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What’s this now? Sports romance?
I sit up straighter in my chair. “That’s a thing?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of sports are you reading about?”
She ignores me for a couple beats, choosing that moment to bite into her taco—on purpose, probably!—chewing thoughtfully and not answering the question. Swallows. Takes another bite.
I swear to god she’s doing that to torture me.
“Baseball.”
“Like, baseball baseball? College or what?”
“No, professional baseball.”
“You’re reading a romance about baseball players?”
“I mean—the guy is a baseball player. The girl works as the nanny.”
The nanny? What the hell kind of book is this? “He hooks up with the nanny?! Is he married? Where’s the wife?”
Hollis laughs, covering her mouth with the palm of her hand. “No, he’s a widower—that’s why he needs the nanny.”
“Oh.” I think this concept through. “So his wife died, and now he’s banging the nanny. That seems fucked up and shady.”
She laughs. “It’s not like he just put the moves on her and took advantage. They fell in love—or are going to fall in love. He needed someone to watch his six kids.”
“Six kids! What the fuck?”
“It’s two sets of triplets.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Well the first set was IVF and they didn’t think they’d get pregnant again, but she did, and it was another set of triplets, and then she died in a car accident on their first birthday.”
That just sounds absurd. “And you’re into this shit?”
“Very.”
“Um…whatever floats your boat.” I can’t talk about this anymore without my brain exploding from sheer boredom and bewilderment. “In my opinion, that’s way too many plot devices and completely unnecessary.”
“Genre. Trope. Plot devices. Who are you?”
I smirk, knowing I’ve just wet her panties a little with my knowledge of literary terms. “I love reading—what can I say? Just a big old book nerd. Hashtag book lover.” I stuff more food in my mouth, chewing slowly, so as to drive her wild with suspense.
She doesn’t look desperate for me to say more, but she is smiling.
“I got banned from a library last year.” My declaration is matter-of-fact—and true—and between mouthfuls.
This gets her interested, and she seems to perk up. “I’m listening.”
I set my napkin on the table, push my chair back a few inches, ready to dig deep into the dramatic story. Cross my arms and consider my first few words. The hook, if you will.
“It was a dark and stormy night…”
Hollis laughs and rolls her eyes.
“Kidding. It was cold and snowy. Off-season. And I like to hit the library near my house—they have an amazing audiobook selection.” Her eyes do that glistening thing. “I love listening to them on my way to the stadium, or while I’m pounding nails at one of the properties.” I flex and kiss my bicep—kind of douchey, but she doesn’t seem to care. “Anyway, I see this woman at one of the tables who looks familiar, and I’m convinced she’s the author of one of my favorite series. She had her laptop out and was pounding away at the keys. I swore I’d met her before because I’ve gone to a book signing or two.” Pause for effect. “Signed books are my kryptonite.”
Hollis is hanging on my every word, and if she were wearing a bib, she’d be drooling.
Or so I tell myself.
“I don’t want to bother her, right? She’s busy, and I can only imagine being interrupted while I’m perfecting greatness would piss me the fuck off. So I go to the circulation desk, grab a piece of paper, and write, I like your books. Then I slip it to her as I walk by, which, in hindsight, was creepy as fuck and a terrible error in judgment.”
“Why?”
“Because I have abysmal penmanship.” I grab a paper napkin and ask Hollis if she has a pen—she does—then write I like your books. Hand it to her.
“I like your boobs?”
“It says books.”
“It says boobs.”
“See? Do you see now where this all went wrong? Do you see now where this story is headed?”
“Don’t say another word or I’m going to choke on this taco.” Her skin is bright red and she’s about to burst out laughing; I can see her holding it in. She is about to freakin’ explode.
Obviously I say more words. “So she thinks I’m telling her I like her tits—er, boobs—which were probably sagging down to the ground, mind you.” I shiver at the memory. “Instead of confronting me about it, the lady goes and tells the librarian there is a pervy sexual harasser on the premises. She goes and tells the security guard, and he yanks my audiobook selections out of my viselike grip and escorts me out. God, I was so humiliated—Betty from non-fiction and I made eye contact, and I’ve never felt so ashamed.”
“Stop it.” Tears are welling up in her eyes.
“No. She told her friend Ethel, who is a member of the Bellmont Readers, who told my mother.”
