Page 75 of A Bookish Story

“So. Ryan, would you tell me more about Elizabeth Brogan? It’s a family name, but who’s in the family? A grandmother? Aunt? Is it your mother’s maiden name?”

Ryan freezes, his lips pressed together, and he’s absolutely white-knuckling that steering wheel.

“I’d rather not say, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure, but why?”

Maybe I shouldn’t press, but we kissed, and I’m Elizabeth now. And maybe I have a small right to know.

“Just trust me. You won’t think of me the same way if I tell you.”

That’s a loaded statement. I can’t imagine why I would think of him differently.

“You do know what I’m making up right now is probably worse than it actually is.”

“Don’t let you imagination get carried away.”

“Ha! Fat chance. But you’ll tell me someday.”

He doesn’t respond but gives me a non-committal “uh-huh.”

“Just pull over here.” I point to the sidewalk in front of the house.

Ryan parks and then says, “I’ll walk you.”

The idea is old-school, and I kind of like it.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, though,” I say. “I already spent the night at your place and if you walk me, it might look like—you know⁠—”

“You’re right.” He reaches for my hand and threads his finger through mine and just stares at our joined hands.

I study them too, with no commentary as to how good they look together, his big hand holding my much smaller one. All I need is a little time and I’m sure the man I want is Ryan. The timing is just off.

“Thanks for understanding my silly family.”

Then he abruptly drops my hand as if he’s snapped out of a trance. “I’ll see you later and we’ll talk more about the sequel.”

There have been so many times with a favorite book when I’ve wished I could write a sequel for the author, so I could see how those characters I’ve become attached to are faring. I even once experimented with fan fiction.

Now I have the chance to write the follow-up to a bestseller and I can write the ending I want, the one readers need. If I do this, I will fully become and own the brand of Elizabeth Brogan and Ryan becomes the ghostwriter for the first book.

He doesn’t immediately drive off as I stroll up the walkway to the side gate knowing there are probably eyes on me from inside the main house. I turn to see him watching me, and only when I shut the gate do I hear his car drive off. The house is quiet as is customary on a weekday morning. Abuelita will be inside folding clothes, or cooking sopa for dinner. Eddie will be at work in San Francisco. My mother’s car is still parked, so she will probably be knocking on my door momentarily. True to form, I’ve been inside for ten whole minutes before she knocks. She’s so predictable.

“I don’t want to talk right now!” I yell through the door. “I have to get ready for work.”

“Mija, it’s me.”

Eddie.

This is almost worse. I don’t know what to say to Eddie. He’s one of my favorite people in the world. I adore him and want him to be happy. The thing is, I thought he was until now. Sofia and I used to wonder why he was single, at one time wondering if there was perhaps something he wanted to tell us. Now I know he never chose to be single and has been pining away for my mother for decades. The idea that he’s been unhappy all these years, longing for someone he lost, is enough to shatter my heart.

I swing the door open to let him inside. “Why aren’t you at work?”

He waves his hand dismissively. “Dr. Marroquin will take my patients.”

“You never call in sick.”

“I’m never sick.” He shrugs.