“
Well, for starters, you don
’
t write under your own name.”
I leaned my head against the window. “
And you didn
’
t tell me who you were at first.”
“
That
’
s because I
’
m not anybody.”
I pulled my head up
and looked over at him. “
Sure you are. You
’
re a famous millionaire writer.”
He raised an eyebrow at me. “
Who told you that?”
“
Everybody knows it.”
He laughed. “
Writers don
’
t make as much money as you
’
d think.”
“
But the movies...”
“
I
’
m a comfortable, modera
tely well-known writer, that
’
s all. And weren
’
t we talking about you?”
“
We
’
re always talking about me. I want to talk about you.”
I could see the muscles working in his jaw as he made the turn onto Main. He pulled up in front of the Page. I made no move to
get out of the car. He shut off the engine and we sat in the pool of light coming from the streetlamp.
“
I
’
m not sure what you
’
d like to know,”
he said finally.
“
I want to know why you don
’
t like the attention you get for being a famous millionaire
—”
He he
ld up one hand. I nodded concession.
“
A comfortable, moderately well-known writer.”
He sighed, staring out at the empty street in front of him. “
I guess I
’
ve always felt somewhat...apologetic for what I write.”
“
Why?”
I asked, but I knew damn well why.
He
’
d told me his father had been a lit professor, and I knew what the typical lit prof felt about genre fiction.
It had been my own reaction, at first.
I put my hand on his shoulder.
“
If it helps at all,”
I said, “
I
’
m as snobby as anyone, and I think your boo
ks are great.”
He smiled at me. “
Well, we
’
re friends. You like me, so you like my writing.”
I shook my head. “
It
’
s not that
—”
He shrugged, and my hand fell off his shoulder, trailing down to his elbow. He smiled and squeezed my hand.
“
You
’
re very kind.”
“
I
think your father would have been proud of you,”
I said, surprised when I heard the thought come out in real words. Having been without a father my entire life, I knew how powerful a comment like that could be when a parent wasn
’
t around to say it themse
l
ves. And typically, how unwelcome.
“
I
’
m sorry,”
I said. “
I
’
m tired and I don
’
t know what I
’
m saying. I
’
m going to go.”
I opened the car door and had one foot out the door when Ian spoke again.
“
Thank you, Portia.”
I turned back to see him watching me, his
eyes intense with...something. Something private. Something his own. I scooted back into the car, leaned over, and pressed my lips lightly to his for a second, using all my will to pull back before it went any further.
“
You
’
re welcome.”
We stared at each o
ther for a moment. His chin moved toward me, and then he pulled back. Just a touch, just enough for me to see that we were both sharing the same conflict. I put my finger to his lips.
“
It
’
s okay. You were right, about us. About it not making sense. Bad tim
ing, yadda yadda yadda. But I can
’
t have a comfortable, moderately well-known writer in town for a whole summer and not kiss him at least once, right? I
’
m a Miz Fallon. I have a reputation to protect.”
I pulled my eyes away and got out, deliberately not lo
oking at him as I crossed in front of the car and headed toward my apartment. If I
’
d looked at him, I would have gone home with him. And I was pretty sure he would have taken me.
And then he would leave, and there
’
s only so much Penis Teflon a girl can sta
nd in one lifetime.
“
Hey, Rhonda, it
’
s Portia.”
I leaned over the back office desk, my hand playing with the pen jar in the little pool of light from the green library lamp. I glanced out the open office door. It was a quarter after eight, and the Mizzes d
idn
’
t typically stop by after closing at seven, but I was still a little nervous. I
’
d had the little yellow piece of paper with Jack
’
s name on it for a week, and had snuck down every night to call. Every night I went to bed without doing it.
The night befo
re, I
’
d picked up the phone and listened to the dial tone before hanging up.
Tonight I called Rhonda, the English department secretary who
’
d sublet my apartment in Syracuse. Hey, progress is still progress, right?
“
Portia!”
Rhonda said. “
How are you?”
“
Gre
at,”
I lied. Well, it wasn
’
t entirely a lie. If you discounted romance, family, and career, things were just peachy. “
How about you?”
“
Okay,”
she said. “
I haven
’
t found a new apartment yet, but the judge ordered the Rotten Bastard to pay me eight hundred a
month to cover it, so that
’
s good.”
