Page 9 of Check You Out

“You like a bit of everything. Makes sense. Any favorite authors?”

“I don’t have one.”

Oh my god, give her something to work with. Think of an author you like! Just think of one author!

“Wait, no, Travis Baldree.” Feeling more comfortable, I add, “Legends and Lattes is my favorite book.”

Her head turns slowly. “I love Viv and Tandri so much. Although Amity is my favorite character. I’ve got a soft spot for cats in books.” She points to the book tucked under my arm. “How do you like Legendborn?”

“I’m only about a quarter of the way through, but I like it,” I say, the lump is getting smaller as my mind focuses on the book instead on how the gold in Charlotte’s hair gleams in the streetlights. I’ve always found it easier to talk about books and literature. “I like her writing style.”

Letting out a chuckle, she says, “It is such beautiful writing. Do you read anything outside of fantasy?”

I nod. “Uh yeah.” I hover at the curb while looking both ways.

“Like what?”

We cross the street. I’m running out of time. Soon she’ll go into her bookstore, up the stairs, and I’ll have lost my chance. Until tomorrow. But by tomorrow, she may have already written me off as an ugly bookish dork.

Standing in the glow of the bookstore light, I spot a book, and I blurt out the genre, “Romance.”

Her eyebrows lift in the dim light. “You read romance?”

“I do.” I’m not lying. I occasionally read romances. I may have binge read the Game Changer series in one week.

Her face widens into a grin, and she puts her hands on her hips. “I’m impressed. Most men don’t read romance, which is a shame, in my opinion, because they’re such an interesting study on human behavior and relationships. But I guess, since because it’s a,” she air quotes, “woman’s genre, it doesn’t get the respect it deserves.”

Courage builds in my core now that the subject has switched to literary themes. “Some of the greatest pieces of literature have been romance. Pride and Prejudice, Taming of the Shrew, and yet no one seems to question their validity as critics do with modern romances.”

She doesn’t interrupt me, so I continue, “Have you ever wondered if the classics of our time are actually going to be a Booker Prize winner like, Orbital, or will it be something beloved by the masses, like A Court of Thorns and Roses?”

“I haven’t really thought about it. What do you think?”

“I predict the literature experts will be studying Harry Potter and the rise of fan fiction in publishing, which is a shame because then people are going to study J.K. Rowling’s horrible transphobic opinions, and not authors who are not only better writers but also not…” My voice trails off as I watch her face, searching for any indication that I’m annoying her.

Her expression is soft, open. Not at all judgmental, harsh, or even bored like I expected her to be.

“Garbage human beings?” she finishes my thought with a quirked eyebrow. “I’d like to think that another author will come along and totally disrupt the publishing industry like Harry Potter did.” She lets out a breath. “Someone who isn’t an asshole. Ideally someone not white and cishet. But I’m putting way too much faith in the publishing machine.”

Wait, she’s agreeing with me?

Is this a sign that maybe she likes me? Or is she just being polite?

“We’re being watched,” Charlotte says in a low voice, and thus saving me from having to say anything else. She points to a pointy-eared silhouette perched on a platform in the window, its tail swishing back and forth. A yellow-eyed, gray tabby cat with thick fur glares at us from the bookshop window. Thelma, the bookstore cat. I’ve only ever seen her asleep. One time I stroked her because I was worried she was dead, and she meowed at me. Loudly. To be fair, she was sprawled in the window display of the bookstore not moving.

“She looks displeased,” I remark.

A hearty laugh comes from Charlotte. “That’s Thelma for you. She has resting-bitch-face.”

“What?”

“Resting-bitch-face. She looks pissed off all the time, but in reality, she’s the sweetest cat ever.”

“She’s beautiful.”

“Thanks.”

“Well, this is it.” Charlotte pulls out her keys and steps into the alcove of the door. “Tomorrow at one? Triple C?”