Dating by the Book

by Mary Ann Marlowe

  I turned to Layla and whispered, “So, I may have done something bad. Really bad.”

  “You drunk texted Peter again?” She sipped the coffee.

  God, that would have been worse. I needed to remember that real life and book life had different levels of calamity. “Not in weeks. You’re close.”

  She dropped her shoulders and gave me a dead serious look. “You emailed that reviewer.”

  “Bingo.”

  She closed her eyes and looked toward the heavens. “Why do I exist if I can’t even help you thwart your inevitable fate?”

  “I know. I thought I’d dreamed it, but he replied.”

  She sat up. “He did? What did he say?”

  “No idea. I haven’t had a free moment, and I’m too chickenshit to read it.”

  “Dare I ask what you wrote?” She looked almost happy at this turn of events, like she did when reading Internet conflict between people she didn’t even know.

  “I think I insulted him.”

  She held out her hand. “Give it here.”

  I slid my phone over and immediately chewed on my thumbnail. Fortunately, some customers approached the counter, so I was saved the live play-by-play. I rang up the orders and chatted for a minute with each person, locals all.

  When I returned to the table, Layla had set the phone down.

  I swallowed rising panic. “Well?”

  “I think you should read it without me interpreting it for you.”

  My stomach lurched. “That bad?”

  She tilted her head side to side, red waves oscillating gently, as though weighing the proper response.

  I scrunched my face up like I’d done when my mom would try to make me eat creamed chipped beef, aka “shit on a shingle.”

  But the deed was done. Ignoring it wouldn’t make it go away.

  Holding a lungful of breath, I clicked on the Sent folder first to assess the damage before I read the response. I psyched myself up by reminding myself they were only words. What was the worst thing that could happen? Layla would have told me if the guy had made any threats to reveal my email on his blog. Or worse—drop my rating to two stars.

  I counted to three, then read my own poison pen missive.

  Mr. Silver Fox,

  I wanted to thank you for taking the time to read and review my novel, The Shadow’s Apprentice.

  Relief washed over me. I’d managed to be more professional than I’d feared. The email continued.

  But let’s be honest, you didn’t read the entire book, right? You skimmed it, sure. You’re probably one of those snobs who sneers at fantasy romance as if it’s inferior, so you decided to make a personal attack on the author. However, you don’t know the first thing about my experiences.

  The blood drained from my face. It hadn’t been a dream. If I’d written that . . . My hands went cold suspecting what was to come.

  Who are you to disparage my romantic life? Going by your chosen screen name, I’d guess you’re some sixty-year-old virgin whose romantic prospects are busy swiping left. For your information, I was involved in a long-term relationship throughout most of the writing of this novel. How does your vast expertise compare?

  Ouch.

  I glared at Layla. “Why did you let me read this disaster?”

  She laughed and nudged the phone closer. Was she enjoying this? “You only pulled the Band-Aid halfway off. Read his response.”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose. “You’re dead to me.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Hey, I didn’t make that mess. You need to face the music. I promise it won’t kill you. You should totally see the kinds of emails and comments I get all the time.”

  That didn’t convince me at all. “Yeah, but that’s different.”

  She shot me a look of wounded disbelief. “How?”

  “They aren’t attacking you personally.”

  “The hell they aren’t. Just because they don’t know who I am doesn’t mean they aren’t trying to hurt me. People are even more vicious when they think they’re anonymous.”

  Like an ostrich sticking its head in the sand, I reasoned that if I didn’t read Silver Fox’s response, it would cease to exist. But when I returned to my inbox, it was still there. I could see the preview without opening the email:

  Ms. Kincaid, How awesome to hear from an author. You’re quite welcome for the review. Normally, my reviews don’t elicit ...

  The sarcasm came through loud and clear. I pushed back my chair. “I can’t do this now.”

  “Suit yourself.” She swallowed the rest of her coffee. “Could I steal a bottle of water? I’m gonna ride my bike over to see my parents and help them install an entertainment unit.”

  The bell over the door rang, and Dylan walked in, looking more disheveled than he had the night before. His scruff gave him that same rakish look that had caught my attention when I was seventeen. The tattoo snaking up his forearm reminded me of his eighteenth birthday when he’d whispered promises of moonlit adventure in my ear. As he’d gotten older, he’d cultivated a sexiness that should have ensured him a much bigger career, lights and cameras. Though maybe that was just the marketing.

  I gave him the hug he’d avoided last night. He always smelled musky with a hint of sandalwood, and breathing him in took me back in time to stolen evenings in his arms when sleeping was the last thing on our minds. I braced myself against the powerful invitation to disappear into his warmth.

  Layla stood. “I’ll be home later if you need moral support.”

  Dylan turned the chair around and straddled it. “Moral support for what? Resisting my legendary magnetism?”

  I snorted. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”

  Layla shouldered her backpack, then gave me a look I couldn’t interpret. It looked like a warning, but she needn’t worry. Dylan had outgrown whatever had passed between us. He could have any girl he wanted.

  Then again, if anyone could seduce me without trying, it would be him.

