Page 63 of Love is an Open Book
“No better feeling,” she says, and laughs. “But I mean it. You deserve to have a little fun. Hell, a lot of fun. But be careful with those hands.”
“It looks worse than it is. Typing is no big deal. Getting dressed on the other hand...”
“And that’s why you have a sexy new roommate,” she says. “Okay, bye!”
The call ends before I can reply, and I’m left shaking my head. Evie is the kind of person most people picture when they think of a romance author. Witty, poised, quick with acomeback. The truth is she’s no more brazen in her love life than I am, but she talks a good game. Right now I could use some of that artificial confidence because I’m guessing Gavin will be home soon, and I’m not sure how to act when he walks in.
Should I order dinner for us? He might be bringing food. Filled with nerves, even though this is Gavin we’re talking about, and we’ve spent countless evenings together, I lift my phone to ask him and see that Sera’s texted a bunch of question marks, and below that, a link to a celebrity news site. Dread in my stomach, I click on it.
Booked in Loveactor Robert Cho set to star in upcoming Roan Watkins film. What does this mean for the future of everyone’s favorite BFFs? We foresee a bad breakup, and they haven’t even gone on a single date.
I stop reading, sick to my stomach. Another text comes through.
Sera:Did you know about this? Please tell me they aren’t canceling your contract.
Mia:Yes, I knew. No, nothing is changing as long as I turn the book in on time. If not, the studio gets carte blanche on how Victor and Sydney’s story ends.
Sera:No offense, but I don’t trust them. I want a Mia Brady love story or nothing at all. How’s the book coming?
Mia:Much better, but a long way to go.
Sera:I’m going to tell my mom to take you off the text chain for our baby shower. I don’t want you to have any distractions.
Mia:Don’t be silly. They aren’t letting me do anything anyway, and it’s entertaining.
Sera:Says you. Meanwhile I’m over here trying to convince them that if anyone tries to play that game where they measure my belly with string, I’m disowning them.
I bite back a laugh at the thought. I have no doubt Sera would do it, too.
Mia:Don’t worry. If I see anyone try to smuggle string into the party, I’ll have Gavin play bouncer and kick them out. He’s surprisingly strong.
I added that last part because I’d been thinking about how he’d carried me up two flights of stairs after a long day’s work like it was nothing, but now Sera might ask a follow-up. Knee bouncing nervously, I wait for a text with a pair of eyes to come through. Or a snide,Oh, and how would you know?But no new texts appear. I should feel relieved, but nerves well up, along with a heaping dose of reality.
How long can we walk this tightrope? Sooner or later our friends will suspect. Joe might already. And if things go wrong, what then? We’d have to arrange separate times to hang out with them. Or would Sera and Joe choose sides? The combination of work stress and personal stress sends me diving back into my manuscript, dinner uncertainty forgotten, ready to find reprieve in the fictional world where things follow a comfortingly familiar structure, and third-act breakups never last.
Twenty
Gavin
Things run late at the Fifth Street project, and then I have to stop in at work and take care of a few tasks our summer employees aren’t trained on. Mia hasn’t answered my texts about what she wanted for dinner, so I figure she’s caught up in her writing. I tell myself all is well between us, even though we haven’t really talked through things. By the time I make it back to the house, it’s late evening.
Not sure what sort of food she’d be craving, I bring home burritos and a giant salad for us to share. But when I walk through the door, the house is dark and quiet. I lean back out and yep, her car is parked on the street. Still here, then.
I set the food on the counter and check the living room. Mia is perched on the arm of the couch, laptop on her knees, face lit by the screen’s glow. For a moment I watch her, fingers flying over the keyboard like a honeybee in the garden, then stopping, hovering, a hummingbird in mid-flight. Her brows are furrowed, lip caught between her teeth. I don’t know what I look like when I work, but Mia is poetry.
A quiet meow draws me away and I chuckle at a tawny paw swiping under the laundry room door. Cedar, we named him, on the way home from the pet store. Mia says picking names exhausts her and let me do it, then declared it perfection that I named them all after trees. I’m trying not to play favorites, but Cedar’s playful personality already has a hold on me. I take care of the cats quietly, not wanting to disturb Mia. Soon we’ll give them free roam of the house, but not before making sure everything is kitten-proofed.
Once they’ve been tended to, I head back to the kitchen, torn between leaving Mia in peace and offering dinner. If there’s one thing I can be sure of, it’s that she loves writing snacks. I once listened to a podcast where the interviewer asked her if she ever snacked while she wrote, and Mia laughed and listed about fifteen different foods. It was no surprise to me because I’ve been supplying her midnight snacks since junior year of college.
But the takeout I’ve brought home won’t be easy to eat while she’s typing, so I pop the salad in the fridge and raid the pantry and fridge to make a plate for her. Salty kettle-cooked potato chips, cheese curds we picked up at the farmers market—Mia had never tasted one till she visited Wisconsin with me, and now she’s hooked—raspberries from the bushes I planted last year, then a few more when I can’t resist popping some in my mouth. A homemade chocolate chip cookie from the tin Faye sent home with me earlier this week.
Figuring I have all the bases covered—salty, sweet, cheese—I take the plate to the living room, where Mia is sitting, her back propped up against the wall. My plan is to leave the food and go, counting on her absorption in her writing, but the scene must not have been working, because she looks up the moment I enter the room.
I hold up the plate as reason for interrupting her, suddenly unsure of myself despite this being my own home.
“Did you just get back?” Her gaze lands on the plate. “Sorry, I planned to text to see if you wanted me to order food, but...”
“It’s okay. I’m glad you’re in the zone.”
