Page 4 of Catching Kyle (Football Heartthrobs #1)

Michael Cunningham

Due to limited space, I have to park far from Ruckers and nearly jog to get to the romance book club Amani recommended to me on time.

I’m carrying my designer edition of Pride and Prejudice, and the brooding clouds over head don’t bode well.

I need to hurry. I don’t want to ruin the book. I should have brought an umbrella.

I reach the edge of the bookstore right next to the window that looks into the cafe. The chairs and tables have been rearranged in a round robin style, and beyond the glare, I can see that nearly all of the chairs are filled.

And there’s not one man in the room.

The heat of embarrassment flushes my cheeks, and I move away from the window to hide. Is this a women only book club? I pull out the card and scan it quickly. It says everyone’s welcome. So why is there not even another gay man in the room? Would I even be welcome here? I feel like an intruder.

A cold drop lands on my nose, then another on my neck.

Then, almost instantaneously, it starts pouring.

I shove my book inside my shirt and, having no other choice, I bolt toward the entrance of the bookstore.

By the time the door rings shut, it feels as if someone pulled a prank by pouring a bucket of water on me.

Because the rain is falling lightly again, and there’s even some sun, as if the downpour never happened. I hate spring weather .

“Welcome!” The front bookseller says. She’s a tan, short-haired woman with an intricate chest tattoo and classy-looking septum ring. “Man, you got drenched.”

“Hi,” I say shyly. I nod my head, dripping water from my short beard onto the floor. A shiver shakes my body. “Yeah, unlucky me I guess.”

“Oh, no,” she says, walking from behind the counter. “I don’t want you to get sick. We actually have T-shirts if you want to buy one. I can certainly throw on a discount.”

A laugh sounds out from the group of women. A hearty, happy laugh.

“Thanks,” I say as I take the T-shirt from her. “Let me change and I’ll pay after.”

She nods, and a couple of women enter the bookstore and close their umbrellas, laughing to each other.

“Oh, hey Amber!” The bookseller says. “You’re just in time!”

They exchange more pleasantries, which gives me time to invisibly slip away.

I find the bathroom, set down the book, and take my soaking shirt off.

Luckily, my book didn’t get too wet. After I change into a T-shirt that says ‘I 3 Indie Bookstores’, I walk back out, and I can hear the discussion just beginning.

Maybe I could just leave now. They wouldn’t know I was intending to attend.

They would just think I was some random guy buying a book.

I pick a random book off the shelf—some gay romance I’ve been meaning to read—and slink over to the checkout. I set that and my copy of Pride and Prejudice on the counter.

“The shirt fits you well,” she says with a smile as she rings me up.

“Thanks,” I say, trying to hide my embarrassment as I pull out my wallet.

She takes hold of my books to scan.

“Oh, that one’s mine,” I say, gesturing to Pride and Prejudice.

“Oh, sorry,” she says, sliding the book back to me. “Wait, were you here for book club?”

My chest tightens. “I—uh.” I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to say. I didn’t want to interrupt what already looked like a close-knit group of women. Amani’s suggestion was nice, but I don’t think this book club is for me. I can find inspiration for my book elsewhere.

So I just shake my head.

A boisterous laughter sounds out again, making me wince.

“Okay, you can put your card in whenever it’s ready.”

I look down at the price, and all I see is the price for the gay romance book. “What about the shirt?” I ask.

She shrugs. “You were in need. It’s on us.”

I glance down at her nametag. ‘Kelley’, it reads. And she’s a manager, so she can make these sorts of decisions.

But I nevertheless shake my head again. “Let me pay. I always want to support indie stores.”

She smiles. “Well thank you, but that’s quite alright. And if you really want to support us, go sit in on our book club. We are also looking for new faces.”

I glance over again. One black woman is sharing some of her favorite Elizabeth quotes, and she’s beaming. Everyone is staring at her with rapt attention.

“Okay,” I say, finishing my payment. At first glance, this group seems pretty inclusive. “I guess I can stay. Thank you so much for the shirt.”

“Wonderful,” she says as she hands me the receipt.

“I’ll get you a chair.” She grabs a chair from behind the counter and gestures for me to follow her.

She leads me up to the group of women, and I want nothing more than to sink into the carpet and disappear.

But this is the way to support the store and pay back this woman for her generosity, so I am going to stay for this book club. No matter what.

She introduces me, and the other women make room for me to sit.

I sit down, trying to make myself as small as possible, and introduce myself with shallow breath, clutching my books to my stomach.

I don’t know what my deal is. I can have wild sex with pretty much any male stranger behind a camera.

But I can’t even sit in a chair and talk with other women about one of my favorite books? Something is definitely wrong with me.

“Alright,” somebody says on the far side of the circle.

I recognize her as another bookseller. “We’ve had enough miscellaneous discussion, so let’s jump right into our first discussion question.

Originally, Jane Austen titled this book First Impressions .

Was she right to change or title to Pride and Prejudice ? Or not?”

My stomach jumps, not from nervousness, but from excitement. I wrote a paper on this very subject for my historical English class in college. I raise my hand slightly, then lower it quickly. My point is probably obvious. I doubt I would contribute anything to this group of tight-knit romance fans.

