Dating by the Book

by Mary Ann Marlowe

  Chapter 3

  Dylan was immediately surrounded by everyone, crowding him, demanding to know everything at once.

  “When did you get in?”

  “How long are you here for?”

  “Are the rumors true?”

  He answered or evaded questions with charm and a staged chuckle. “Tonight. A month. What rumors?” He kept glancing at me sidelong as he moved farther into the store, like a rock star surrounded by paparazzi. That was half right.

  With his raven-black hair and long dark eyelashes framing those stormy eyes, it was no wonder the record studio had opted to package him like he’d recently walked away from a Latin boy band. Over the years, he’d grown even more attractive, and photographers knew how to work with him to take his image into the sphere of erotic fantasies.

  Despite all the hoopla, he was just Dylan to me. Once upon a time, he’d been my boyfriend, but rivers of water had passed under burnt bridges since our last kiss years ago. Things had never been the same between us since he’d climbed on a Greyhound bound for New York City, guitar slung over his back like the quintessential musician leaving home, insisting he’d never return to the small world of Orion.

  And yet, here he was, and not for the first time, though I hadn’t seen him since Christmas.

  He scratched his jaw and smiled. “Hey, Maddie.” His voice sounded like sandpaper, like he was recovering from a debilitating illness. He dropped into a chair. “Sorry to break up your book club, but I knew I’d catch you all here.”

  “Not a problem. We were just discussing Pride and Prejudice. I think you might remember it?” We’d studied the book in AP World Literature. I didn’t mean to sound like a chastising schoolmarm, but his sudden intrusion had me searching for the proper reaction. The last time he’d come home, I was about to be married, and he was preoccupied with his music, as always. Had he come here to see me or catch up with the rest of the gang?

  Dylan said, “Please. I’d love to sit in. Don’t stop on account of me.”

  As if a force field broke, the others slowly came back and took their places around the circle, and I picked up my notes with a shaky hand.

  “We were just talking about the romantic tension between the leads.” I gave them a chance to settle down, but the energy in the air had changed, charged. I read the question on my notes, feigning business as usual. “It’s notable that Lizzie’s love for Darcy grows despite a lack of direct contact through much of the book. Is this realistic? What is her love ultimately based on?”

  Shawna blurted out, “His ten thousand pounds yearly,” in the voice of the foolish mother from the movies, and everyone laughed.

  “Funny,” said Max, not laughing. “But I think it’s because she was finally matched in intelligence and wit, and it drove her mad.”

  He was taunting me, recalling how we’d vied for the best GPA in high school, but also getting in a dig at Dylan, as if intelligence and wit had played no part in our attraction. That assumption was both rude and wrong. He’d never taken the time to get to know Dylan and mistook quiet for shallow, but I knew how deep those waters ran.

  Charlie exhaled ponderously. “On a practical level, Darcy ends up proving his own so-called love for her beyond a shadow of a doubt through his actions, by saving her family’s honor.”

  I gave him the stink eye. “His so-called love?” Charlie didn’t hold out hope for romance, but sometimes his cynicism pushed the bounds of plausibility.

  Dylan cleared his throat. “She may not always be in contact with Darcy, but she knows him.”

  He rubbed the sexy day-old stubble on his chin. Had he learned that calculated move from copious photo shoots? As a writer and a connoisseur of scruff, I lamented the dearth of words to describe the beauty of a man’s facial hair. It made my fingers itch with the desire to touch.

  He found me gawking and flashed his professionally whitened smile at me, like a perfect toothpaste ad. “She has his letter after all. Reading his words, she recognizes a soul like her own.”

  He could have been describing us. We were a study in opposites, Dylan and me. In high school, he rode a motorbike and played guitar. I was a bookworm who lacked the courage to look at nonfiction boys. But I knew him by his words. When Dylan sang his lyrics to me, there’d been no hope for my virginity.

  I caught Shawna watching me, watching Dylan. I knew it was only a matter of time before the town would start speculating on my own swooning heart. But I was made of tougher stuff than when I was seventeen, when my body had only recently developed enough to attract the male gaze and glorify in such attention.