  When we were teens, Dylan staked a claim on me as if he’d picked a rose the moment it was in bloom. One day after a class on poetry from the Romantic period, he stopped by my desk and said, “If you really want to read romantic poetry, you should check out Pablo Neruda. Have you ever read him?”

  I hadn’t, so the next day, he copied a translation of the poem “I Do Not Love You” and slipped it into my hand. In hindsight, that Neruda poem summed up our entire relationship perfectly. In those days, we simply existed with no words or rationale to define us. We’d never had to name what we felt until the present slipped into the past and it was time to grow up and let each other go.

  “How’ve you been, Maddie?”

  How had I been? Alone. Barely getting by. “Good. You?”

  “Not too shabby.” His shirt rode up as he stretched and yawned. I forgot my manners and stared at his hip bone peeking out of his pants. I didn’t need to rely on my imagination to envision what lay behind all that fabric.

  “Why are you really here, Dylan?”

  His cocky grin slipped. “The label is pressuring me to write another hit song. They told me to take a break and come back when I had something to show them.”

  “And Orion is the farthest place in the world from New York City?”

  “Something like that.” He propped his elbow on the table and crinkled his eyes like we were alone in his parents’ shadow-dappled barn, not sitting in a sunlit café. “You should come over tonight. I could use some inspiration.”

  I knew Dylan meant “inspiration” as a euphemism.

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Come on. It would be like old times.”

  He licked his lips and skimmed his eyes along mine. My imagination ran wild, and Dylan was ripping open my bodice as I dragged my hands through his raven black hair. But I wasn’t wearing a bodice, and there were a couple of teenagers peering through the front window.

  I flushed. Was I really considering a one-night stand? I was pretty sure I needed more than a lay, and I doubted his int
erest in me extended beyond his bed, let alone Orion. It hadn’t when we’d parted ways before.

  And he’d leave me obsessing over a ghost.

  I sighed, an author bereft of words to express a rejection I wasn’t exactly sure about. “Dylan.”

  He remained an electrical arc away. Charisma was never Dylan’s problem.

  “Think about it.” And as if the answer hadn’t mattered anyway, he shrugged and stood to leave. “I’ve got to head out.”

  I watched him through the picture window as he mounted his motorcycle, and my thighs tingled with memory and longing for the bad boy. My dormant sexuality stirred and began to awaken.

  * * *

  When afternoon gave way to evening, Max and his dad sauntered in. Mr. Beckett liked to play his guitar to the small audience, and I loved it when he’d come in. Max carried the stool over to the café and helped set up. Their similarities were so stark, I could imagine what Max would look like in another twenty-five years with a dad bod, except while Mr. Beckett wore cargo shorts and a T-shirt emblazoned with I SHOT THE SHERIFF in Jamaican colors, Max dressed more conservatively in a nice pair of dark jeans and a short-sleeved gray-blue pinstriped button-up oxford with a white undershirt peeking below the collar. He’d always leaned more preppy than punk, more nice guy than bad boy.

  Max caught me staring and twisted around like what held my attention might be behind him. Upon discovering nothing but an exposed brick wall, he spun back. But before he could read too much into my wandering gaze, I averted my eyes and walked away.

  Mr. Beckett broke out his repertoire, starting with “Oh! Darling.” People sat in the café—couples enjoying an evening together and paying the musician in the corner no mind. That could have been me with my husband, whispering endearments, flirting, and looking forward to sex. Right now, the lack of sex was the bigger tragedy.

  When I went outside to roll shelves of discounted books in, I guffawed at what Max had chalked on the sidewalk sign.

  Q: WHY ARE APOSTROPHES TERRIBLE TO DATE?

  A: THEY’RE TOO POSSESSIVE!

  We were approaching the summer solstice, so the evening light lingered. Voices carried from up the street near the Jukebox where most people would be heading to dance to a real band. I watched Mr. Beckett through the window. He seemed perfectly content with the situation.

  Next door, couples enjoyed the cooler evening temperatures while dining al fresco on the sidewalk outside Gentry’s. I suddenly recalled my promise to rehang the town’s pitiful commerce sign. I went to the back room to find the step ladder, but Max intercepted me as I lumbered through the store with my hands full.

  “Let me do that.”

  I accepted his offer and relinquished the ladder.

  Once he’d hung the sign, he asked, “Why’s the deadbolt turned on the door? It’s gonna damage the frame.”

  Had he just noticed? “Because if I don’t prop it open, I’m afraid I’ll be stuck inside forever.”

  He grimaced. “You’re gonna make it worse.”

  He disappeared into the storeroom, emerging a minute later with a bright orange toolbox. He opened and closed the door once or twice, then he ran his hand along the edge. He was tall enough, he didn’t even rise onto his tiptoes to skim the top. Had he always been so tall? I would have needed a stool to reach so high.

  As if reading my mind, he climbed the step ladder to examine the top of the door. He scratched his neck. “That’s weird.”

  He descended and produced a hammer and chisel from the toolbox before clambering back up.

  I saw what he was about to do and yelled, “No, Max!”

  He shot me one bossy glance and laid the chisel on the wood. Just one more thing he’d take care of without paying any mind to what I wanted, like he knew better. With a blow, he skimmed off a layer, splinters and paint flying in every direction. He stepped down and tested the door. It opened and closed without resistance.

