Page 50 of A Bookish Story

There’s something different about Ryan. He’s not clean-shaven this morning, a small amount of dark stubble covering his jaw and chin. But it isn’t until I notice the amber liquid in a nearly empty tumbler, and glassy eyes behind his frames that I realize he’s tipsy. In the middle of the day. On a Sunday.

“I thought maybe you’d call me when you heard the official news,” I say, still holding the balloons and sitting down with them. They float above me like I’m their only tether. “I guess it happened last week?”

“Would you like a drink to celebrate?” He walks to the kitchen counter where he holds up an opened bottle of Scotch. “This is supposed to be the good stuff. Kate sent it via carrier.”

I can’t believe I brought a dude balloons and a plant. I should have brought liquor, of course.

“No, thank you. I’m…”

“Not a Scotch person?”

“No.”

“You don’t drink?” He squints his eyes as if I’ve just told him I like to skip uphill.

“I don’t drink before five o’clock.”

I hold the balloons securely because this side of Ryan seems unnatural. I half expect to find he’s been body snatched and that his body pod is lying around here in the back room somewhere.

“Me either but I’m breaking with tradition.” He holds up his tumbler. “This is a monumental day.”

“My mother gave me the news but I don’t think she realizes what a big deal this is. She thinks I just made the Times list and didn’t even suggest we celebrate.”

“You should go celebrate with her.” He points to me with his free hand. “This is your achievement too.”

“No, it’s not.” I shake my head.

This time draws no comparison to when I actually wrote a book for Desdemona that made a list. The publisher sent me a basket of flowers with a card that said, “thank you,” the only acknowledgment I received or would ever receive. I celebrated my achievement quietly with my family. They thought I was celebrating getting a new contract.

When everyone in reader and writer circles was talking about the Desdemona book that made The New York Times for the first time in decades, I couldn’t say a word. Now, I feel like a double impostor. It’s worse, it turns out, to pretend you wrote the book when you didn’t. At least before, I secretly knew my book, my words, had made the list. Now I’m taking credit I don’t deserve.

Ryan takes a seat beside me, the balloons between us like a barrier. I only realize how many I have when he pushes several aside and gives me a long look.

“I sent a few chapters of my new book to Kate, the one you’ve been helping me research,” Ryan says.

“You started writing it?” He hasn’t shared that bit of news with me.

He nods. “I was inspired after our trip to Santa Cruz and stayed up all night. You were right. I needed to get out of the house for some inspiration.”

“That’s great,” I say. “What did she think of it?”

“Kate kindly told me she hates it.” He laughs and for the first time, I hear Ryan’s deep scrape of a chuckle. “Isn’t that funny?”

Okay, so this drinking isn’t only celebratory. He might be indulging in a little self-pity. I’m familiar with rejection, and even if Ryan doesn’t get many, surely it never gets any easier to hear your work leaves something to be desired.

“No, it’s not funny. Why did she say that?”

Ryan gives me a look like he can’t quite figure me out. “It lacks what the book has. Maybe I should write another book that reads like a poor sap’s diary. It’s pretty clear she’s going to compare all my other work to that book from now on.”

“Don’t say ‘that book.’ It’s good, Ryan, you know it’s true.”

I might hate the book because of the ending but even I can appreciate the stylistic writing. It’s witty and emotional and doesn’t pull any punches.

“Maybe. But I’ll never write anything that great again, which was a fluke in the first place. What does that say about me?”

Tired of shoving balloons out of my line of sight, I get up and set them on the table like a centerpiece.

When I return, Ryan is seated on the edge of his seat, studying me. I feel something uncomfortably like a tingle wash over me. He has the most intense eyes and in that one crazy moment I want to kiss him. Just to make him feel better. He should know that even though he’s had crushing heartbreak, followed by a staggering betrayal, he’s not damaged goods. He’s intensely attractive, young, and can still find love and be happy someday. Maybe this time it will be the love of his life.