I remembered Max out in the rain but shook my head, unable to imagine Max doing that much damage. Unless he was finding ways to make himself indispensable, like some kind of business Munchausen by proxy. But that was ludicrous. “No. Not that I’m aware of.”
“Could be a loose neutral connection.”
“English, Jack.”
He shrugged like he’d already explained it as simply as he could. “Could’ve started a fire.”
“Can you fix it?”
“You’re gonna need to contact the power company.”
Shit. I didn’t have any time for this. I made the call, and about an hour later, a stranger with a tool belt came in, worked on the meter, and repeated Jack’s warning that I was lucky the place hadn’t burned down. He had to take my power offline, but when the electrical repairs were made, the display unit started back up. For the time being, everything seemed to be in order.
I felt like I’d been given a reprieve.
The entire morning had been wasted, but I flipped the Open sign around and hoped I’d get some business today.
Charlie settled into his corner of the now empty café, and I envied him. What if I did sell the bookstore? Would I be free to write all the time? Would I want to?
My deadline was so near, I had to spend every available minute writing. I plugged my laptop in and left it at a table in the corner so I could slam out the last few chapters. I was so close I could taste it. The idea that it sucked worse than my first book nagged at me, but I no longer had the luxury to get things exactly right.
* * *
Whether the muse struck or not, I burned the midnight oil, writing nonstop. By Thursday, I was exhausted. When Max showed up, he took one look at me and said, “You’re sick. Go home.”
That sounded brilliant. I could go and finish writing. I was on the homestretch of vomiting all the words. “The store,” I managed. I’d run out of sentences. Were there a finite amount? Did I need time to recharge?
He squeezed my shoulder. “I’ll stay here. Go.”
I must have been exhausted because I didn’t even argue. Without premeditation, I hugged him. He froze, and then his arms wrapped around me, hands rubbing my back, and it was exactly what I needed. I pressed my cheek against his chest. I could have fallen asleep snuggled against him.
He let go first, pushing me into an upright position and toward the door, and I did something unprecedented: I handed over the keys.
He clutched them like he’d caught the snitch. “Get some sleep.”
I didn’t. I typed all afternoon. By evening, I was ready to collapse, but I typed The End.
I finished!
Layla sat in her room, her red hair twisted in a messy braid, laughing about something she was reading online. I tapped on the doorframe.
She looked up. “You’re done?”
“I’m done with this draft. I’m okay with the first half, but the ending is a total funeral. I can’t figure out what’s wrong. I’m hoping you’ll give me some insight.”
“You know you should ask Max to read this. He’d probably give you amazing notes. Or any of your book club people.”
“Oh, well. If you don’t want to . . .”
“It’s not that. I’m worried I’m gonna give you bad advice. I’m less capable of figuring out a romantic arc than anyone. What if I can’t help you?”
I laughed at the idea that any of the boys in town had any clue about romance. “You did a great job before. Please?”
She bit her lip. “Okay, but I do require payment.”
“Oh.” She’d never asked for money before. Maybe her website wasn’t panning out.
“One of my favorite bands is gonna be playing the state park in a couple of weeks. I insist you go with me. I’ll pick up the tickets.”
Relieved, I agreed, then went to my room and emailed her the Word doc.
With no other pressing duties, I fell into bed to sleep the sleep of the dead until my phone notifications went bananas in the wee hours of Friday morning. I rolled over and blinked as my eyes adjusted to the light. The alert indicated a new direct message, but when I clicked through, I discovered three.
I can’t sleep.
I think I’ve become a secondary character in this girl’s story. How did I become the Bingley?
Does that even make sense?
He was adorable. I wanted to find this girl and tell her to snap out of it. She had a real catch of a guy on the line. But what did I know based on a few Internet exchanges. He could be nicer online than in real life. Although he’d proven he could also be a real jerk online.
Maybe he was a beast, all beauty on the inside, and she couldn’t see him through his trappings. Maybe that’s why there were no photos of him available. I wanted to think I’d be wise enough to see past the physical if I discerned a poetic soul, but I’d never been put in the position to find out.
