Page 42 of Comfort Read

The press find him; that’s the first problem. Up until now, Kit had been under the impression that Sage was maybe making too much of the threat to Kit’s privacy, perhaps due to a lack of understanding of the realities of small-town New York. In Los Angeles, sure, they were both hounded by photographers and celebrity journalists, shouting questions at them wherever they went, but up until now, Cedar Falls has remained a haven of peace and solitude. Especially after the conversation with Maggie, which had been a real balloon-burster on several levels, Kit has no doubt that’s why Sage has been spending so much time at the bookstore. He’s been relishing the novelty of freedom, not Kit’s company, which is of course perfectly fair, and makes all the sense in the world.

However, on Monday, a photo runs on TMZ with the headline “Ballard Family Values.” The photo makes it achingly clear that someone followed Sage to Kit’s parents’ house, which on its own would be creepy and invasive enough. But to add insult to injury, after a brief opening paragraph explaining that Sage brought his mother to Kit’s family’s Thanksgiving, the article veers hard into wild speculation about what said visit means for them as a couple. Were things between them that serious? Had Seline, rarely seen in the public eye these days, liked Sage’s potential new in-laws? Did they, the TMZ staff, hear wedding bells in the future?

Kit’s read a hundred articles like it before, about more celebrities than he could possibly recall now, but he still throws his phone down in disgust when he gets to the end. Don’t these people realize how rude it is, how presumptive and invasive and wrong, to pry into someone’s private life this way? Don’t they understand how much pressure it puts on people to speculate about their marriage prospects in print? Don’t they know it’s horrifying to lurk somewhere unseen, with what must have been a powerful telephoto lens, to photograph one man kissing another man on the cheek in front of the second man’s parents’ house? Cheryl and Tom are even visible in the shot, standing watching them through the front window, although thankfully they’re too blurry to be identifiable. All you can make out are their beaming smiles, like two Cheshire Cats floating behind the glass.

Maggie texts him before he’s even done reading the article with a link to it and the words, Is this what you wanted, then? Kit doesn’t reply.

Sage texts him, too, an embarrassed apology that Kit would reply to, except that he doesn’t have time. Moments after it arrives, the first journalist walks into the bookshop.

That first one, at least, has the good grace to announce herself. This is something Kit stops taking for granted by the end of the day, the idea that people who have come to report on or photograph him will let him know that’s what they’re doing. A number of them don’t bother, just come into the shop and start asking questions—of him, of Allison, of whatever customer happens to be nearest to them—or, worse, taking photographs. By Wednesday, Kit’s so annoyed he makes a sign that reads No flash photography of any kind. The books are allergic to bright lights and slaps it up directly across from the front door, where people cannot miss it.

It doesn’t stop the onslaught. Like a roach infestation, like floodwaters overwhelming a dam, the bastards just keep coming, more with every passing day. Kit wishes he knew what had changed, why they were content enough to leave him alone the first few weeks but now he can’t go to the grocery store, or even take a walk, without running into someone who has twenty on-the-record questions for him about his “relationship” with Sage. How did they meet, and how long have they really been together, and does he have any funny stories to share? What about less funny stories? Has Sage been to rehab, and if he has, would Kit tell them all the gory details? What are their plans for the future? Is Kit going to move to LA? Are they getting married? Do they want children? How many children? It never seems to stop.

“It’s because of that stupid Thanksgiving article,” Sage growls into the phone on Thursday night. Kit feels bad for calling him—surely Sage doesn’t want to be bothered—but he was the only person Kit could think of who might understand the humiliating annoyance of being forced to hide from the press in a single-stall bathroom at the mall. “I swear to God, the minute someone says the word ‘wedding,’ it’s like everyone in Hollywood completely flips out. I’m sorry, Kit. I’d hoped—well, it doesn’t matter what I hoped.”

Kit tells him it’s fine. What else is he going to do? It’s what he signed up for, after all, and it is fine.

It would be fine if every flashbulb, every question, every reporter skulking around in Kit’s beloved neighborhood haunts, wasn’t a sharp reminder of all the reasons this whole thing is basically over, and was never going to work out for him.

