Page 30 of The Lonely Hearts Book Club

“No one told me this book would be so sad.”

Our inaugural meeting of the Racing in the Rain Book Club—a name Arthur violently opposed and that Sloane and I were only allowed to use in secret—took place two short days later. I hadn’t been able to get too far in my reading yet, what with balancing my work shifts and the frenzy of cooking I’d been doing to keep those two fed, but the book was a lot more interesting than I’d expected it to be. I said as much as soon as we sat down in Arthur’s living room.

“I got to that part about bantering,” I explained when Arthur released a grunt. “The section you have highlighted in your copy of the book.”

“It’s not what you think,” he said, but with such a shifty movement of his eyes that I knew he was lying. “This is the copy I used back when I taught the book to my students. Several of the passages have been annotated for their literary importance.”

“You taughtTheRemains of the Day?” Sloane asked, her chin propped on her hand. Despite the progress she’d made with Arthur’s personal library, we were still surrounded by towers of books. At least the coffee table was cleared enough to enjoy the fruit and cheese plate I’d brought over. “What class?”

“Unreliable narration,” he said shortly. He cast a look toward me that I felt certain had a deeper meaning. “That’s when the person telling the story isn’t to be trusted. It’s up to you, the reader, to decide how much of what they say is the truth and how much is self-delusion.”

“That’s why it’s so sad,” I insisted. I might not have known the right terminology, but I was familiar with self-delusion. It was literally how I paid my bills; no one called the psychic hotline because they had a clear picture of what was going on in their lives. “The narrator—Stevens—isunreliable, but how could he know that? No one ever sat him down and told him what’s really going on.”

Arthur grunted. “Telling an unreliable narrator that he’s unreliable isn’t a thing.”

“I don’t see why not. People can’t learn from their mistakes if they don’t know what their mistakes are. If I were writing a book, that’s the first thing I’d do.”

“Oh my God.”

I recognized his outburst as a cue to stop talking, but I was on a roll. “All the poor guy wants is to make a friend. That’s why he’s trying to learn how to banter, even though it’s not something he likes. Or something he’s good at. He has to dosomethingto connect with people.”

Sloane swiveled her head to look at me, her expression not unlike that of an inquisitive bird. “You’re enjoying this book, aren’t you?”

“It’s not the sort of thing I’d pick up in line at the grocery store, but I can see why it won all those awards,” I admitted with an uncomfortable shrug. “Connecting with people is kind of my job.”

“You have a job?” Arthur demanded.

“Of course she has a job.” Sloane was quick to leap to my defense. “How else would she make a living? Do you think she’s getting by on a secret trust fund or something?”

“Stranger things have happened.”

I couldn’t help laughing. “If I had a trust fund, I’d be living somewhere a lot more glamorous than this. Bali, maybe. Or Venice. Boise, at the very least.” I scooted closer to Arthur and gestured for his hand. “Here. Give me your palm, and I’ll show you.”

He yanked his hands out of my reach so fast that I was pretty sure he pulled a muscle. “The devil I will. What do you want it for?”

“So I can see your future. Or as close to it as I can get on such a short acquaintance. It’s not that big of a deal. You might even enjoy it. People pay me a lot of money for this.”

“Howmuchmoney?” Arthur asked, one eye appraising me while the other narrowed in disbelief. “I’ve never met a real charlatan before.”

“Arthur! You can’t call Maisey that.”

“By definition, it’s what she is. You heard her. She tells people lies, and then charges them for the privilege. How is that anything else?”

“I don’tlie,” I protested. “I talk to someone long enough to figure out what they’re most worried about, and then I help them through it. It’s no different than therapy, except I don’t have a degree.”

“Or qualifications?” Arthur suggested.

My cheeks started to flame, but Sloane swiveled her head to look at me. “You mean you just tell people things they already know?” she asked. “Like a fortune cookie?”

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. “Well, it’s notexactlylike a fortune cookie. What I do is more personalized than that.”

“So…it’s like a BuzzFeed quiz?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Then you can read my palm.” Sloane turned to me with her palm outstretched. “I took a quiz this morning that told me my dream career is travel agent. And that the Disney character I’m most like is the pig fromMoana. Those can’t possibly be true.”

“Sloane, you aren’t really going to let her read your future,” Arthur said in a tone that was less like a question than a plea. “You’re a woman of education. Ofwisdom.”