Page 35 of Waiting For Ever
“I mean, it seems to me it’s the shortest route to getting to the point of a thing.”
“Tell the truth. You’re a reincarnated thirty-year-old, aren’t you?”
“If I were concerned about aging, I think I’d be insulted right now. But in case you’re serious, I’m really eighteen. I probably sound older because I read a lot.”
I feel my grin in my cheeks. Shaking my head and chuckling, I subconsciously rub the tattoo on my chest. This enchanting being is seeping into my skin, my bones. Easing the ache. And for the first time in three years, I welcome it. “And what are you currently reading?”
I watch her forehead crease. Maybe because I don’t address the Sylvie topic, although it wasn’t unintentional. I’m just insatiably curious about her. I want to know everything.
“I’m in between books right now.”
“Why is that troubling?” If her frown isn’t about books, as I suspect it’s not, now is her chance to say it.
“Troubling?”
“Yeah, you’re frowning like it bothers you not having an answer to that question.” I leave the door wide open for her to bring up Sylvie again. She doesn’t.
“Oh, it’s just weird not to have a book to read. For me, anyway. I DNF’d the last book I started. It wasn’t doing it forme. I’ve been writing more instead of reading. But I may reread an old favorite until I find a new one that gets me out of my slump.”
“Hmm, okay.” A slump? As in a reading slump? “So, what’s DNF?”
I’ll never tire of watching the flush bloom on her cheeks. “Oh, Did Not Finish. It’s a bookish term for—”
“Not finishing a book?” I say, cutting her off, winking.
“Yeah.” She smiles shyly.
“And you write, too?” She intrigues me so much. “What do you write? Stories, or . . . ?”
“Someday, hopefully. But I mostly journal, maybe some poetry, but honestly, I haven’t written poems in a long time. Kinda lost my passion for it.”
“I think I’d love to read some of those.”
“You read? Sorry. That sounded rude. I meant, do you like to read? I’ve just never seen you with a book, so I didn’t think . . . I just . . . wow. Sorry, Julian. I sounded like a snob just now.”
“Ever, you’re good. I’m not offended.” I want to laugh because she looks like someone just kicked her puppy. I don’t think I even know another guy who would be offended by this. But I want to let her off the hook, so I say, “I really didn’t love reading most of my life. I started really enjoying it about three years ago. I, uh, I got into a bad accident and spent some down time recovering. Reading was a great way to kill time while lying around, and it distracted me from the pain.” I don’t elaborate that the pain I’m referring to had nothing to do with my injuries.
“What was the first book you read three years ago?”
“Ah, promise not to laugh?”
“I don’t lie so I can’t make that promise. What was it?”
She had a perfect, enchanting response for everything. I rub my chest again as I answer.
“Catcher in the Rye.”
She looks surprised. Probably because most people read that in high school.
I quickly follow it up to fill the silence and try not to be offended. “What is your go-to favorite book?”
She pulls her chin back up, closing her slightly agape mouth at my answer, her forehead creasing again as she considers the question. “Pride and Prejudice?”
“Why did that sound like a question? Because that’s the book a respectable book girl like you should call her favorite?” I raise one eyebrow in challenge. Before she can answer, I add, “What’s your real favorite?”
“So . . . Sylvie—”
“Nooo, first tell me your book. Then we can talk about Sylvie.”
