Bookishly Ever After

by Sarah Monzon

  Tate patted my knee. “You know how many emails that guy probably gets in a day from artists seeking representation? It might be a while.”

  “Fine,” I huffed. I didn’t have to like the wait, but maybe the name in my pocket would end up being Tate’s golden ticket. I leaned back and dug in my pocket for the paper, then handed it over. “If that guy snoozes, he loses. Here’s the next place you should send the demo.”

  Tate took the paper from my hand and slipped it into his pocket.

  I eyed his hand, half covered in denim, then lifted my quizzical gaze to his face. “What’re you doing?”

  “Umm…”

  My palm pushed against his bicep. “Now. Send it now.”

  His arm shook under my hand as he laughed. “I doubt anyone is at their office this late at night.”

  “You never know.”

  He reached over me and plucked the Peanut M&M’s off the couch. Three candies fell into his open palm when he tilted the package. “I think it can wait until morning. Besides, I wanted to talk to you about something that’s been bugging me.”

  I snatched the bag of chocolate back and pushed one out of the ripped corner. “What’s that?”

  He turned so his back rested against the arm of the love seat, and he faced me. “You.”

  Chocolate clung to my back molars as I forced a swallow. “What about me?”

  “You’ve been acting strange lately. First on the ferry last week, then today at the escape room. I caught you sneaking glances at me and Sydney and the expression on your face… I don’t know. It was weird. Plus, there seems to be this vibe or tension between us. Did I do something?”

  If I didn’t know for a fact that I didn’t have peanut allergies, I would have thought I was going into anaphylactic shock. My throat closed up, and I found it hard to breathe. My vision narrowed, and thoughts scattered. Tate wanted to talk about this? I couldn’t talk about it. About anything!

  I worked my tongue over the roof of my mouth, rolled my lips together, and matched his position on the opposite side of the love seat, which put a bit of distance between our bodies. I found I needed as much space as I could get right then. Rubbing my palms across the stretchy fabric of my leggings and forcing a smile, I said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  It was a lie. I knew exactly what he was talking about, but I couldn’t face it. Couldn’t do a confrontation. Call me a coward. But that title didn’t fit, not really. A coward implied someone too afraid to face something. Yes, fear made my heart race, but I didn’t want to turn away. I wanted to deal with this. Wanted to tell him that turning our bet into a matchmaking scheme had hurt my feelings. Wanted to tell him that seeing him with Sydney caused me to mentally grab for a pint of Ben and Jerry’s. But none of my wanting could override my physical inability. And that was what it was. I had ignored, brushed off, buried down any negative feelings for so long that I was physically incapable of turning those thoughts and feelings into audible words.

  Tate reached for my hand and squeezed my fingers. “Are you sure? Because I swear I’m not imagining things, Emory. I know you too well. Something’s up.”

  I needed a book. Needed a way to tune out this conversation. Shut off my thoughts. Get my world right again. I looked at Tate’s ear. Maybe it was close enough to his eyes he wouldn’t notice that I couldn’t meet his gaze. “I’m sure.” I squeezed his fingers back to punctuate my reassurance. “We’re good.”

  We might be—because I was going to make sure we were, no matter how much I had to hold back—but I wasn’t. Not then. I had to get out of there. I stood and looked at my wrist even though I wasn’t wearing a watch. Maybe he wouldn’t notice that either. “I should be going. Long day at work tomorrow.”

  Tate stood, watching me. Studying. And I knew. He didn’t buy it. He’d let me leave, escape, because he was sweet like that. But he didn’t for a minute believe the lies that I had been telling myself all my life.

  Everything was fine.

  If I kept saying that, it would eventually make it true. Right?

  Eight

  Why had I agreed to this again?

  Just a friend. Just a friend.

  I could say it all I wanted—it still felt like a date. But Tate and I had dinner together all the time. We hung out, went to movies, did stuff, and we were just friends.

  That’s all this was. A dinner with a friend.

