Page 7 of The Friend Zone
She eventually found a thick fantasy novel, the first in a series getting rave reviews. Flipping through the pages, she walked slowly toward the front of the store, not paying much attention to her surroundings. She was so enthralled she didn’t see the person coming to her left, and bumped into a hard body at the end of one of the rows. Startled, she gasped as she bounced back, the books tumbling from her hands. Almost at the same time, a pair of strong hands gripped her upper arms to keep her from crashing backwards into the bookshelves.
“Excuse me,” the man muttered at the same time she said, “I’m sorry.”
There was a brief pause, and then they both laughed.
“It was really my fault because I wasn’t paying attention,” Dana said.
“Neither was I, so we’re both guilty.” He picked up her books, eyes trained on the top one, and handed them back. “You’re a writer?”
“Wannabe writer,” she corrected.
“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.”
Dana blinked, pleased he was familiar with the quote. “Maya Angelou,” she said.
“One of the greats, though not without her critics. I once read a scathing critique of her poetry, referring to her writing as—and I quote—‘dreadful’ and ‘shit.’ Though they did speak highly of her activism.”
“As they should.”
They both laughed again. Dana studied him, and he clearly studied her in return. He was tall, a couple of inches over six feet, with caramel toned skin and brown eyes.
“So, you’re a fan of Maya Angelou?” she asked.
She herself was a fan, particularly of her poem “Still I Rise,” having the words from the poem tattooed on the back of her neck after graduating from college. Her college years had been rough, doing her part to take care of her younger siblings, working almost full time to pay expenses not covered by her scholarship, and navigating the college experience on her own as the first person in her family to attend a university. Then she’d worried about entering the work force with dreadlocks and rings in her nose, but she found a position where she didn’t receive judgment and flourished because of her love of the work.
“Honestly, I’m learning more about her. I’m reading classics by people like Langston Hughes, James Weldon Johnson, and Nella Larsen and more history texts, trying to broaden my horizons and learn now what I should have learned years ago.”
“That’s commendable,” Dana said, very impressed. “It’s never too late to learn.”
“True. So, you’re a wannabe writer. What’s your real job?”
“I teach English at a local college.”
“Helping develop young minds.” His pleasant smile and friendly features appealed to her.
“I like to think so. And what do you do?”
He looked thoughtful for a moment and then shrugged. “I’m in between jobs right now. Recently moved here from New York, and I’m taking time to relax and spend time with family I have here. I needed a break from the rat race and the 9-to-5—or rather the 7-to-6 most days.”
There were a lot of New York transplants to the Atlanta area, and Dana had picked up on his accent right away.
“Work-life balance can be hard to achieve,” she remarked.
“Yes, but we need to prioritize our breaks and take time off. Stress is a silent killer, and if it doesn’t kill you, it causes a host of problems.” He shook his head as if running through the list. “Anyway, I won’t go off on one of my tangents. I noticed one of your books was fantasy. Do you recommend it?”
“I haven’t read this author before, but the series is very popular, so I thought I’d give the first book a try. The store has a great fantasy section, as well as a great selection of books in the African-American Literature section. You should find something you like,” she said.
“Actually, I think I already have.”
“Oh?” Then his intense expression clued her into the meaning behind the words. “Oh,” she repeated, cradling her books to her chest as warmth seeped into her limbs.
“I’m Sheldon Reevus.” He extended his hand. “Could I interest you in a cup of coffee?”
Dana gave a light laugh and shook his hand.
“I know, you didn’t come to the bookstore to get picked up, but that’s your fault.” Sheldon continued to hold her hand.
“My fault?” She didn’t pull away.
