Page 8 of Comfort Read

“Sage,” Kit interrupts him, despite a very real conviction that Sage is too famous to address by his first name, and Kit should be calling him Mr. Ballard. “What exactly are you trying to say?”

Sage takes a deep breath. “I thought… Well. We both have a problem. I need a fake boyfriend: someone who will make me look low-key and stable, help rehabilitate my image, and go along with the lie that we’ve been together for months. You need to fix up this building. I thought maybe we could help each other out.”

Kit gasps despite his suspicions that this was coming; a minute or two of half expecting it doesn’t lessen the shock. “Oh my God, you have come to make me an offer I can’t refuse.”

“First of all,” Sage says, “of course you can refuse. You probably should refuse; I do recognize that it’s an insane ask. But secondly, surely it’s more of an indecent proposition than anything?”

“It’s Strangers on a Train, is what it is.” Kit mutters this under his breath and mostly to himself, for comfort in a moment of stress. In general, he’s found Highsmith references tend to escape most people he talks to unless they’re pulled from the pages of The Talented Mr. Ripley, and that, Kit knows, is largely the work of Matt Damon and Jude Law.

But Sage, without missing a beat, smirks and says, “Nah, we’re not murdering anyone. Faustian bargain, maybe, but that would make me the devil, which I don’t love.”

Kit, dreamily, thinks, Uh-oh. Maybe I’m in trouble.

Out loud, he says, “You’re serious? Why… why would you do that? Pay for the bookshop to get fixed? Couldn’t you just—ask someone out? You’re very literally the most famous person I’ve ever met. I’m sure you don’t need to get dates via, like, covering construction costs.”

Sage shrugs, looking away. “I could, but. It wouldn’t be fair, would it? A fan, or someone like that—they’d be thrilled to do it, would agree to any terms. It would be taking advantage. Experience has taught me that I rarely live up to the fantasy of me in people’s heads, and someone would get hurt. And paying someone outright…” He shakes his head, looking dejected, even as Kit realizes this is the back half of the conversation he overheard between Sage and Frankie the other day. “That sort of thing always leaks in the end. What I need is a situation like this: one where everyone has a stake, and nobody’s under any illusions about what’s going on.”

Kit has to bite down a burst of hysterical laughter at the idea that he, Christopher Anderson Forrest, could be selected for anything based on ability to avoid falling under illusions. Everyone in Kit’s life has expressed worry about his tendency to get carried away, especially since it all went down with Emerson.

“You didn’t ask around about me while you were looking into the building, did you?” Kit asks abruptly, cold fear washing over him.

“No,” Sage says slowly, his eyebrows climbing. “Should I have?”

“Definitely not,” Kit says, with a bright cheerfulness he doesn’t feel. He wishes badly he hadn’t asked the question. “Nothing to find! Certainly no devastatingly embarrassing personal stories, nope, not me!” More in the interest of moving the conversation away from that unfortunate topic than because he’s thought it through, he sticks out his hand and says, “I’ll do it, though. Deal.”

Instead of shaking, Sage gives him a stricken look. “What? But I haven’t even—there’s all kinds of privacy stuff I have to explain to you! I thought you’d want some time to think about it!”

“What’s there to think about?” A voice at the back of Kit’s mind shouts, Lots, you fool, what are you doing?! He ignores it. “I love this bookstore and I’d do anything not to lose it. The bank won’t loan me the money, my family and friends don’t have it, and I don’t want to go back to teaching the second grade in debt with no savings, okay? Not that the kids weren’t amazing, they were, but the pay is not great.” He takes a breath, his resolution growing firmer as he finishes. “This is my best option, and I’d be a fool not to take it, so: Thank you. Yes.”

Sage’s resolve seems to have crumbled as Kit’s solidified. He looks down at Kit’s outstretched palm, but still doesn’t shake. “Look,” he says slowly, “how about this? I don’t want to trap you into agreeing to something you’ll regret later. Will you come meet me and Frankie for coffee? Monday morning, if you’re free? She’s better than me with this sort of thing, and she’ll lay out all the particulars. If you’re still in, great. If not…” Sage sighs, and shrugs, his gaze seeming to go distant. “No hard feelings. I’ll understand.”

“I mean, sure,” Kit says, “coffee sounds great, but I doubt it’ll change anything. My only other move is more or less to hope I win the lottery.”

Sage winces, but doesn’t reply. Instead he says he should probably go, and suggests they exchange numbers so they can set up the meeting time and place. Kit’s not sure if it’s more surreal giving Sage Ballard his phone number or typing Sage’s number into his own phone, but both experiences feel like something that could not possibly be happening to him.

Granted, as they finish Throgmorten comes yowling into the room and basically throws himself at Sage, greeting the man with far more affection than he ever has Kit. That, at least, strikes Kit as within his standard experiential wheelhouse.

“I can’t believe I’m going to have to start finding you hats to ritualistically slaughter,” Kit tells Throgmorten sadly as Sage obligingly bends down and strokes him a few times. To Sage, he says, “Oh! I almost forgot—if you don’t mind waiting a second⁠—”

He tears off before Sage can reply, moving with the speed and practiced ease of someone who knows exactly where every last volume in the shop is meant to live. In less than a minute, he’s back, breathing slightly heavily, with two books. “You said you’re trying to get into classics and nonfiction. So, one of each. The Devil in the White City is nonfiction that reads like fiction, really gripping, and since you like the Lanterns books, I thought The Count of Monte Cristo might be good? Marianne Vale cites it⁠—”

“As a major influence, yeah, I know,” Sage interrupts, turning the books over in his hands. He looks up and smiles at Kit, the expression warmer and more genuine than any Kit’s seen since meeting him. “Thanks. How much do I owe you?”

“Oh, it’s on the house.” Kit waves a hand, trying to seem casual. “They’re to prove I know you can read.”

Sage’s expression twists into one of slightly weary amusement. “Very generous, but I’m still going to give you a second to think about that offer, because you’re a struggling bookstore owner, and I’m…” He makes a face and a self-effacing little gesture at himself, one that manages to suggest, “I’m paid millions of dollars per movie, but I don’t want to be a dick about it.” “I will take them happily, but I’d rather pay, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Right,” Kit says, swayed partially by the line of argument but mostly by how endearing he finds Sage for making it. “Just kidding. Full price, please.”

Kit takes Sage over to the register, trailed by Throgmorten. He rings Sage out, and nods an awkward thank-you when Sage shoves all the change into the tip jar. He does his best to behave like a normal person as Sage promises to be in touch and leaves, waving a stiff goodbye at the door before he’s gone.

Only once Kit is very sure that his car has pulled out of the parking lot does he slide down to the floor and let his head thunk against the counter.

“What the hell,” he asks Throgmorten, “just happened?”

Throgmorten takes a long moment to consider this. Finally he offers a querulous, “Mmrow?” This seems to be his final word on the subject, however; after delivering it, he promptly rolls onto his side and falls asleep.

“Right,” Kit says, staring blankly out into the shelves. “Guess I’ll have to work it out myself.”