Page 34 of A Bookish Story

He quirks a brow. “One can’t improve on something that they like, can they?”

“Well, the ending…”

“Not this again.”

“You left him at sort of a crossroads. Was it Grayson? The other guy?”

“We’ve been over this. I think you know. We all know.”

“But it’s not clear.” Even to my own ears, my voice sounds like a whine. “I don’t like the vagueness. Besides, the other guy was a chump.”

“Did you ever stop to think that we don’t always pick the right person? That sometimes we live to regret our choices?”

I resist telling him that we both know this is true. We’ve both lived this. But fiction is supposed to be the one place where justice reigns and happiness is assured. Forever, amen.

“You can clearly see that the other guy can’t possibly love Lula as much as Grayson does!”

“Did you ever stop to think that maybe Lula doesn’t think so?”

“What? Of course she does! She’s no dummy. You didn’t write her that way.”

“Then she chooses Grayson. Happy?”

“Not really.”

We’re arguing over imaginary people, but for me, it’s not the first time nor will it be the last.

Ryan shakes his head, holding up hands like, “I can’t win with you,” and we part ways as he walks to his car.

I’m home before eight, turning the key into the makeshift lock Eddie has devised for my security. Since I’m back here in the yard among overgrown trees and bushes, he sometimes worries it’s the perfect place for a thief, or someone worse than a thief, to “lie in wait.” Honestly, my family comes by histrionics the natural way.

The sound that comes out from near the bushes, however, does make me jump and I reach for the pepper spray Eddie makes me carry.

“Why do you live in the shed?”

I turn to the sound of the voice in the dark.

Mami.

CHAPTER 13

“What are you doing here?”

My first instinct is to protect the neck. No idea why. Must be my lizard brain.

“You sent me an email, despondent over your breakup with Chris.”

“I am not despondent! And that was months ago.”

“Well, I didn’t know but I’m here now. I can’t let you go through this alone.” She opens her arms wide.

This is where I’m to fall right into those arms like when I was a little girl. I know the drill. I don’t so much go into her arms as I take a step, and then another, until inevitably she has her arms around me. She’s smaller now, or maybe I’m taller. Grudgingly I accept the maternal hug, expecting it to do nothing, but surprised by how warm and genuine it feels. With Mami, I never understand what’s real, and what’s an act. That’s always been the problem for us.

“You look thin,” she says, utter amazement lacing through her tone, and I stiffen.

I’m not thin, but simply no longer overweight.

“A small size eight for some time now, actually.”