  Midge sighed. “That’s absolutely beautiful, Dylan.” I dragged my eyes back to my discussion guide, but Midge went off script. “It’s so lovely to see you again. What’s brought you home?”

  Dylan had the grace to cast an apologetic wince toward me, but everything eventually revolved around Dylan. He was a gravitational force, and becoming an honest-to-God star had only fed the bonfires of his vanity. “Well, Ms. Long. I was ordered to take a break, get some fresh air and home cooking.”

  Before it could turn into the Dylan show, I asked, “You should come back to the book club in two weeks. We’ll be reading Jane Eyre.”

  He pressed his lips together. “I will . . . If you promise to come out to see me perform at the Jukebox in a few weeks.”

  When did everything become self-promotion?

  But he got the desired response, and Shawna and Midge started hounding him about his music. I stood, stretched, and walked to the register to give them all the hint that it was time to buy the next book and leave. My ploy worked, and everyone but Dylan lined up.

  Dylan reached into his messenger bag and produced a flier for his upcoming show. “You mind hanging this somewhere?”

  Was that why he’d stopped in?

  I frowned as he turned toward the door. I thought he might hang around a bit and catch up, and it hurt that he was already taking off. Though what did we have to talk about anyway? The days we’d spent together were in the past. So were the nights.

  He paused and said, “I’ll stop by tomorrow.”

  As I rang Charlie up, Shawna gushed, “That boy could make me consider cheating on Rebecca.” My eyes must have been saucers because she added, “Apologies, Maddie. But you did let him go.”

  Midge bought her copy, saying, “It’s never too late.” Then to my horror, she added, “If I were fifty years younger . . .”

  After they bought their books and left, the noise in the store dropped back to near total silence.

  I exhaled. That had been a crash course on why I’d never date a rock star.

  But it did nothing for my private thoughts that echoed Shawna’s. And I wouldn’t even be cheating on Peter. So why wasn’t I rushing after him?

  I shook my head, recalling what that reviewer had said about my fictional romance. “It’s so stilted that I’m left suspecting the author hasn’t had a single romantic experience.”

  Boy, was he wrong. I’d had two. Did it count if both had ended in failure when I refused to give up my own dreams to follow theirs?

  If that’s what love was, Silver Fox could keep it.

  * * *

  With the store empty, I started to close out the cash register. I stacked the cash and packed it into the security deposit bag, rubbing my eyes and humming a Beatles song. I nearly jumped out of my skin when a voice harmonized with mine.

  “Shit, Max. You scared me to death.”

  He’d taken up a spot on a rickety old stool that had been in the store since we were kids. He had a dog-eared copy of Huckleberry Finn on his knee, like he was killing time. He stretched and flipped the book facedown, still open, and I cringed for the dilapidated spine.

  He sat only a couple of feet behind the register, and I caught the scent of cinnamon and brown sugar, as if his mahogany hair itself were a confection from his kitchen. Muffin-head Max.

  “Crazy seeing Dylan tonight, huh?”

  I closed the ca
sh drawer and grabbed the security deposit bag and my purse. “Why are you still here?” He’d never spared a thought for Dylan.

  “I thought you might want to go grab a slice of pizza.”

  “Not hungry,” I lied.

  After I flipped off the lights and moved to the front of the bookstore, I turned with my hands on my hips, waiting for him to take a hint and clear out. He slipped off the stool and crossed the room in three strides. Streetlight and shadows streaked his face. My gaze lingered on the slight scruff across his jaw, my biggest weakness when it came to objectifying men. If I hadn’t known him since he’d worn diapers, I might have pictured him as the hero of some paperback romance as he closed the gap between us with hooded lids, obscuring his clear green eyes.

  “Ah. You’re mad about this morning.” He exhaled ponderously. “I know I’m trying too hard. I’m really sorry. Okay?”

  I wasn’t mad. I was tired. Everything had been a competition with him since high school. Only one of us could be valedictorian after all. I didn’t want my bookstore to become another prize in an unwinnable contest.

