Page 57 of A Bookish Story

“But romance books are still bestsellers,” I say. “I admit I’m biased.”

“When did you fall in love with romance books?”

“I suppose that’s my longest relationship, so, thanks for asking.” I step up my stride to meet his. “We’ve been together close to two decades. I was probably twelve when I snuck the first paperback from my Tia Carmelita’s stash. And, you’ll be proud to know, it was a historical.”

“I’m impressed.”

I nod. “Whitney, My Love by Judith McNaught. It’s a classic. I graduated to my monthly Harlequins, Nora Roberts, and the amazing Susan Elizabeth Phillips. Really, anything I could get my hands on because at twelve, I was not supposed to be reading ‘those books.’”

“Nothing quite like banning a book for making it soar.”

“But I came by love of romance honestly. My mother and father were the best examples of true love. Whenever I give my mother the benefit of the doubt, I try to understand how difficult it must have been to lose the love of her life.”

“Tell me about your father.”

“Well, he was Hispanic, and everything you might imagine that sometimes goes along with all that. A little bit of a macho man, kind of old-school. He was left-handed and played on a left-handed acoustic guitar. And he also told me stories, very long ones in which I was a princess saving the world with a toad named Joe.”

Ryan chuckled. “Sounds like you inherited something from him even if not his looks.”

“He was a born storyteller.”

“Do you also think it’s overwhelming? Intimidating to know your parents had the perfect relationship?” he says. “That they were the center of each other’s world?”

Until he mentioned it, I wasn’t aware that could ever be the case.

“Not really. In my books, I try to give them the happy ending they should have had.” I pause, then ask, “Were you serious about me writing the sequel?”

“Were you serious about helping me put a little romance into my spy novel?” He quirks a brow.

“I hardly think I need to tell you how to do that, but yes. If you want me to, of course I will.”

“We’ll start Monday. You’ll read what I’ve written so far. And we’ll go from there.”

“Yay!” I do a little hop skip in the middle of the street to make Ryan give me the smile he rarely bestows. And yes, I get it.

When I get home, my mother and Eddie are in the living room with Abuelita streaming a telenovela. I was raised on the drama of these, and yet I don’t understand the continued fascination. I’ve outgrown them. There’s plenty of melodramatics and characters who’ve been thirty for twenty-five years. Kids, meanwhile, who go from age ten to twenty in a year or two. At the moment, there’s an amnesia story going on, which has all three of them on the edge of their seats. What a cozy scene.

“Any mail for me today?” I ask.

“Shhh!” Abuelita says.

“Excuse me,” I mutter under by breath, finding the basket where they usually stack my mail.

“I knew it!” my mother exclaims.

“No, no,” Abuelita says. “That can’t be her husband. He’s lying, that’s what I think.”

“Mami, why would the man lie about that?” Eddie says.

“Mijo, because she’s beautiful and he wants her to be his wife!” Abuelita says, like d-uh.

“Exactly,” my mother says.

Eddie is silent, clearly outnumbered.

I’m looking through my boring mail filled with nothing but bills when Mami joins me by the kitchen. “Anything exciting?”

“Nope.”