  I stared at my reflection in the mirror of the public restroom of my work building. Ugh. But I knew why I was doing this. To convince Tate I wasn’t a pathetic loser and to dissuade him from ever setting me up with one of his friends again. I couldn’t actually tell that to him—as evidence by my speech lockup three nights ago—so I’d have to let my actions speak for me. But did that mean I was using Landon?

  My stomach flipped once more as I braced my hands on either side of the granite-inlaid sink. I let my head hang down, the muscles in the back of my neck stretching. Should I call Landon? Back out of the date? He was cute in an outdoorsy–Paul Bunyan kind of way, and so far he had been nothing but kind. He’d also said the dinner was between friends. Just a friend. Nothing more.

  I lifted my hand and pulled down the elastic tie holding my mass of curls back in a ponytail. Strands of hair sprung back around my face. I bent over with my head down, ran my fingers along my scalp a few times, then whipped my head back up. A big poof ball of frizzy brown ringlets circled my head like the aureole that glowed from Catholic paintings of the mother Mary…except more poodle-like and less holy looking. I did not need to be seen in public like that.

  I flipped my head back down, gathered all my hair at the back of my head, and started twisting, finally securing the frizz bomb with the elastic again. When all else fails, a bun comes to the rescue. Glancing at my watch, I exited the bathroom. I needed to skedaddle if I was going to catch my bus.

  With my purse hooked over my forearm, I shimmied my opposite arm out of my fitted blazer, switched my purse to the other arm, and continued to rid myself of the jacket. The bus doors slid open just as my foot landed on the sidewalk. I scanned my city pass and took an empty seat halfway back. Depositing my purse and jacket beside me, I unbuttoned the top button of my blouse, pulled the material out slightly, then blew a long puff of air down my shirt to where perspiration had gathered between my breasts. For the most part, the Pacific Northwest’s climate was temperate, but there were some hot days in the summer, and almost none of the buildings had air conditioning.

  The bus deposited me on the other side of the city, the restaurant another two blocks to the west. I trekked the rest of the way in my ballet flats, my copy of The Rock Creek Ranch Collection making the strap of my purse dig into the crook of my elbow. Probably wasn’t a good idea to bring the four-book compilation in hardback along. A kindle boxed set would weigh a whole lot less.

  Landon sat on a low cement wall that terraced colorful flowers on either side of the stairs leading up to the restaurant. He smiled and hopped down when he saw me, extending his hand to take my blazer and purse. Or at least that was what I thrust at him. Maybe he had been going for a handshake or a hug—how was I to know?

  With a grin, he lifted my purse by the straps. “What do you have in this thing, bricks?”

  My cheeks flushed, but I refused to be embarrassed by my love of literature. “Books.”

  His brow rose, not quite as high as Tate’s did, but it had the same effect. Did all guys practice that move in the mirror or something?

  “Ah. Should have known.” He leaned in, as if sharing a secret. “Dad warned me to be careful with the library types. Said underneath that quiet facade lay a wild woman.” His green eyes sparkled. “So tell me, Emory, are you hiding a wild side?”

  I looked at him with a bland expression. “I’m about as wild as a snail after a rainstorm.”

  Landon laughed, rich and full. It sounded like he didn’t hold back, and from what little I knew about him, I think that probably just about summed him up. My opposite. A w
oman who treaded carefully, bottled up thoughts and words, and lived in a world I kept small for comfort’s sake. A thread of envy wove its way into my consciousness. To be able to say anything, express the deepest parts of myself without fear—what would that be like?

  My mind slammed shut on the thought. It would probably feel light and freeing for a moment, but the repercussions of such thoughtlessness would be like a noose closing around the neck of all my relationships.

  Landon held out a crooked elbow—much like the lords did for the ladies in my Regency novels—and I slipped my hand in the groove. He opened the entrance door for me, then with a light touch at the small of my back, led me to the hostess podium. We asked for a seat on the patio even though the long, glass wall of doors had been slid open, creating one large indoor/outdoor experience. The hostess led us past dining couples to an empty table on the far side of the patio, where the wrought iron fence held up trailing ivy.

