Page 23 of Thick

Until the day she died, my mother always had a paperback in her hand. She read while she cooked, while she watched television, and while she rode in the car on the vacations we took as a family. It was her love of reading that prompted me to follow in her footsteps at such an early age.

They were a little more graphic than the novels my mother read, but for the sake of conversation, I agreed. “Just like mom used to read.”

“He sounds like an interesting fellow. Is that why we’re having this conversation? Because you find him interesting?”

“We talked every morning for the entire time he’s been in there. Then, when they dropped his charges, Perry walked him out without telling me. He took him out the back, and I know he did it just so he couldn’t say anything to me on his way out.”

“I’m sure he did.” He scowled at his coffee cup and pushed it aside. “And, you’re upset because you didn’t get a chance to say goodbye. Is that it?”

He gazed across the kitchen table and waited for my response.

It wasn’t exactly why I was upset, but it was part of it. After reading two dozen of his books, I couldn’t help but wonder exactly who Tate Reynolds was, and just what might become of our friendship.

I dropped my gaze to the table. “Kind of. Yeah.”

“You’re wanting to get to know him a little more?” he asked. “Is that it?”

“I suppose.”

“Have you read any of his stuff?”

I looked up. Despite my struggle to prevent it, my face went flush. “Twenty of them.”

“Damn. How many has he written?”

“Forty-something.”

“Jesus. He’s been busy, hasn’t he?” He gave a few nods of approval, and then looked at me. “Pretty salty stuff?”

“It’s really good, actually. Why?”

“Well, from that look on your face, you’ve enjoyed it to the point you’re embarrassed. I doubt they’re like those Harlequin novels your mother used to read that had Fabio on the cover, are they?”

“Not exactly.”

He pushed his chair away from the table, and then looked me over. “What’s the problem, Bobbi?”

He could tell something was troubling me. There was not much sense denying it, so I decided to own it.

“He’s really a nice guy,” I said. “It bothers me that we didn’t get to talk before he left.”

“Your buddy Perry saw to it that he didn’t get a chance to say anything to you.”

My gaze dropped to the table. “I know.”

“There’s more to it than that, though. Isn’t there?”

There was. I couldn’t decide just how much I wanted to tell him, though. I couldn’t lie to him, but that didn’t mean I had to tell him the complete truth, either. Not unless he asked, anyway.

I looked up and met his gaze. “I’m just. I don’t know. I want to see him again. I want to talk to him. You know, without the restriction of having a steel door between us.”

“Now that things are different.” He raised both eyebrows. “Things might be different.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

He reached for his coffee. While he sipped it, he studied me. “I’ll go back to my original question. What’s the problem, Bobbi?”

In short, the answer was easy. So, I gave him the short answer. “I miss talking to him.”