Jack:Is it?
Blair:What about Misery? What about The Shining?
Jack:I think there are different rules for Stephen King.
Blair:What about all those romance novels?
Jack:I do not know the novels to which you refer.
Blair:You know, romance novels about authors. Romance novels about book clubs.
Blair:Romance novels can be very meta.
Jack:I still do not know the novels to which you refer.
Blair.Wow, you only said it like that because you’re about to move into my pool house, didn’t you? Why do I feel like in other circumstances you would have said something insanely snotty?
Blair:Have you ever even read a romance novel?
Jack:Does Jane Austen count?
Blair sent an eye-rolling emoji and set her phone on the bench next to her. She needed a moment. That last exchange had given her pause. Not because she found it so remarkable that a person could get through life without having read a romance novel. She would have been surprised if Jack Branksome had. But it was a reminder of how elementally different they were. They’d managed to sidestep their differences while their relationship had been unfolding solely via text. It was possible that they wouldn’t know how to do this—how to dothem.
She was overthinking this. There was nothem. They weren’t even friends, not really. They were just two people engaged in a period of mutual disarmament in support of his book. She was hardly going to see him—that was part of the deal. Time to take the drama down several notches.
Blair:I’m stuck on the fact that you only have a carry-on. If there’s a metaphor in all this, it’s probably that.
Jack:I don’t think it’s that deep. I threw some summer clothes into a bag. I figure anything I’m missing, I can buy here. I’m not sure what else you thought I’d have.
Blair:I don’t know, several suitcases of… authory stuff?
Jack:What, dare I ask, is “authory stuff”?
Blair:You know, your reams of research, your manual typewriter, a framed letter from when they longlisted you for the National Book Award, your lucky mug.
She hoped the self-deprecating tone she was aiming for was coming through. She was just stuck on the idea of moving across the country for several months with only a carry-on. Her shoes alone would fill a carry-on, and she wasn’t one of those women who made shoes her whole personality. Just the bare bones of what she would be expected to encase her feet in at different times of day and at different types of events would fill one bag.
Jack:I have a backpack as a personal item if that makes you feel better.
Blair:It actually does.
Jack:And I do have a favorite mug at home, but I didn’t bring it.
Blair:What’s on it?
Jack:Nothing.
Blair:Your favorite mug doesn’t have anything on it?
Jack:What’s supposed to be on it?
Blair:The logo of an obscure band. The name of a local bar you frequent. A vintage typewriter.
Jack:That’s the second time typewriters have come up in this conversation.
Blair:You seem like the type. Ha. Pun intended.
Jack:I have never used a typewriter in my life.
