Page 2 of A Bookish Story

Mr. Brady assembles luggage in the trunk of the sedan while Henry waves his hands in the air, then gestures to the house. Probably giving him instructions on how to water and care for the assemblage of cactuses and ferns. But Mr. Brady shakes his head, as if no way, can’t do it.

Oh my god, are they discussing whether or not he should hire me? That must mean I still have a chance! I take a step closer to see if I might be able to read their lips, and that’s when Ryan turns and sees me in the window. I know he does, because I see him, and for a second in time we just simply gawk at each other like time has stopped. Then I snap out of it and move away.

When Mr. Brady returns after seeing his friend off, I wonder if I still have a chance to get this job, and if I should still want it. He caught me in the window snooping. Also, it’s possible the cleft in the professor’s chin might make it difficult to concentrate on my work. He’s handsome and young, and I’m on the rebound. Not a great combination.

Then I remember my she-shed and how much I’d like to live in a place where I don’t have to leave my home to take a shower or have a homecooked meal. Where I’ll have some privacy from my loud and intrusive but well-meaning family who is still worried about me over the breakup that caused me to be here today in the first place.

But I need this job far more than I’m worried about crushing on the professor, so I will put a block on him. It’s the same thing I do when my cousin Sofia introduces me to her latest boyfriend. They’re always hot and the block allows me to appreciate them in the same way I do a beautiful sunset from a safe and healthy distance.

“Well, this is embarrassing,” I say, when Mr. Brady returns and closes the front door.

Something resembling the start of a smile seems to be fighting his mouth, and he’s winning. He doesn’t want to smile. Still, the hint of laughter is shimmering in his eyes and I can see it. It gives me hope.

“So, I feel like I know everything about you already other than possibly your blood type,” he says, hands tucked in the pockets of his dockers. “And…no notes.”

“He opened the door, so I thought⁠—”

“Don’t apologize, it makes perfect sense.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

“You mentioned the salary is more than adequate,” he says.

“Yes, and please excuse me for being so enthusiastic. It’s just I really need this job. Have you seen the rent for a studio apartment in Seven Trees? I’d have to sell a kidney on my salary.”

“No need for that.”

He walks into the dining room, and I follow him. The home of the older professor smells like paper and moths and is filled with shelves upon shelves of thick books. The books are interspersed occasionally with interesting…um, art? Some of the pieces are embarrassingly erotic, like maybe I should turn my head and give them privacy.

Ryan catches me looking. “The professor travels a lot and collects…art. Last year he went to India.”

“Uh-huh. Nice man. Have you known him long?”

“He’s my mentor,” Ryan says. “He used to teach at UCLA, which was where we met. Now he’s Professor Emeritus at the university here.”

“You’re from Los Angeles?”

“Originally from Ohio but live in Pasadena,” he says, sitting at the dining table, which he’s clearly using as a desk and gestures for me to sit. “In your soliloquy, you mentioned you’re from here.”

“I’m one of those rarities, someone whose middle-class family has lived in the Bay Area for decades.”

We were here first, before the tech companies settled and changed the price of everything from housing to gas.

I pick up a paper with handwritten scribbles all over it. If this is his penmanship its atrocious. And were this truly a Jane Austen novel, I’d tell faux Mr. Darcy, “Pray tell, is this handwriting or hieroglyphics? Mayhap you can do better or risk offending a possible suitor with your careless efforts at penmanship.”

“I need help organizing this”—he waves his hand in the direction of papers, books, pens, pencils, laptop, and other detritus of a working writer—“into something cohesive I can use.”

I almost say, “Fear not, I will handily execute this,” but decide it’s time to abandon Jane Austen impressions.

“No problem,” I say. “I’ve got you.”

“What about hours?” Ryan says. “They’re flexible, but I want to know when to expect you.”

“Mornings around eight? I’ll bring the coffee!”

“The only exception is if I’ve had a rough night and stayed up all night writing. That happens. You don’t want to be around me then.”

“Um, okay. Does that happen…often?”