  He bent and picked up a broken shard. “Come here.”

  When I approached, he asked, “Has anyone messed with this door lately?”

  “How would I know?” People came in and out all day, and I didn’t always watch it. “I haven’t.”

  He held out the wood. It was light brown, not at all the mossy green of the rest of the door. “Shims like this are used when a door is first hung.”

  “You think it’s been there all this time?”

  “Maybe.” He frowned. “Usually those are placed in the doorframe, not on the door. This appeared to have been epoxied down.”

  “Maybe someone once tried to patch it?”

  “Maybe.” He shrugged and went to grab the broom to sweep up.

  As we dumped the debris into the trash, Mr. Beckett finished performing and began packing. Max raised his eyebrows. “You up for a movie? Looks like they’re playing Zoolander 2 at the Bijou.”

  The Bijou was our local dollar movie theater, which doubled as a playhouse, a town hall, and the location of the high school band concerts, choral extravaganzas, and talent shows. Half the seats were broken, the screen was smaller than some TVs, and we had a single movie option, a bad one. It made for an excellent experience overall, especially since the opening reel dated from the 80s and featured burn holes, Arsenio Hall jackets, and not a single mention to silence our cell phones. Max and I would pretend we were film critics and snark all the way through, trying to outdo each other and laughing until I feared I might hyperventilate and pass out.

  Normally, that would have been a hard yes. But I’d lost my appetite for mocking another person’s creative output. Besides, the deadline for my second book loomed over me, and I’d grown morbidly curious to read Silver Fox’s email.

  I said good night to Max and Mr. Beckett, then closed out my cash register, dismayed as always at how little had come in for book purchases and how much for coffee and food sales. I was grateful for the income, but it only proved Gentry’s point further. My bookstore might no longer be relevant. Gentry argued that we needed a bed-and-breakfast more.

  It didn’t help that the town council had decreed we close on Sundays. Our heaviest influx came on Saturdays. If I could open Sundays, the bookstore might flourish. Or at least not falter.

  I walked over to Anderson’s to order myself baked ziti to take out, hoping pasta would take the sting out of what I had to do. The little pizzeria had long been a place for teens to hang out, and tonight was no exception. I waved to Ross as I paid his wife Linda, making small talk about the heat and how business had been.

  When I got home, I ate, changed into my pajamas, put the laptop on the table, and paced around it like it was a crime scene. Finally I gritted my teeth and opened the email I’d been dreading all day.

  Ms. Kincaid,

  How awesome to hear from an author. You’re quite welcome for the review.

  Normally, my reviews don’t elicit such colorful responses. Or really any response. Because in case you missed the memo, you sent a book out into the public, and now the public gets to have an opinion about your work. It’s up to you if you want to follow it around explaining to people how they’re reading it all wrong, but I wouldn’t advise that. If you want to show that emotion to your reader, here’s an idea: Put it in the book.

  Yes, I did read your entire book. I wouldn’t put my name on a review if I hadn’t. That would be a disservice to our readers—my intended audience. And no, I’m neither sixty years old, nor a virgin, though I contend neither of those would disqualify me from knowing plausible romantic chemistry. I concede that it must be difficult to pull off a solid romance, but you chose to include one, and as such, as a reader, I want that element to work as well as the rest of the book. Readers looking for a fantasy romance will want to know if this is the book for them.

  If I disparaged your personal life, I do apologize. However, your word choice implies that your long-term relationship is possibly in the past. I’d guess it wasn’t a love for the ages? No shame in that. Not every romantic relationship is something to write
home about, or write a romance novel about. Maybe you should just stick to the fantasy aspect. You might be better suited to that.

  And don’t berate reviewers. Most of us aren’t vicious. We’re just honest with our own opinions. If you have trouble with that, perhaps you should find a way to avoid reading the comments? Or get out of publishing.

  Cheers,

  Silver Fox

  My adrenaline was pumping, and I wanted to explode, scream, email, or even call Silver Fox and rail against his insulting tone. I got up and stomped around, muttering curse words and trying to keep my brain from forming a cohesive string of sentences I might write back. I wasn’t sure I could refrain from responding. How dare he?

  Rather than white knuckle my desire to type a furious reply, I grabbed my purse and ran outside. Nothing but the restaurants and bar remained open this late, but I needed to walk and clear my head.

  I passed Shawna’s Manic Pixie Seam Girls dress shop. Four mannequins graced the display window showing off a gorgeous wedding gown and a trio of stunning formal dresses. My gaze lingered wistfully on the wedding dress, remembering the day I’d let Shawna sort through an array of possible choices for my gown. She’d cried when I came for my final fitting. I thought at the time it had been for joy. Lately, I wasn’t so sure.

  The sounds of music and crowds met me as soon as I approached the corner. I passed the Jukebox with most of its flaws obscured by the night. The marquis needed a power cleaning, and the front vestibule had the faint smell of vomit. Still I felt nothing but love for the old place. Memories rushed at me like a shattered kaleidoscope. Dylan had started out playing that venue, high on possibilities.