Page 22 of Things I Read About

“All the big ones: Freakonomics, Barstool sports. NPR has a couple good ones. A few true crime shows. News. Sometimes personal development or comedians, but they all start to sound the same.”

“And books?”

“Andy Weir. Blake Crouch. Really, if it’s topped the suspense, sci-fi, or thriller charts, I’ve downloaded it.” He leans toward me, waiting.

I search my entire mental catalog for one, just one measly title I’ve read that isn’t a romance. I can’t think of one.

But I can think of one cross-over.

“What aboutCherity,did you read that one?” It’s a twisty psychological thriller that’s also a romance. The author is wildly successful, but in the romance genre. I may have just exposed myself.

“I did. That was crazy.”

“Right!” I squeak, mostly out of surprise. We both feel it then, that spark when two people wholeheartedly agree on something. As if they’d just been waiting for someone to gush about it with. “I couldn’t sleep after I finished. I had so many questions, the main one being: has anyone checked on that author herself? Should she be committed?”

“Exactly. I think that about all the good thriller writers. Completely insane.”

“Completely.”

“Any sci-fi?” he asks me, looking hopeful. Trying to keep the spark alive. But I am going to have to disappoint him, unless he wants to discuss the few big blue alien-abductee romances I’ve read.

I shake my head. It’s my turn. “What about fantasy?Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter?”

“I love the movies, but I can’t get into the books.”

“Hm.” I think about that tragedy. “Have you tried reading them instead of listening? Sometimes the narrator just isn’t a good fit.”

“No.” He swallows. “I’m a slow reader. I wish, though, I love all the epic stories.Game of Thrones, Star Wars,Marvel.”

“Oh, man.” I smile. “You would fit right in with my family. We are all in on epic stories.”

His demeanor shifts.

I’ve definitely killed that spark. Not sure how or why.

His eyes drop down at my nearly untouched drink, then they do the scan thing again. Finally, he looks back at my mouth. Probably because my teeth are chattering. How long have they been chattering?

“Looks like I better get you back inside.”

“I’m fine,” I say, my voice quivering.

“You’re something,” he says, looking at me as if his brain can’t quite compute what his eyes see.

I’m not sure if that is a good thing or a bad thing. The longer he stares, the more I feel like it’s the latter. I squirm in my seat.

He pulls cash from his pocket and tucks it under the ashtray on the table.

I pull his jacket off my foot as he stands, feeling a bit defeated. “I’m sure I can make it to my room.”

“You think I’m going to let you hobble all that way—make your ankle worse, probably fall flat on your ass—when I can just carry you there in five minutes?”

“No?”

“No,” he says as he moves around the table to scoop me up.

After we make it through the throngs of people outside, inside, and then through the lobby, the atmosphere around us is quiet. Even more so as we move into what I see now is a very small elevator. He takes up almost the whole rectangle. His hair is so close to the light at the top I wonder if it’s touching.

“Sally?”