Rhonda
’
s husband, before the divorce, had been named John. “
I heard you tried to call me,”
I said.
“
Oh, yes, you have a message.”
I heard some papers ruffling in the background. “
Where is it...Where is it...? I have to
apologize, Portia, things here are a bit of a mess. I promise
I'll
get it cleaned up before you get home, though. Oh, here it is. Jack called.”
I sat up straight.
‘
Jack? Jack who?”
Rhonda hummed for a moment as she thought. “
I want to say Triplesec, but I
don
’
t think that
’
s it.”
I swallowed. “
Tripplehorn?”
“
Yes!”
I could hear the slap of Rhonda
’
s hand against my kitchen counter. “
Thank you. That was driving me crazy. Anyway, I didn
’
t tell him where you were. You know, in case he was a stalker or something.”
I heard her take a bite of something crunchy. I envisioned carrots. “
He left a number. Do you want it?”
“
No,”
I said. “
Thanks. I have it. Were there any other messages for me?”
Rhonda hummed again. “
Nothing I can think of.”
“
Okay. Great. Thanks, Rhonda.”
I hung up and walked over to the office door, staring out into the Page. The sun was setting, glazing everything in an orange glow. I stepped out into the shop and walked between the shelves, holding my fingers out to graze both sides at once, the way I h
a
d when I was a little girl. It was easier to do now.
It was a hell of a coincidence, chickening out of calling my father only to get a message from him. It was a convergence, as Vera would say.
It was a sign.
And I was a coward.
“
Are you busy?”
I held up a
bottle of wine as Ian opened the front door. “
I need to drink and Beauji
’
s nursing, so ..
I gave him my most winning smile. He laughed and stepped aside, letting me in. I headed into the kitchen and began opening drawers, looking for a corkscrew.
“
How
’
s t
he book coming?”
Ian leaned against the kitchen doorway, watching me with a small smile. “
Excellent, actually. Almost done.”
I focused my attention on rummaging through a d
rawer. “
And when you
’
re done…”
I trailed off. He looked away.
“
I go back to England.
”
“
Yeah,”
I said, trying to reason away the icy panic that shot through me at the thought. I mean, it
’
s not like I didn
’
t know he
’
d be going back. So there was no reason why my hands should suddenly be shaking.
No reason at all.
“
Well.”
I shut the drawer w
ith my hip. “
That makes sense.”
We looked at each other for a moment. I felt a desperate thirst for wine. I opened another drawer, blinking furiously as I rifled through it. No corkscrew. I forced a laugh as the panic rose. “
Please tell me I
’
m not going to
have to open this wine with my teeth.”
Ian stepped forward, moved me out of the way, and slid open a drawer to my left. He pulled out a corkscrew and straightened up, looking down at me as he slowly shut the drawer with his knee. A smile played on one sid
e of his mouth. I could feel a sheen of sweat forming on the back of my neck as my heart rate kicked up.
“
Hey, hey,”
Ian said softly, his eyebrows knitting in concern as tears fell down my cheeks. He dropped the corkscrew onto the counter and put his hands
on my shoulders. I lowered my head. Ian tucked a finger up under my chin and pulled my face up to look at him, his eyes searching mine.
“
You must think I
’
m the weepiest person on the planet,”
I said, swiping at my face.
“
Oh, not at all.”
His smile quirked
up at one side. “
I
’
m certain in a world of over six billion people that there are likely hundreds out there weepier than you. Possibly thousands, even.”
My small laugh turned into a series of staccato sobs. Ian ran his hand over my hair and settled it on
the back of my neck, his thumb rubbing into my shoulder, calming me.
“
My father called me,”
I gurgled finally. “
I got the message today. I haven
’
t talked to him yet, but...”
“
But you will, and it
’
ll be fine.”
I looked up at him. “
It will?”
He smiled. “
I pr
omise.”
More tears rained down. Ian lowered his head to look into my eyes. “
I take it there
’
s more?”
“
Yes,”
I said, the tears coming with ferocity now. “
Bev hates me.”
“
I
’
m sure that
’
s not true,”
he said.
“
It
’
s true,”
I sniffled. “
I asked her about the Penis Teflon and she yelled at me and stormed out. She hasn
’
t spoken to me in a week.”
Ian put his hands on either side of my face, using his thumbs to wipe my cheeks. “
She loves you. She
’
ll recover.”