I’d fallen for Dylan’s sexy charisma, but while he wasn’t conventionally beautiful, he was objectively beyond attractive. His face had been used to sell a line of cologne, as if those two things were somehow related.
Peter was beautiful, and I’d fallen for him despite his lack of poetry. So maybe I was a hypocrite, and I valued outer beauty over inner. Was it wrong to want both?
It didn’t matter where Silver Fox fell on the spectrum. Even if his heart wasn’t taken, he was elsewhere. I wanted to ask him where, but I worried I might stalk him, so it was better I didn’t know. Instead, I sent a lame reply, giggling that anyone would ask me of all people for dating advice.
I’m in a bit of a quandary myself. I wish I had the answers. It seems to work out better in books, right?
Here I was with two failed relationships under my belt, and I wasn’t sure if I had a future with either of those two men because we didn’t talk about it.
I’d never before now pictured my life through the prism of a romance novel. Sure, I identified with plenty of female protagonists: Anne Shirley, Lizzie Bennet, Belle, Hermione Granger, and Jo March. Especially Jo. Smart, driven women. But my main plot thread had never been a romantic arc.
I mean, I had Peter, so I figured I could focus on what would fulfill me, apart from my relationship to a man. Everything else was falling into place on its own, and I could project how our lives would play out. We’d get married and the big events would unfold in the proper order.
I’d always pictured us in the house we’d eventually settle on (the little raspberry bungalow). We’d share breakfast and exchange a quick kiss as Peter raced out with his travel mug of coffee in one hand and the generic financial pages of my imagination in the other. I’d spend my days encouraging young readers to learn to love The Chronicles of Narnia and Harry Potter. Peter would whisk me on a surprise romantic weekend to keep the love alive (because I would have hinted at something I’d read in a novel).
We’d talk about kids and argue over names and whether the public school I’d gone to was good enough.
In reality, we’d argued about the raspberry bungalow and when I was going to give up my hobby and get a real job.
Somehow, I’d ended up with almost everything I’d ever wanted, the town, the bookstore, the writing career, but I’d lost the romance hero in the process. Maybe he’d never been a hero. Maybe we’d never had a romance.
Chapter 15
I never got around to rereading Gone with the Wind, but I knew it well enough to come up with a handful of discussion questions before book club Friday night. I hoped I could wing it from memory and a cursory refresher.
To keep the attention off me, I straight up lobbed a grenade. “Rhett tells Scarlett, ‘I’m not in love with you, no more than you are with me.’ What do we think? Did Rhett love Scarlett? Did she love him? And apart from Melanie, did anyone in this novel truly love anyone else?”
Charlie guffawed. “Sure. They all truly loved themselves.” I sat back to let him pontificate professorially. After his usual dry warm up, he pulled the pin. “Honestly, I’ve never understood why Rh
ett pursued Scarlett or why Scarlett continued to humor Rhett.”
Dylan scoffed. “Gonna disagree. Rhett Butler’s the most interesting character in her life. He was the best man for her. If only she’d realized it in time. . . .”
Charlie leaned forward, engaged. “You have to admit Scarlett was just using Rhett because she was bored and lonely. First she used Charles Hamilton to make Ashley jealous, then Frank—”
Dylan snorted. “Are you holding a grudge on behalf of your namesake?”
Until right then, I’d forgotten Scarlett’s first husband and our Charlie Hamilton shared a name. I couldn’t help but snicker until Charlie shot me a wounded look, like I was supposed to choose sides.
He turned his laser focus on Dylan. “I’m not mad. I just find their romance implausible. Rhett Butler was too smart to fall into Scarlett’s web. And Scarlett was too self-absorbed to ever appreciate Rhett. I’m with Shawna’s ‘Team Nobody,’ only instead of rooting for Scarlett to choose nobody for her own good, she should spare all of mankind from her selfishness.”
