Page 38 of A Bookish Story

Why didn’t you tell me you had a contract? When did you write the book? I’m insulted you didn’t think to tell me, while I’ve been sharing news of my dumb contest finals. You must think that’s so cute. Even so, I will be buying and reading your book today.

Holly

What am I going to tell Holly? I want to tell her the truth, because she knows if I actually wrote the book I’d have told her about it. We’ve been close enough to share our queries and rejections. But I absolutely cannot tell her the truth.

Now I need to come up with some excuse why I had to write it in secret. One that an actual writer would believe.

I’m so preoccupied with my thoughts it isn’t until I’m second in line that I look up and notice him.

Ryan.

CHAPTER 14

No doubt about it. It’s Ryan. And he is not alone. He’s sitting at a booth with a brunette who looks like she just stepped out of the pages of Glamour magazine. I’m shocked enough to nearly bump into the person in front of me as I strain to get a better look.

Ryan and the woman appear to be deep in conversation, and she’s stroking his hand. He doesn’t pull away even though if I’m being honest, I recognize the appearance of a man completely uninterested. The rigid posture, the body turned away. All things I saw in Chris in the last few weeks before he left, and which I only now recognize as the kiss-off.

I’m not surprised someone of this caliber is interested in Ryan, because he’s objectively good-looking by almost anyone’s standards.

Once I receive my order, one for Ryan as I’ve been doing since he hired me, it takes everything in me not to stop by their table and offer a quick hello. Not surprisingly, I’m the curious type, but interrupting feels like a violation of privacy and I talk myself out it. I appreciate having the separation of both worlds more than most.

Ryan once gave me a key to the house so I could come in if he’s too preoccupied to get up and open the door for me. I’ve learned such things are extremely bothersome if he’s in the flow. His powers of concentration are a thing of wonder. The house could be on fire and he might miss it.

Usually I knock first, but now I let myself in, knowing for the first time with certainty that he’s not here. Longingly, I look at the closed bedroom door where I might do some of my best snooping. If he brought a photo of anyone with him it would be in there. But no. If Ryan wants to tell me who that woman is, he will.

Setting his coffee down on the dining table where he usually works, I open my laptop on the kitchen counter. I go to my new Facebook page and log in with the email and password Pepper sent. Her email says:

Add some photos in everyday situations so you appear to be a genuine person. Please be careful not to give too much information. When it comes to sales numbers and the like, no statements are preferred to going on and on about your enormous success. Readers like a down-to-earth person. People who are far more grounded and self-deprecating are preferred. In other words, no bragging, though I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that. Simply thank readers at every opportunity. Everyone is a fan. Respond to every comment.

The part about appearing to be “a genuine person” makes me chuckle. Yeah, I get it. But Elizabeth Brogan isn’t real and I’m not likely to brag about something I haven’t earned.

My new profile page includes a header graphic, a cover of Soulmates with some of the rave reviews. I upload some of my personal photos, including older ones like that time I tried making homemade tortillas. A mini-disaster and I burned most of them. Very “real” and authentic. No bragging merits here. There are already comments and I do my best to respond to everyone. Then I see that Holly has left a comment that makes me cringe:

I know the author personally! I’m super jazzed at this kind of sudden and meteoric success!

I’m not sure how to handle this latest wrinkle. I’ve composed three different responses to Holly’s casual comment, deleting each one by the time Ryan arrives alone. He quirks a brow as if surprised to see me but I’ve become accustomed to this by now and don’t let it phase me.

“Got you a coffee.” I nudge my chin toward the desk.

I say nothing about the fact I spotted him in the coffee shop, not alone, and know he’s already had coffee.

“Thanks,” he says.

“Did you already have some this morning? Since you were out, I wondered,” I press, hoping he’ll volunteer information without me having to yank it out of him.

“Can never have too much coffee,” he says, not actually answering the question. “I’ve been thinking. How about the field trip to Santa Cruz today?”

“Yeah?” I perk up. It’s a weekday so it won’t be quite as crowded as the weekend. “The Cocoanut Grove?”

“Sure, or whatever else you want to show me.” He’s digging through his messenger bag. “Maybe what I need is to walk away from all this paper and see some of the real world for a change.”

“I couldn’t agree more, professor.”

I have no idea what’s brought about his change of attitude, but I like it. Within a few minutes, after we’ve argued over who will drive and I win, because it’s still difficult to get in a car with someone else driving, we’re on 101 on the way to the Highway 17 interchange. Once I get to 17, I slow my roll. I’m particular about driving the curvy mountain twists and turns and I prefer to be in the driver’s seat. I have my reasons for this and they go way back and are extremely valid. Yes, my hands are shaking a little on the steering wheel but it isn’t like I haven’t driven this treacherous road before.

It isn’t long before Ryan has to pipe in, “Hey, Dale Earhart, Jr. Slow down.”

The sarcasm runs deep in his comment, since going any slower might get me a ticket from the CHP.