Page 54 of A Bookish Story

Me:

I know! I’m here with Ryan trying to celebrate and I have to see this. It’s ruined my appetite.

Sofia:

I suggest you go back to your celebration with Professor Hottie. There has to be some rational explanation for this. I think you should just go over there, say hi, and let them know you saw them. Their reaction is probably going to tell you a lot. It’s probably nothing. Don’t worry.

Sofia is a genius. She’s right, of course. I can do this. I’ll handle this matter delicately and with the utmost sensitivity. In other words, I’m going to pretend I didn’t see what I did. It never happened. They are just eating dinner together and that is all. That’s the end of it. And they’re allowed to eat dinner together. I’m fine with it.

I wash my hands, study my face in the mirror, reapply my lipstick, and smooth down a wave of hair. I’m ready. But when I reach my table, I find that Eddie and my mother have joined Ryan.

Eddie waves. “There she is! We found your friend, and he said we should join you.”

There’s a seat next to Ryan so now I have to sit there instead of across from him as I had been. I see they’ve skillfully moved my plate and silverware. I would bet this is a matchmaking attempt on their part. They’ve obviously got romance on the mind.

I’m looking for tell-tale reactions from either one, but I see nothing. Neither Mami nor Eddie look the slightest bit frazzled. No deer-in-the-headlights, “you caught me” looks. There’s a healthy distance between them, too, which I thoroughly appreciate. It’s possible I’ve imagined this whole thing. Yes, I saw him bring her hand to his lips but the kiss is beginning to fade in shades of gray. He might have wanted to look a bit closer at a freckle or something. Maybe she’s worried about skin cancer. Eddie is a dentist, not a doctor, but he shares an office with an MD and socializes with many of them. He knows things. I wasn’t that close to them. It’s possible I could have seen wrong. I should probably check my eyesight. Maybe I need glasses. What’s that they say about eyewitness statements being the least reliable of all?

“How funny seeing you here,” I say, giving my mother the stare-down. “I had no idea you two were going out.”

“Eddie wanted to go out, and I wasn’t doing anything,” my mother says. “And now I got to meet your friend, the professor.”

“He’s a writer,” I say. “And my employer.”

“We’re celebrating Luci’s book. The one she wrote as Elizabeth Brogan,” Ryan says, gently touching my hand.

My body tingles when he touches me. It’s like something out of a romance novel. I used to believe it hyperbole, but it apparently happens.

“She made the New York Times!” my mother says, hand to her bosom, and it’s possible between now and this morning she’s discovered the magnitude of this. “I’m so proud.”

“You should be,” Ryan says. “She’s amazing.”

“Have you also sold many of your books?” My mother leans in.

Hmm, she’s not calling them “little” anymore, or perhaps only my books qualify as something cute her daughter decided to do in her spare time.

“Oh, no. Not like that.”

Ryan shakes his head and I bite down on a smile.

“Someday,” my mother says encouragingly.

“It’s a goal.” Ryan nods.

“Selling a lot of books is not necessarily what makes you a good writer. Ryan writes historical fiction set mostly during World War II,” I explain. “He’s won awards.”

“I adore historical fiction!” My mother reaches to cover Ryan’s hand.

I’m surprised she reads at all unless it’s a script sent for an audition. “You do?”

“The Nightingale,” she says. “I cried for days.”

I’m surprised since I also loved the book and cried for days. Ironically, these books about World War II authored by women are too often called “women’s fiction” even if they qualify as historical fiction. It may be nothing more than a way to shelve books but it annoys me. There’s no such thing as “men’s fiction.”

The waiter interrupts, asking us if there’s room for dessert. I prepare to say no to cut this evening short, but Eddie wants crème brûlée and Ryan orders the lava chocolate cake.

“Should we share one?” Mami asks me, then speaks directly to Ryan. “Us women eat like birds but I don’t want you men to partake alone.”

“I don’t eat like a bird,” I say in defense of the sisterhood everywhere. “I’m ordering the coconut cake and I want my own.”