Shawna shook her head. “Don’t put words in my mouth, Charlie. I’m with Dylan on this one.” At Charlie’s tense body language, Shawna lifted a hand. “Hear me out. Yes, Scarlett is utterly flawed, but do you think Rhett doesn’t see that in her? She’s the most interesting character he encounters, too. And yes, Scarlett’s to blame for failing to examine her own feelings and discover that the man best suited to her, the man she could have truly fallen in love with, had been there all along. My God, she married him and still pined for the wrong man. How tragic is that?”
Charlie was shaking his head. “What would it have taken for her to recognize that, though? Time? She had years to figure it out. Losing Rhett? How many times did he walk away without waking her up?”
This conversation was making me uncomfortable to say the least. I stole a peek at Dylan who, thankfully, was casually studying his own foot, bouncing on his knee.
Midge spoke up, “I loved the moment when he tells her she needs kissing, but then he doesn’t kiss her.”
Everyone stopped and collectively tilted their heads at her.
“Go on,” I prodded.
“I just found it amusing the way her head fell back and she just stood there waiting. Reminded me of when I was dating.”
“You mean, in the movie?” asked Charlie.
The conversation stalled out, and I checked my notes for another prompt, but Max spoke up. “I always felt a bit sorry for Rhett.”
Although he hardly ever participated, and I assumed he’d only come to pimp his business, I didn’t doubt he’d read the book. He read everything.
“Elaborate.”
He scratched the scruff on his jaw. His eyes moved around the group. “Rhett says he couldn’t wait around to catch Scarlett between marriages. He’s always taken what he wanted and directed his own destiny—” He sucked on the inside of his cheek and hesitated.
Charlie nodded. “Yes?”
“I don’t know.” Max ran his hand down the back of his neck. “Just, everyone sees him as this strong, roguish, cynical hero, but he’s kind of a pathetic figure.”
I coughed. “You called Rhett Butler pathetic?”
His head jerked toward me. “I don’t mean he’s a loser.” Whatever embarrassment he’d been battling was forgotten, and he regained that know-it-all tone I knew so well. “I mean, pathetic, pathos. You know, tragic. The minute he meets Scarlett, he loses his heart to her, and all his bluster and sarcasm hide his vulnerability.”
Charlie’s finger shot in the air. “See? He would’ve been better off if he’d never met her.”
Max cut his eyes over. “I didn’t say that. Actually, I think he’s lucky he did because it’s very likely if he hadn’t, he would’ve hardened his heart and lived his entire life without love.”
“But he doesn’t get her in the end.” Charlie crossed his arms and leaned back, like a lawyer who’d made the final plea to the jury in a case he was about to win.
Max took a breath before continuing. “It doesn’t matter, Charlie. Love isn’t about how things end up.”
We all stared at him, and I remembered what my mom had told me. “Tomorrow might be another day, but tomorrow may never come.”
Max met my eyes. “Right. Rhett grew because he allowed himself to love her against all odds. And for a time, he believed he was loved in return.”
Charlie finally shrugged. “Fine, but I still don’t think she deserved him.”
Max laughed and relaxed. “She deserved so much more than she allowed herself to have.”
Shawna said what we were all thinking. “Wow. Are you for real?”
I’d never heard him talk like that before, and I had to intentionally close my gaping mouth.
Max winced, and splotches of crimson crept up his cheeks like elongated shadows.
I glanced at my notes. “I have one last question for the group. Why do you think Scarlett was so damn fixated on Ashley?”
Charlie summed it up with, “Because of plot,” and we all laughed.
Dylan snorted. “It sure as hell wasn’t sex appeal.”
Midge said, “I once knew a young man who was so handsome, but he wasn’t interested in me.” She waved dismissively. “I think the rejection made him even more attractive to me if that makes sense.”
Max tilted his head toward her. “Ashley was the one she couldn’t have?”
“What?” asked Midge. I doubted she was talking about Ashley.
