Page 61 of The Lonely Hearts Book Club

A few days later, I sat in front of my computer, a whopping five more pages on the screen than there’d been a few hours ago. I hadn’t been on a roll like this in a long time, the words pouring out of my fingers like a coffeepot percolating its heady brew.

“Never mind. ‘Percolate.’ That’s perfect.” I finished typing the sentence I was on and sat back, satisfied with my day’s work. I’d just left my hero in the middle of a forest to battle a craggy dragon with an even craggier dragon grandfather, so things were starting to get good. “I guess my childhood thesaurus came in handy after all these years. Don’t tell my mom. She’ll never let me forget it.”

When I didn’t get an answer, I twisted away from my desk. In theory, my writing desk was just a plank of wood nailed into one corner of the living room; but when Lincoln nailed a plank of wood, it wasn’t some random affair made with a hammer and a two-by-four. My particular slab was live-edge hickory braced with ornate hand-carved brackets and a built-in cup holder so I wouldn’t spill my coffee.

Instead of looking proud of my success, Lincoln stood in the doorway with his arms crossed.

“Uh-oh,” I joked. “Don’t tell me. You lost our fortune on the Exchange. My mom decided to sell her apartment and move in with us. There’s a lumberjack emergency, and only you can answer the call.”

None of my guesses caused the muscles on Lincoln’s face to move—not even to smile.

“You’ve been writing all day,” he said in a tone as flat as his expression.

“Yes, and you wouldn’t believe the progress I’ve made,” I said. “Do you want to read my pages? I haven’t proofed them or anything, but—”

“It’s going well? Your book?”

“Yes. Isn’t that weird?” My side was growing tight from twisting at an unnatural angle, so I pointed the chair outward and settled with one ankle propped on the opposite knee. It wasn’t the most comfortable position, but Sloane once told me it makes me look like James Dean, so I adopted it whenever possible. And sometimes when it wasn’t. “Poor Thaddeus was stuck in that stupid forest forever, but then he met a ferocious dragon who’s part of a forest book club, and I haven’t looked back.”

“I’ll bet he did.”

There was no ignoring the bitterness in his tone, but I did it anyway. I had to if I was going to make it out of this conversation alive. It was the coward’s way out, obviously, but cowardice was one of the few constants in my life. No matter how hard things got or emotionally overwrought they promised to become, I could always find a way to hide.

“By the way, I picked up a shift at the library tomorrow, so I’ll have to meet you at the restaurant for our anniversary dinner,” I said. My voice sounded falsely casual even to my own ears, but at least I was fitting all the words together properly. “I wish I could stay home and ride this literary wave for a while, but between the book club and work, I barely have time for anything. Octavia hasn’t been able to replace Sloane yet, so the whole place is starting to fall apart. I don’t think any of us realized just how much of the grunt work she used to do. Or how many bodily fluids she cleaned up.”

“Mateo—” Lincoln began, but he cut himself off with a sigh. “I thought you hated the book you’re reading for that fake book club.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to say that the book club itself wasn’t fake so much as my reason for being there, but I got the feeling that wasn’t Lincoln’s point.

“I do. It’s all about a group of Chinese mothers who imprint themselves so deeply on their children’s lives that there’s no way to tell where one of them ends and the other begins. You understand my concerns.”

“But you love your mom.”

I hesitated. “Ye-es.”

That hesitation was my undoing. Even though it was true—Ididlove my mom, and shehadimprinted herself on my life in ways I’d never be able to undo—the battle that was waging itself inside Lincoln’s heart had nothing to do with her and everything to do with me. He opened his mouth, shut it again, muttered something incoherent, and eventually turned on his heel.

“I take this to mean you don’t want to read my pages?” I called to his retreating back.

His only answer was to turn around and level me with a long, thoughtful stare. There were a thousand different ways to interpret that stare, but I only needed one. He was trying with every fiber of his being not to push me any further than I could go.

And he was failing. We were both failing.

“Suit yourself,” I said. “You’ll have to hack into my computer if you change your mind. My password is Lincoln&Mateo4Ever, in case you need a helping hand.”

20

The next evening, I arrived at Bardenay, a rustic-chic restaurant overlooking the water, to find that my anniversary dinner with Lincoln had expanded by two.

And not justanytwo. Whether by design or the machinations of fate, Sloane and Brett sat opposite my better half at our favorite corner booth. Under normal circumstances, the idea of spending a whole meal listening to Brett Marcowitz wax poetic about the benefits of the Gonstead technique was one that would put me off eating forever, but these circumstances weren’t normal.

For one thing, Lincoln and I hadn’t yet admitted that the unnamed specter had officially reached our door. For another, I was dying to talk to Sloane about the donation to the library. Apparently, the check had cleared that morning. We were practically Rockefellers.

“Sloane, what do you know about a man named Nigel Carthage?” I asked by way of greeting. I paused long enough to drop a kiss on Lincoln’s cheek. The woodsy scent of him sent a pang through me—of regret, maybe, or longing. Or possibly just pain. “Offhand, do you recognize the name?”

Sloane found nothing odd in my question. Brett was obviously affronted at being so casually dismissed, but I didn’t care. Some things were more important than Brett’s feelings.

Okay, literally everything was more important than Brett’s feelings. But I could hardly say that to the man’s face.