Page 3 of A Bookish Story

“More than I’d like.” He shakes his head, like angsty Mr. Darcy, regretting his life choices. He has floppy and wavy hair, a little longer in the front, and a lock of it falls over one side before he brushes it away.

“When do you start writing your book?”

“Soon,” he says. “My method is research first, then write the book. It takes me about nine months altogether, and yes, I realize that’s how long it takes to grow a baby.”

I smother a laugh in my effort to remain serious while privately thinking of more Jane Austen references.

“What do you write? The post said literary fiction.”

“World War II spy novels,” he says, not meeting my eyes. “I heard you say you love history. What’s your favorite period?”

I don’t know if this is a trick question but there’s really no other way I can answer honestly. “Regency.”

“Of course,” he says, and I’m not going to take this personally even if he sounds disappointed.

In his spare time, I imagine he makes fun of genre fiction as do most highbrow types. Well, to each his own.

There’s a knock on the door and the professor’s brow furrows.

“Should I…should I get it?” I ask.

“No,” he says.

Head down, he marches toward the door and a few seconds later I hear him say, “The position is filled.”

I look out the window and see a guy, probably a university student, getting back on his bicycle.

My day is made!

When he joins me again, my hands are clasped together. “Really? I got the job?”

“Well, as Henry said, I’d be an idiot not to hire you.” He shrugs. “And you got here first.”

“High praise indeed,” I say, holding out my hand. “I accept!”

That afternoon, I return to my shed with a second job.

My she-shed might not be much of a living space but for now it’s all I have. There’s barely enough room for my twin bed, a mini fridge, a hot plate, one big chair, which doubles as a love seat, and a bookshelf. When I had to give up the condo I shared with my ex, I moved most of my things into storage, another monthly bill.

Here I have electrical outlets, but I can’t use the blender and the light at the same time. Ask me how I know. There’s only one small mirror, which is more than enough to check to see if my blonde curly hair has decided to behave today. I shower in the main house, use the bathroom facilities, and eat dinner with the family every night.

Not going to lie. Living in my abuelita’s backyard took some getting used to. This used to be a garden and tool shed, but it’s always had windows. Two of them, now decorated with yellow and white frilly curtains that cheer me up. My Tio Eddie emptied the tools, lawn mower, and potting soil, painted and cleaned, and suggested I live there until I got back on my feet after Chris abandoned me. He left me six months ago, get this, to join the Peace Corps. No explanation but the desire to “give back.” Barely enough notice to let our guests know the wedding would be canceled. Jerk.

Later that day, I check in with Abuelita. Eddie is at work in San Francisco at his dentistry office, so it’s just the two of us. I sort through the mail that comes to the main house because asking them to deliver it to a shed would be too confusing. Packages are another story but you should have seen the look on the UPS guy when he delivered a box of books to the shed.

It was nice of Eddie to convert the garden shed to a living space for me, but I have to confess that moving here feels like the physical representation of how badly my life is progressing so far. Not how I expected.

By now, I thought I’d be published, but so far, no one wants my romance novel so I continue to pay the bills by ghostwriting vampire romance for the estate of the late Desdemona Hill.

Abuelita pats the couch after she says hello. “Come sit and watch the telenovela with me.”

I’m not a fan and she usually watches these with Eddie, but I plop down on the couch beside her. “Good news. I got a second job.”

“Bueno,” she says, eyes riveted to the screen.

She’s lying. If left to her own devices, my grandmother would keep me here with her forever. She wanted me to take the only spare bedroom available since Eddie moved in to take care of her. But I don’t want to get too comfortable and complacent here.

She points to the screen. “Ay bendito, probecita. She lost her memory.”