  Landon opened his menu. “This is a nice place.”

  “Very. You should try the salmon. I hear they get it fresh from the fishing boats every day.” I didn’t bother looking at the menu. After a year of weekly dinners here, I had the thing memorized.

  Landon glanced up at me. “Is that what you’re getting?”

  I shook my head. “I’m not really in the mood for seafood today, even if it is the best I’ve ever had.”

  His lips kind of pushed to the side as he looked down at my menu, then back up at my face. “What are you in the mood for?”

  “Their strawberry spinach salad is to die for.”

  “Oh yeah?” He laid down his menu and folded his hands on top. “What else is good?”

  I shrugged. “Everything. They can cook a steak to the perfect temperature, and their chicken dishes are always moist. The pasta is good, but nothing spectacular.”

  His smile started slow, then spread. “Have you tried every single item on the menu?”

  My shoulders lifted to shrug again, but I pressed them back down. “Tate’s been singing here a little over a year. That’s fifty-two-plus meals. Ordering the same thing every week would get old, don’t you think?”

  His head tilted to the side. “You come to hear him every week?”

  “Well, yeah. I’m not a groupie or anything, but friends support each other.”

  He seemed to think about that, and I wondered what exactly about my simple sentence he was mulling around in his head. Finally he picked his menu back up, his gaze on the plastic-covered sheets. “I wish I had a friend that supportive.”

  My heart clenched, sad at the thought that he didn’t, but then it tripped as my ears picked up on his tone. Was he suggesting that my presence every week was something other than a friend supporting a friend?

  The server came and took our orders, then left us in that awkward silence that made my skin prickle like a spider had just crawled over me.

  “So…” Landon took a sip of his water. “What do you do for fun? Any hobbies?”

  The weight of my purse leaning against my foot pretty much summed up all my hobbies. “I read mostly.”

  He nodded and ran a hand down the side of his beard. “Yeah, I remember Tate saying that. Kinda what these last weekend activities have been about, right? Plus the weight of your bag. How many books do you have in there anyway?”

  “It’s a four-in-one collection.”

  “Any particular genre you like the best?”

  My mind hiccupped a second, stuck on the fact a guy was talking books with me and that he knew how to use the word genre correctly. Not that I didn’t think some guys read. I’d just never had any personal experience with any. “I’m a bit of an eclectic reader. As long as the book is clean, no foul language or bedroom scenes, I’m usually game.”

  “Classics?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Austen.”

  I grinned. “Definitely.”

  He twirled his straw in his water, making the ice clink against the sides of his glass as he looked at me with a smile. “Waiting for your Mr. Darcy?”

  My spine slammed against the back of the chair as I jolted with surprise. “You know Austen?”

  “My mom loves all the period dramas on TV. Don’t get her started on the BBC version of Pride and Prejudice versus the Kiera Knightley remake.”

  I slapped my palms on the tabletop. “No contest. Colin Firth is Mr. Darcy.”

  His finger crooked, and he tapped it against my knuckle with a wink. “My mom would like you.”

  I felt my cheeks heat as I slid my hands down onto my lap.

  “So,” he continued, bringing my gaze up out of my lap and back across the table. “Is that why you’re unattached? Waiting for your Mr. Darcy?”

  A snort escaped my nose, but I didn’t move to cover it up. “Hardly. In my opinion, Fitzwilliam Darcy is overrated. Yes, he had redeemable qualities, but overall he was much too judgmental and snobby for my taste.”

  Landon laughed as he leaned his elbows on his tables. “I take it back. My mom might not like you after all. No one speaks ill of her Darcy.”

  She could have him. Brooding men weren’t my type.

  “Okay. Not Darcy. Out of all of Austen’s heroes, who would you chose?”

  Not even a heartbeat passed before I answered. “Knightley.”

  His head tilted. “Why Knightley?”

  I leaned forward, matching his posture. “Every great romance should start from an even greater friendship. It’s what gives the relationship strength to withstand any obstacle.”