  “I’m not mad, Max.”

  He snickered at the accidental movie title, but I rolled my eyes. It wasn’t even close to the first time we’d heard that particular joke. Layla had even given us the hashtag #TeamMadMax, shipping her twin brother and her best friend since we were kids, as if that was ever going to be a thing.

  “If I promise to drop it tonight, will you come hang out with me?”

  He couldn’t fool me with his change in tactics. He thought he could wear me down, but I wasn’t going to hand him the keys to my kingdom.

  “Come on.” I held the door open. “I just want to go home.”

  He went out into the night before me.

  Three words I wouldn’t be saying to Max Beckett anytime soon were: Let’s work together.

  He walked me home, though there was no need for the escort. Crime in Orion was limited to jaywalking or rolling a stop sign. Or lately graffiti. Anyway I lived right across the street from my bookshop, a block from his apartment. It wasn’t my ideal living situation. I’d pictured myself with Peter in my dream house at this point. But since he’d left me with my unwanted freedom, I’d had to figure things out for myself.

  Layla found herself with a similar need for cheap, independent housing. We’d roomed together in college, but while I headed to Indianapolis after graduation, she’d moved home, right back to her childhood bedroom. It was that or room with Max. When I found myself homeless, we’d agreed to move in together to split costs.

  I would have preferred to find a way to live alone above my bookstore. I’d managed to make the upstairs space into a rugged office where I sometimes escaped to write, but without a shower, it wouldn’t be an abode anytime soon.

  At least my short walk to and from work forced me to get exercise out among other people.

  Max talked about the bridal party his mom had made a cake for. “They’re tying the knot by that old covered bridge out Route 36. You know the one?”

  “Mm-hmm.” Peter and I had driven over there on one of our dates. The bridge didn’t go anywhere, but it made a quaint landmark, a romantic destination. We’d picnicked along the side of Big Walnut Creek.

  I didn’t want to talk about Peter. Not with Max. Not yet. Probably not ever.

  As I opened the door leading up to my apartment, Max waited as if some lunatic was going to materialize out of thin air at the last second to assault me.

  “Tell Layla to give me a call. See if she might want to go with me when I take the cake out on Sunday, okay?”

  “Will do.”

  “Maybe you’d like to go, too?”

  Thanks to a stupid town ordinance, the bookstore was closed on Sundays, so I’d be free to hang with Max and Layla like old times. The three of us had been inseparable once upon a time. But there was no way in hell I’d spend my day off captive to Max’s enterprising suggestions. He’d probably bring a poster board, complete with pie charts and a laser pointer. Pass.

  “Sorry, no. I’m gonna go hang out with my mom.” That was likely true.

  “See you tomorrow morning.” He edged back.

  I spared him one last glance before closing the door, and in that moment, I could see a dozen younger versions of him superimposed one on top of the other, and nostalgia hit me so hard, it took my breath away. Why was life so complicated?

  The light was on in Layla’s bedroom, so I tapped on the door, and it creaked open. She sat in bed with her laptop propped on her knees, like always.

  “Hey.” She set her laptop aside and stretched.

  I never would have predicted she’d become such a huge music nerd. We’d grown up watching her dad perform in dad bands, usually in her basement but sometimes at the pool clubhouse. It was equal parts mortifying and hilarious. He’d play Clapton of course. Layla hadn’t come by her name by accident. He also played a ton of Beatles to please Mrs. Beckett. Now he came out to perform at my café sometimes. He was good. Not Dylan good, but I liked it when he played.

  It wasn’t until a new band ended up at the Jukebox one night that she truly caught the spirit of music fanaticism. Then she fell in whole hog.

  After high school, she avoided a real job by writing freelance music articles and scrounging up ad revenue on the website she founded. She and I went off to college to study business on our parents’ dime. Afterward, I immediately found an entry-level job in Indianapolis making use of my degree, but fortunately for her, the band she followed had had a meteoric rise in popularity over the past few years. Now, she doubled down on contributing articles and driving traffic to her site. She was fairly successful at it, but reality was knocking, and it was obvious to me that she couldn’t sustain this lifestyle forever.