“I think—” Max started. He tapped his finger against his lip for a moment. “I think it might be a little bit that he was out of her reach, but Ashley continued to make her feel like she had a chance. He strung her along out of kindness, not realizing it was so cruel.”
“I have an alternate theory.” Dylan looked around the group, like a performer checking in with his audience. “Ashley represented home to her. In the end, what mattered to her more than anything or anyone? Tara, her home, her land. Ashley came from that increasingly lost world, and the more the world changed, the more she latched on to him as a connection to her past, to her youth.”
Shawna laughed. “Projecting much?”
He chucked her softly on the shoulder. “Nothing wrong with wanting to return home.” He cast a glance at me, and I had to avert my eyes.
Shawna took her turn. “I agree with Midge. She was collecting trophies. Scarlett didn’t need any man. She wanted to win.”
On that sad note, it was time to end. I picked up the list. “Next time we’re reading Little Women.”
As soon as Dylan bought his copy, he turned and announced, “Don’t forget to come out to my show tomorrow night.”
That was a land mine–fraught proposition I didn’t know how to negotiate. After Sunday, I figured he’d understand if I didn’t show. In fact, I worried that by going, he’d think I condoned or even encouraged his behavior. He hadn’t called or tried to come by to see me, and I didn’t know whether he felt chastened or if I didn’t matter enough to him to follow up. I never knew what Dylan thought about me until he sang it to me.
Charlie was next in line and said, “Why don’t we go together?”
I empathized with Scarlett, looking for her Ashley when he wasn’t looking for her, surrounded by Rhett Butlers and actual Charles Hamiltons. If I were a character in a book, would readers be yelling at me to run toward or away from any of these guys? I wanted to skip ahead a few chapters and find out how everything would turn out.
Chapter 16
The entire population of Orion was at the Jukebox. By the time Charlie and I arrived, after I’d closed up the bookstore, all the seats near the stage had been taken. Layla waved from a big round table in the corner where Shawna and her wife Rebecca had already ordered a few drinks.
I slid into the booth, making room for Charlie.
The lights flickered, and conversations abruptly stopped as people scurried to their tables or moved closer to the stage.
Layla’s hands fle
w up. “I forgot to set up my camera!” She shoved me aside, pulled a collapsed tripod out of her backpack, and telescoped it out. Then she screwed her camera on and messed with the focus and lighting until she was satisfied. Once everything was in order, she hit record and sat back. “I hope nobody kicks that over.”
The club owner, Kyle, climbed up on the stage to a smattering of applause. As the room quieted, Charlie laid his forearms on the table, hands wrapped around his beer. For a heartbeat, I imagined snaking my hand around his wrist to twine my fingers with his to see how he’d react. But before I could, Kyle announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome back to the Jukebox Orion’s own Dylan Black!”
The crowd erupted in applause as Dylan bounced onto the stage, guitar strap over his neck, and spoke into the mic. “Hey guys.”
The spotlight lit him from above, and he looked perfectly at home.
Layla nudged me. “I haven’t seen him perform in months. I’ve missed this.”
Dylan began, “This is the club where I got my start, way back when. I’m forever grateful to all of you for supporting me for so long.”
Several people said, “Aw,” and more people clapped, happy to claim credit for his success.
“Since you’ve all been there for me, I want you all to be the first to know I’ve been writing new songs I’m so proud of. I couldn’t think of anything more fitting than to share them with you here tonight.”
I hooted: “Yeah!”
Layla shouted: “Dylan! Dylan! Dylan!” and others picked up the chant.
He ducked his head and rubbed his neck in the most adorable display of gratitude. I knew it was sincere. He’d left Orion a cocky brat on the verge of fame, but I’d watched him transition into a more serious artist, focused on the music instead of glorying in the adulation.
Onstage, he performed with the confidence he’d earned through competence and professionalism. He played a set of his new songs, then took a break promising to come back out and accept requests or play covers the rest of the night. That met with laughter.
The lights came up, and Layla fanned herself. “My God. Dylan is on fire. I still can’t believe you walked away from that.”
Dating by the Book Page 13