  That hint of a smile, which had been on his face since the conversation started, grew, as if my words had watered it. He reached across the table and laid his hand on mine. “Good thing we’re here together as friends then.”

  For the second time, I slipped my hand free and leaned back. “That’s a rather Willoughby thing to say, and I’m not a Marianne.”

  The server returned then and placed a steaming plate of fish in front of Landon and a vibrant salad in front of me. I picked up my fork and stabbed at the green leaves of baby spinach.

  “I’m sorry if I offended you.”

  Had he? The force I was putting behind the tines of my fork said that his words had rankled, but why?

  “I like you, Emory, and I’m the kind of guy who says whatever is on his mind. I’ll try to filter it though, if it bothers you.”

  I looked up and deflated at the sincerity in his eyes. Why should he filter his thoughts? I did that enough for everyone. “No, no.” I shook my head. “Sorry. I don’t know what my problem is.”

  Tate bounced up the two steps to the stage, his movement drawing both mine and Landon’s attention. Landon let the conversation drop, and for that I was thankful. He really was a good guy, and talking to him hadn’t been torture. And yet? Nothing. He was attractive, but I wasn’t attracted to him. There was nothing in him that was calling out to anything in me. Tate had picked well. He’d chosen a guy I could talk to and be friends with. Hopefully, he wouldn’t be disappointed when nothing more developed though.

  Tate hooked up wires from the amplifier to his guitar, then moved to stand in front of the microphone, smile in place as he glanced out over the crowd. His gaze lighted on me, and his lips softened from a stage smile to a genuine one. I watched as his eyes widened and the expression on his face froze. Hardened. With what looked like effort, he licked his lips and leaned his mouth toward the mic. “Good evening. I hope you enjoy tonight’s music.”

  What was that? Why had his expression changed so drastically when he saw me?

  “You were right.” Landon swallowed, his voice snagging my attention away from Tate on the stage. “This is the best salmon I’ve had in a long time.”

  I made some sort of noise of acknowledgment in the back of my throat, but I’d honestly only half heard him. I stared at Tate on stage. The fingers of his right hand pressed the strings along the neck of his guitar, moving up, down, forward, back as he changed chords, his left hand in constant motion as he strummed th
e strings lower down. His brows pulled low over his eyes, and though the rest of his body moved to the music, those eyes were locked in place. On me. Drilling into mine.

  The song ended and another started, but Tate didn’t look away. He ignored the groupie table of women. The one right in front, full of the same women who came out to hear him sing almost as much as I did. Ignored all of the crowd. Which wasn’t his style. Usually he was aware of his audience. He’d notice the elderly couple who held hands across the table and later remark how he figured they were there to celebrate their fiftieth wedding anniversary. He’d pick a song he knew was popular in their prime and sing it special for them. He’d notice the nervous teen with a date in the corner and sing something he thought would put the guy at ease. But he wasn’t doing any of that. His eyes bored into mine.

  The tight set of his jaw and the way his shoulders bunched under his V-neck shirt caused my stomach to tighten with dread. Something wasn’t right. Usually music flowed through his body, making him look relaxed and fluid. Now he looked more like a wooden mannequin, only moving because an unseen hand was manipulating him to do so.

  I could feel Landon’s scrutiny. Could feel it but couldn’t see it, because I couldn’t tear my eyes away from Tate. Was it his sister? She’d been in chemo for the last month. Had something bad happened? Had she taken a turn for the worst?

  Landon cleared his throat, and I managed to extricate my gaze from the tractor beam it had been trapped in. I’d talk to Tate later. Make sure everything was all right.

  “You and Tate been friends a long time?” Landon asked with a knowing look. Which was appropriate because he did know the answer to the question.

  “Yeah.”

  “Just friends?”

  I dropped my fork, and it clattered against my plate. “Of course.”

  “Emory.” He pronounced all three syllables to my name, drawing it out like to a slow child. “You aren’t a Marianne, but you’re quicker to catch on than Emma, too.” He looked over at Tate, then back to me. “Tate won’t come over to the table as long as I’m here, and you two need to talk.”