  Not that I could talk. I’d walked away from my exciting career in product management to take a chance on a risky venture. At the time, I’d assumed I’d have financial security in the form of a supportive, employed husband. Stupid assumption.

  Layla pulled her feet up to make room for me on her bed, her bent knees forming a tent under the sheet. “You here to vent about Peter?”

  She’d listened patiently as I passed through the five stages of grief since Peter left, and although she’d never exactly taken sides against Peter, she continually half joked about her crazy notion that now that Peter was out of the picture, her dream of matchmaking me with her brother so we could become sisters would finally pay off.

  For that reason, I didn’t mention that Dylan was home.

  I dropped into the space she’d cleared. “Oh. For once, it’s not that.”

  She winced. “Sorry, honey. Have you heard anything from him?”

  That was a kick to my slowly healing heart. Ever since my fiancé, my groom, my husband-to-be failed to show up to our wedding, leaving me humiliated at the altar, all we ever did was fight over the business we shared. He’d given me a simple choice: Sell the bookstore and leave Orion to join him in Indianapolis, or he’d walk away.

  I’d called his bluff. He’d called off the marriage.

  The funny thing about ultimatums is that they seem like a great bargaining tool until you’re left living with the logical extreme of your negotiation tactic. In my case, I’d told Peter if he left me, he shouldn’t bother coming back. He hadn’t bothered to.

  “Not since he sent me my last bank statement.” I heard how pathetic that sounded, and my shoulders slumped. “I think he’s waiting for me to fail.” Waiting for this alternate universe to collapse under its own weight. He’d never believed I could keep the bookstore going another year, so I pictured him biding his time until I was forced to crawl back and concede. I thought if I could prove him wrong, he’d be the one crawling to me. We were both as stubborn as my sticky front door.

  The end game that scared me most was that one day, when he was done waiting, tired of playing with my heart and my future, he’d call in his loan. At that point, I wouldn’t be able to pay him back, and I’d lose i
t all—both the bookstore and Peter.

  The clock was ticking.

  But I wanted to show them all. I could do this on my own.

  She nudged me. “Earth to Maddie. What did you need?”

  I blinked and recalled what had carried me to her threshold. “It was about that reviewer.”

  “Silver Fox?” She snorted. “Who does he think he is? George Clooney?”

  I smiled, but I was still too angry and upset to laugh about it yet. “I keep thinking about him getting my character names wrong.”

  “And?”

  “And maybe I should write him and ask him if he even read the book.”

  Her eyes went wide. “No. Do not under any circumstances do that. Do not engage.”

  “I just want to know.”

  She kicked off her covers and rolled over to swing her legs onto the floor. It was a miracle of Grandpa Joe proportions whenever she got out of bed. I pictured her dancing around, singing “I’ve Got a Golden Ticket” in her nightgown. Her knees didn’t so much as buckle as she headed to the kitchen. She stopped at the door.

  “If you want to mess with him, do it the old-fashioned way. Create an army of sock puppets to hide behind and dispute him in the blog comments.” She shuffled out the door. “You want half a frozen pizza?”

  I got up to follow her, dreaming up some convoluted plot that would place me face-to-face with Silver Fox. He’d show up at a book signing and introduce himself. I’d play it cool at first, but when I signed his book, I’d write, “Let me just shoehorn in this signature.” He’d attempt to defend his review, but I’d point my finger in his face and—

  “You coming, Maddie?”

  Layla stuck her head around the door, and I shook myself into reality.

  Once we’d eaten, I set a bottle of beer on my nightstand, climbed under the covers, and pulled up my bookstore blog to write a post about the book club’s discussion of Pride and Prejudice.

  I put on Dylan’s album in the background, and for a solid half hour, allowed myself to scan the images of him that came up from a Google search, trying to find the boy I used to know in the slick photo spreads or the grungy concert shots. I paused when I found one showing him way back at the start of his career, fresh faced and innocent, still looking like the boy I’d once thought I loved.