Page 31 of Turnabout Is Fair Cosplay
Stacks of books are piled around the chair and against the wall. The owner at least has the good sense to face the spines inward so that the books aren’t a distraction from the rest of the cottage. The owner also left a vase of calla lilies on the small table next to the chair. I frown at the choice of flower.The creamy white of the spathe’s whorl and the yellow spadix feel playful but also out of time. The flowers are bigger than the trendy bouquets of bright red and purple calla lilies that Mom’s florist is always sending.
I brush the silkiness of the spathe between my thumb and forefinger before grabbing the closest book. A pretty volume of Tolkien. I thumb through it, but stop when I notice it’s been annotated. Notes crowd in the margins of many pages.
“Marked up to there and back again,” I say with a smile. “Maybe it’s used.”
I reach for the book under it to see if it’s annotated too. This is a well-worn paperback of Shakespeare’sRichard III. More of the same notes and blue underlines. I flip to the sexiest part of the play, when Richard persuades What’s Her Face to marry him.
How disappointing that such a strong will so easily bends here,the notes say.Where did it happen and how?There are arrows back to earlier lines with more questions.
Here? If spoken with sincerity/vulnerability?
Here? If words were growled from behind into her neck?
I keep reading, feeling my pulse race. If I take this book with me, would the owner notice?
I scoot the stacks around and whimper. Can you fall in love with someone based solely on their personal library?
“Yes,” I answer after I’ve flipped throughJane Eyre. I’ve landed on my favorite passage about strings and ribs and hearts. All underlined. All with the same untidy notes in the margins. “Emphatic yes.”
The nonfiction titles scattered in the stacks make me whimper too. The fiction is mostly classic literature—and there is a lot of Chekhov. But there are also some contemporary titles thrown in. Each annotated in the same handwriting.
I shouldn’t be panting over someone’s library. But I am. And my imagination is running wild. Maybe these books belong to asexy silver fox, and I’ll enjoy a May-December romance of epic proportions because of it. I squint at the untidy scrawl in the books. Maybe these books belong to a dearly departed relative of the owner, and I will pine away after a ghost. Maybe they belong to a sexy young woman, and a platonic love and admiration a la C.S. Lewis and Tolkien will enrich the rest of my days. That one isn’t as fun for my hetero brain, which nose-dives into a fantasy where these books, covered in thoughtful introspective notes, belong to a handsome, eligible young man.
My phone vibrates and pings with a text from Adam.Did you find the apartment?
I text back,It’s perfect. Tell your buddy to send over the rental contract. Ask when I can move in. I’m tired of spending half my life on your couch.
I grab the next book from the stack. My heart melts as I flip throughDune. What if this really is just staging? A borrowed collection? I grab my phone and text Adam again.What’s up with the books? Are they the owner’s?My heart is pounding. I don’t know why I’m trying to play it cool. Who I’m trying to convince.
My phone pings again.Yeah,Adam texts.He didn’t have time to move them before today. He says sorry and to ignore them.
A giddiness, accompanied by a devious smile, spreads all over me.
I text back.Cool. Ask your friend when I can move in.
I spend the rest of my lunch break flipping through these books, taking a few pictures of the notes that must be immortalized lest I forget them, as the sound of the ocean waves crashing and the scent of heirloom roses and jasmine waft in through the open French doors.
I’m home, and I’m falling in love.
Chapter 11
I buy not only pizza but Korean-fried chicken wings on my way back to Adam’s. I’m celebrating after all.
“Hey.” I pounce when Adam walks through the door and slings his backpack into a corner. “You hungry? I’ve got pizza and wings.”
“What?” He’s got a dazed look on his face.
“Food. I picked up dinner.”
“Dinner,” he repeats before his lips press together in a dopey grin.
I’ve seen that grin before. “What the heck happened to you?”
“Nothing,” he says defensively. “I feel like baking.”
“You met someone.”
Adam’s brow furrows. “No.” But he’s never been much of an actor. “Okay, yes. I did.”
