Page 84 of A Bookish Story

This is a splash of cold water rushing over me, the sharp chill of a freezing wind slicing through my skin. They’re words I can’t ignore. Words I’ll never take for granted. Delight pulses through me. He always knows the right thing to say to me, the precise words I need to hear. I want to run to him. I want to plaster my mouth, my whole body to his. I want to lean into him and never let him go.

But I don’t, because this thing between us can’t happen. At least not now.

And for once I’m fresh out of words.

CHAPTER 27

When the day of the book signing arrives, I’m so nervous I arrive three hours ahead of schedule.

As the date neared, Ryan and I talked about this book signing while we worked. He too had no idea what to expect since his own signings have historically not been well attended.

“I can always count on my faculty staff, a few of my students, and two die-hard fans that like anything I write,” he said.

“Two?” I gasped. “There have to be more than that!”

“Nope. Just because a reader buys my book doesn’t mean they want to leave their home, drive across town, and find parking just so they can get a signed copy.”

“And meet you in person!”

He shrugged. “I don’t blame them. It’s hard to get me to attend my signings.”

My entire family plans on making an appearance, but they will arrive at the regular time like normal people. Ryan assured me he’d be here for moral support. He can simply wait for me in the bookcases and send me his rays of support via his expressive eyes. Just knowing he’s here is enough. That’s all I need.

Chris, of course, will show when he shows and it hardly matters. He believes I wrote this book in the six months he was gone, not that he’ll ever read it.

He texted me earlier:

Good luck, babe! You’re going to kill it. I want a signed copy.

We’re not anywhere near “babe” status again, but I ignore this. A few days ago, he sent me flowers. I can’t begin to describe the confusion on the face of the 1-800-Flowers delivery guy when Abuelita pointed him in the direction of the shed. The gesture was nice, but roses are not my favorites, something Chris should know by now. Yellow daffodils are my flowers because they’re so bright and hopeful. Kind of like me when I arrive and there’s no line of readers waiting to see Elizabeth Brogan.

“Hi,” I say to the bookseller, a woman about my age. “How are you?”

“Oh, hello,” she says, giving me her full attention. “May I help you find something?”

For one terrifying moment, I think I’m in the wrong place on the wrong day. Worse, I’m not early, I’m late. It’s already happened without me.

“I’m here for the book signing?” Damn, I wish I wouldn’t have made that into a question.

Her eyes widen and she glances at her watch. “Well, you’re a little early. It doesn’t start for another three hours.”

“I wanted to get here early because I’m so nervous.”

She hesitates for a moment, when her entire demeanor switches into “hostess” mode, and she presses her hand to her chest.

“Oh, you’re the author? Forgive me, for a moment I didn’t recognize you.”

I smile a little sheepishly. “It’s the airbrushing.”

Honestly, in my official author photo I look a little like Taylor Swift. I mean, that’s how good their art department is. Still, today I’m wearing the same dress and signature red lipstick so I’ll at least look a little like I do in the photo.

“I was just going to arrange the seating,” she says, walking to an open area near the front window.

“Let me help you.”

I need to do something to slay these nerves. But my nerves are not at all beaten into submission when I notice the big display in the window. Certainly they’re on the alert and ready to have a party with their friends. It’s much like the first one Ryan and I saw at my neighborhood bookstore, but on steroids. There’s a huge photo of me, one of the ones taken by the photographer before the morning show. It’s incredibly intimidating that I don’t even look like myself, or my pseudonym alter-ego.

Far more intimidating is the enormous stack of hardcover books they have available for sale. What if I only sell half of those? What happens to the rest of them? Are they shamefully returned to the publisher? If I sign them all so the bookstore can’t return them, will I be sued?