Page 75 of Give & Take

“Fiction!” I slide onto the stool across from her. “You know I’m doing a lit degree, right? This is extremelyexciting for me.” I rest my chin in my hands and look at her expectantly. “Tell me everything!”

Lana lets out a laugh. “No.”

I pout.

She opens her laptop. “I’m busy.” But she doesn’t move to put her hands back on the keyboard. She straightens out the papers, setting them in a neat pile.

She thinks I’m going to judge her. I decide to sidestep the writing for a moment.

“What kind of books do you read, Lana?”

She doesn’t look up. “Not Tolstoy.”

“I don’t only read classics. Lots of classics are bullshit, by the way. Sexist. Racist. All the things. They’re products of their time.”

Lana looks at me. “So why are you writing your dissertation on them?”

“I like honing in on things.”

She frowns at my obtuseness.

I lean back in the chair. “Okay, I got really into trying to figure out why people express themselves in ways other than talking. Painting. Singing. Writing. Writing about other people talking. I liked that last one, and now I’m too far gone not to finish.”

She lets out a little laugh. “So, you just casually decided to do an advanced degree because you were…curious?”

“Pretty much.” This is where most people scoff and make some crack about me being charmed. Or lucky. But Lana doesn’t do that. She just looks at me curiously.

I’m surprised, but not really. So far Lana enjoyspoking at me, but she has this knack for knowing which parts are more raw. She avoids those.

“Anyway, I read everything,” I continue. I’m really much more interested in her. In fact, I need her to tell me what she’s writing. I’ll die if she doesn’t. I feel like it’s the secret to cracking her open. “My favorites are old spy novels,” I say. “And YA. Oh, and Swedish crime novels.”

The corner of her mouth lifts higher. “Really.” It’s not a question. She sounds like she doesn’t believe me. “So you’re not snobby about genre fiction?”

“Why would I ever judge someone on what they like to read? I mean, unless they’re reading serial killer how-to’s or something, it’s really none of my business. Besides, what’s the point of reading if you’re not enjoying yourself?”

She pinches her lips together, considering.

I lean forward like an eager student. “Sooo?”

Lana rolls her eyes. “Fine. If you must know, I read romance books.” Her chin tilts like she’s waiting for me to give her a hard time about this.

I blink, processing this information. Again she’s surprised me. I would have thought Lana was into more serious lit-fic. Or maybe dark thrillers where men get their throats slit. But discovering Lana reads stories about love? It’s like a whole new dimension of her has opened up. If she reads romance, it means she believes in love, at least theoretically. I think of this softer, more vulnerable version of Lana I’ve only caught glimpses of before, sobbing over a couple finally overcoming their obstacles and figuring out they’re perfect for each other.

“I love romance books,” I say.

At this she scoffs. Then she does that thing again, saying nothing as she sorts through all her millions of thoughts, waiting for the right one to be tried and tested. As she does, she spins her pen through her fingers, which are neat and tidy, just like her. No rings or decoration. Plain, well-filed nails. Functional. Buttoned up. Needing a little playfulness.

“I don’t believe you,” she says finally.

“I’m serious.” I tip my seat back slightly. “I read a lot as a kid, and my mom had lots of those around. I still read them, sometimes.” I’ll read anything really, but that weakens my point.

“Who are your favorite romance authors?”

I list off the five or so I remember reading recently.

Her eyes go wide.

I grin. “I’ll be honest, I mostly read for the smut. And the swoon. They’re educational for me, is what I’m saying. Romance taught me everything I know about what women want.” A few women in my past might have helped too, but I don’t mention that part.

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