’s gone. “I’m going to be twitching my nose all afternoon. Day ruined.”
“I suppose pizza and a good novel will fix just about anything. Even rogue bugs.”
“Book three in a trilogy. I’ve got big expectations and a weekend to disappoint them.”
“Book threes are hard. Book ones are often my favorite. So much possibility at the start of things.”
“I’m all about the middle book,” he says. “That’s when shit totally falls apart.”
I nearly relay a comment that NotAnOgre made once, that the only way to make a third book work is to have it be an even bigger disaster for the characters than the previous books, up until the satisfying ending at least. After much discussion, he won me over to the theory. But all this talk of book ones, twos, and threes falls out of mind when I spot the owner of the motorcycle garage across the barbecue, and I realize I need to grab the opportunity.
“Hope the novel surpasses your expectations,” I say, and pull myself away.
Riley is gruff, but as he lumbers away from the barbecue, I remember how cute he looked with that butterfly on his nose. If it weren’t for his obvious pessimism, I’d ask around and figure out who he is. I’ve been considering a return to the dating game, and a fellow reader would be an exciting prospect.
For now, though, I push that thought out of my mind. It’s time to honey my way over to the owner of the garage and make these introductions.