“You have to stop moping,” Allison informs him curtly on Saturday morning as they enjoy a moment of relative calm during a lull in bookstore traffic. “You’re acting like he dumped you! But he didn’t, this is all coming from you, and anyway, you’re not even actually⁠—”

“Keep your voice down,” Kit hisses, glancing around like a wild man. “Haven’t you been paying attention? They could be anywhere!”

“Ah, I see we’ve added ‘paranoia’ to your character sheet,” Allison comments, shaking her head. “Great. Amazing. Just what you needed.”

“You’re the one who told me to do this,” Kit reminds her. He lets his head drop down to the counter, the worn linoleum surface cool against his forehead. He can hear the leaky pipe that runs through the wall behind him dripping; it probably shouldn’t be a comfort. “You said to sleep with one eye open if I couldn’t hack it. This is your fault.”

“I’ve been studying a new technique called ‘selective hearing,’” Allison tells him brightly. “I was reminded of it over Thanksgiving, as I watched a master—my father—employ it to great effect. What I’m going to select to hear in this case is, ‘Allison, you beautiful genius goddess, you’ve never done anything wrong in your life and I don’t know what I’d do without you.’”

“That’s not even how selective hearing works,” Kit complains, not that it matters.

Allison just shrugs. “It is the way my father does it.”

Kit groans, and then sighs as Throgmorten, seeming more annoyed than concerned, bats the side of his head lightly with a paw. He gestures at the cat, inviting him to go climb up one of the shelves or curl up on one of the leather armchairs, and is summarily ignored. “Can’t you just leave me to wallow? Suffer the agony that is the consequences of my actions? That’s how you grow and change, isn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t know, because, as mentioned, I’ve never done anything wrong in my life,” Allison says, and then, gingerly, pats him on the back. “But: No, Kit, I can’t. Because—and I’m sorry to kick you while you’re down—you’ve got a Corner of Knowledge to do in twenty minutes, and the kids will drag you there if you just lie here and moan.”

There’s a moment of silence while Kit processes this; then he sits bolt upright, horrified. “Oh my God. Oh my God, I forgot about the Corner of Knowledge.”

Allison raises her eyebrows at him. “Woof. You really aren’t in a good place, are you? I’d offer to do it for you, but I’ve run through all my material and then some while you’ve been jet-setting around on celebrity dates.”

“Allison—I’ve used all my material.” Frantically, Kit combs through his mental list of potential future Corners, hoping against hope he’ll come up against one he’s at least partially prepped; no dice. “I did my backups, or gave them to you to do while I’ve been gone. I have nothing, I’ve been so busy with everything that I completely forgot—God, all those journalists are going to be able to report on the riot when the parents realize! The riot and my subsequent murder!”

“I’d rather it didn’t come to that,” a familiar voice says. “Maybe I can help?”

Kit turns, shocked, to see Sage stepping up to the counter.

“Sage!” Kit bites down hard on the impulse to ask him just how much of their conversation he heard—it probably wasn’t much, and if Kit isn’t careful, in poking that particular bear he’ll end up revealing the very topics he hopes Sage missed. “What are you doing here? I thought you were staying in LA!”

“Oh, well,” Sage says, leaning up against the counter and nodding a hello to Allison. “After the fourth or fifth photo of you running from photographers showed up in the gossip columns, I figured I owed it to you to come try to help. Sorry, by the way. I did try to warn you.”

“Don’t apologize! It’s not your fault.”

“Isn’t it?” Sage says this lightly, but his eyes are haunted. “If it weren’t for me, do you really think they’d be here?”

“Maybe.” Kit crosses his arms over his chest, awash with an abrupt, unjustified stubbornness. He knows that, at least in the broad sense, Sage is right, but: “I could have gotten famous in my own right, you know! Maybe I have, like, a secret music career I’ve never told you about⁠—”

“A horrible thought,” Allison says, with a little tsking noise. “I’ve done karaoke with you, and it’s not pretty.”