The bookseller calls on the first person, an Asian woman with long hair, and the discussion goes from there.

People raise good points, and I’m surprised that there are some who argue for the original title.

But when no one brings up my desired point, I sheepishly raise my hand again, hoping but also not wanting to be called on.

“Michael, was it?”

I freeze as all eyes lock on me.

I look up at the bookseller. “Yes?”

“I saw you raised your hand. Did you want to share?”

I shift in my seat awkwardly, grimacing at the set already dripping down my sides. “Sure, uh. Yeah. Hi, I’m Michael—he/him. Uhh…” All eyes continue to stare, and I just decide to look at a random point in the wall and share what I want.

“This title is beyond it’s time. Jane Austen was one of the first writers to execute a two-layered plot in a compelling way.

We know that we have the overall plot to get the women married, but we also have Elizabeth and Darcy’s inner journeys: overcoming prejudice and pride, respectively.

By choosing this title, Jane Austen sets up a promise that we will understand both pride and prejudice and their roles in love by the end of the story, and not just see two people agree to a marriage.

And she does just that. I can’t think of a novel during that time that tells two stories like this in a better way. I thus cannot imagine another title.”

My ears ring by the time I’m finished, but as sound gradually returns, I hear many verbal assents and see heads nodding.

“Wonderful insight,” the bookseller says. And several hands shoot up after .

The next woman, one with hair the exact same shade as mine, piggy backs off of my comment.

I’m worried she’ll argue, but she respectfully qualifies my response by adding her own insight.

And suddenly, it feels like I’m back in college again, discussing books and having the hope that others will one day be discussing my books.

Gradually, I melt into my seat and let the discussion take my attention.

I feel confident enough to raise my hand again, but I’m slightly relieved when the topic moves elsewhere and my point becomes irrelevant.

I’m still decompressing from sharing my first insight.

Before I know it, the discussion is over, and I feel more energized than when I walked in. Somebody next to me thanks me for my comment, and I thank them for theirs. We all laugh and chat, and despite how scared I felt before, I feel safe now. Welcome.

We all put our chairs away, and I think about making my way to the bookshelf to buy our book for next week.

I’m definitely coming back. This is the closest I’ve ever been to that feeling of effervescent writing excitement in college.

I have a lot of things I want to try on my romance novel to make it better.

“Michael, do you have a moment?”

I turn to see the bookseller carrying just the book under her arm, Montana Sky by Nora Roberts.

“Sure,” I say. “Did I say or do something wrong?”

She looks at me with a furrowed brow, then laughs. “Oh, no, you’re fine. It was so wonderful to have you here today. I hope you come next week.”

I blush. “Thanks—I’m planning on it.”

She beams. “Wonderful. I was also wondering. We have another book club member who wasn’t able to make it today.

Sent us an email saying he wasn’t feeling well but wanted to get the next book and come next week.

He already paid for it, but he’s not able to come to the store this week, and it won’t ship out in time.

He wanted somebody to deliver it to him. ”

“Oh, okay,” I say scratching my head. I look around at all the other women here. “Why me?”

“Oh,” she says, lightly tapping her forehead with her palm. “Forgot to mention that he requested a man drop it off. Not sure why. I just offered that he get the following week’s book mailed and come in then, but he turned it down. Said it was urgent.”

I shift on my feet. “So you want me to deliver it to him.”

She shrugs and smiles. “If you wouldn’t mind. We were tempted just to ignore the request, but he really wants to come to the book club. He said we could come by anytime this weekend to drop it off.”

I pick at my beard as I think. There’s no reason to be opposed to this. Plus, it’s a guy. I had a wonderful time here, but it would be nice to have another man here besides myself. Plus, he could be gay. He could offer unique perspective that could help me enhance my novel.

“I can do that. Where’s the address?”

She exhales, and her shoulders relax. “Oh, thank you. I didn’t know how we were going to do this otherwise. He’s over in the suburbs, Villanova area. I can email you the details.”

“Sure.” I provide her my contact info, and she sends me his address.

I squint down at the screen. “Does this guy have a name?”

She squints down at her screen as well. “I thought it was in his email, but it’s just Tigersfan89.”

“So he doesn’t have a name?”

She harumphs. “I’m sorry if this is weird. We can just—”

“It’s fine,” I say. “Villanova’s a nice area, so it doesn’t seem shady. He might just be shy. I know I was nervous to come.”

She relaxes again. “Well don’t be. I loved your comment. Your insight is really welcome. I hope you continue attending.”

My chest warms, and I press my hand against it. “Thank you. I definitely will.”

She walks behind the bookseller counter, and most of the other book club goers are walking around, chatting about books on the shelves. I thought most would have left by now. But they’re sticking around like it’s their second home.

“I should be thanking you,” she says. She hands me the book in a paper bag. “I’ll tell him to be expecting some to drop it off. He wants it left at the door. Let me know when you do. I just want to make sure there’s no trouble.”

“Sure,” I say. “You can tell him I’ll be there tomorrow around noon.”