Page 21 of Love is an Open Book
Before I can reply, the server walks up with a basket of breadsticks and scoots the binder aside to make room. Eyeing the glittery stickers on the cover, she says, “Big test tomorrow?”
“You could say that.” Tonight feels like a test of its own, a pop quiz I wasn’t prepared for.
The server must be thinking of her tip because she doesn’t ask any more questions, just recites the seasonal menu. When she’s gone, Mia says, “We don’t have to go over this right now.” She tucks her hair behind her ears and the silvery strands of her long earrings catch the light, guiding my eye along the curve of her neck. “We could just have, like, a normal conversation.”
“Pretty sure we’ve never had one of those.” I grin. “Hit me with your best alphabetized mayhem.” Grabbing a breadstick, I flip open the binder.
“Be careful,” she says. “I don’t want crumbs on the pages.”
“On second thought...” I pluck the wine list off the table and pass it over. “Pick a wine first. I have a feeling I’m going to need alcohol to get through this.”
“Now look who’s supporting drinking while studying,” she says in agotchatone. Mia once brought champagne to a study session in college, and I haven’t let her live it down. Clearly, she’s been primed for a chance to get back at me.
“Last I checked, this isn’t finals week.” A bunch of us met up at our friend’s apartment to study. Most of us were supposed to bring snacks, but Mia was a barista at the time, so she got put in charge of drinks. Pretty sure everyone assumed she’d bring leftover brewed coffee from the early shift.
She sets down the menu, rattling the cutlery. “That wasn’t my fault, and you know it. Delia called it a study ‘party’ and asked me to bring drinks. I brought drinks.”
“Alcoholic ones.” I can’t hold back a chuckle at the memory of her pulling champagne bottles out of her backpack. “We met up at ten a.m. to study and you brought booze.”
“Stuff to make mimosas,” she says, as if that makes it better. “That’s a perfectly reasonable brunch beverage.”
The fact that she still gets riled up over something that happened years ago is pretty cute. “I did ace my soil science final.”
With a groan, she lifts the menu again, hiding the smile I saw slip onto her face. While she looks over the selection, I flip through the pages explaining different tropes. Some are familiar from attending her bookstore events and watching her interviews, but a lot of them are new.
One trope in particular catches my eye. “Cinnamon roll hero?” Referring to characters as pastries isn’t really that outlandish compared to some stuff I’ve heard discussed at her panels over the years. “Not to be confused with the closely related glazed doughnut hero.”
“You joke,” she says. “But I could totally see that term taking off.”
I’m almost afraid to ask. “What would that even mean?”
“Well, a cinnamon roll hero is the opposite of an alpha male. He’s sweet and thoughtful, totally gooey.”
Thinking aloud, I say, “Glazed doughnuts are deep-fried and decadent. Would a hero like that shower his love interest with gifts and romantic gestures?”
She frowns thoughtfully, then shakes her head. “Glazed doughnuts are indulgent, don’t get me wrong. But they’re not over-the-top. They don’t have tons of frills like sprinkles and filling, but they’re reliable. You can always count on them for a sweet pick-me-up. A glazed doughnut is never going to let you down.”
Her eyes soften as she says this, and I catch a glimpse of the same expression I saw for a moment back at her condo. Something new in the way she looks at me.
But then her phone dings loudly from her purse. She pulls it out and frowns at the screen. “Shoot. I keep forgetting to confirm which panels I’m speaking on for the book convention next month. Do you mind if I answer this email real quick?”
Neither of us ever bothers with the no-phones-at-dinner etiquette, but maybe it’s because I put effort into making tonight out of the ordinary that answering a work email right now feels like she’s purposely trying to lessen the impact of the candlelit atmosphere and rooftop view.
While I wait for her to finish, I check my phone. There’s a voicemail from my dad, and for a moment, I fear the worst. The morning after trivia night, Scott’s texts pressuring me to visit the farmhouse got in my head and I called Dad to checkin, but he didn’t answer. But the voicemail is just him apologizing for being out of cell range on the back acreage and letting me know everyone’s doing well.
I’m about to put away my phone when the screen lights up with a call from my friend Joe. In my rush to reject it, I accidentally answer. “Hey,” I say quietly. “Can’t talk right now.”
Mia glances up and I mouth the wordSorry, but she waves a hand, distracted.
Meanwhile, Joe says, “Our softball team needs another player for tonight’s game. You in?”
“Nah, not this time.” Half the people on his rec league have kids and can’t make it to every game, so I fill in when I have the time.
“I can pick you up. What else you got going on?” His voice is loud amid the hushed conversation around us, and I lower the volume, cupping my hand over the phone.
“I’m on a date, man.” A flicker of movement catches my eye, and I look over to find Mia frantically shaking her head, eyes wide. Oh shit.
Joe pounces on my accidental confession. “A date? With who?”
