Page 42 of Turnabout Is Fair Cosplay
My breath catches. “The complete absence?”
“Exactly.” Mike’s honey-brown eyes lock on mine, and it hits me. He’s more than just a cosplay puppet. He’s passionate and articulate and knows how to unravel some of the greatest minds in all of literature.
And I’m in some serious trouble. Because I can’t separate my attraction for the Mike in the margins of my sonnets from my loathing of the man standing in front of me. Even if said man has some really gorgeous lips. “I think I should leave.”
“Text me.”
I freeze. Is he serious?
“If you’re going to stop by again. I’d rather not run the risk of my lawsuit-happy renter tripping on a power cord or getting hit by falling drywall.”
I leave without saying goodbye.
Chapter 14
The thing about walking dogs is that it gives you ample time to think, and happy, panting pups who look at you with soulful eyes—and love you because you are their ticket to ninety minutes of outside time—are very empathetic listeners should you want to divest your deepest, darkest secrets.
“I can’t stop thinking about him.” I scratch Stephen’s left ear as we wait to cross the road. “And I’ve tried.”
The sheepdog thumps his tail encouragingly. He sees the best in me. Unlike Mike.
“It’s why I went to yoga this morning.”
The light turns green, and we cross the street. “Despite all the breathing, clear-your-mind-body-soul-whatever, I can still see the blue ink in the margins of all the sonnets. Even as I’m downward dogging.”
Stephen stops to sniff a tree.
“I know. Rereading sonnets before I fall asleep every night doesn’t help. Maybe I should try actually reading all the articles my mom sent. But let’s be honest, concentrating on anything so boring is a bit of a problem at my cottage these days.”
Stephen sneezes and tugs on the leash.
“Because I hear him one way or another.” Rehearsing his lines or doing his general contractor thing. “I’m off to the library after this. Time to cram before my lunch date with Molly.”
I settle in at the library with my headphones on—big, obnoxious, noise-canceling ones, a trick of the trade I picked up when I crashed here between FroggoDoggo clients my first week as a dog walker. While people assume I’m studying, particularly when I have my pen in hand, I’m usually reading fiction while all the lovely library sounds keep me company. No one ever pauses to make small talk, and I get to enjoy my book along with the shuffle of the other patrons’ steps, the quiet scrape of books being shelved, hushed voices, turning pages.
Reading fiction here at midday, with sunshine filtering in, is the loveliest form of white noise there is, aside from the sound of ocean waves. It’s almost as decadent as the view from Mike’s living room.
Today, instead of fiction, I’m reviewing the stack of legal articles my mom sent my way to discuss at our lunch this afternoon. I’m crabby. I’m distracted. I’m wondering why I wasdumb enough to agree to one of my mother’s deals. At least I’m not dumb enough to renege on our bargain. I’ve been alive long enough to know that tactic never works where Molly McKinney is concerned.
While I’m resenting my assigned reading, Mike Benedick waltzes in.
He walks confidently to the Holds shelf. Bends, stoops, leans.
He does what I do—checking out what books other people have put on reserve. It’s a completely harmless way of getting good recs for your TBR pile.
At the Del Mar library the summer I was studying for the bar exam, I had the initials of some particularly voracious readers memorized—PAT, COL and HOW, MAR—and I would always check to see what they were requesting. Every time, there would be something worth adding to my own TBR. God bless public libraries.
I make a mental note of where Mike is pausing so I can take a look to see if there’s anything of interest. Then one of the docents stops him.
Mike smiles and makes chitchat, and I go back to my soul-sucking legal articles.
A few minutes later, a tall surfer type approaches Mike. “Hey, bro,” he says, his voice loud enough for me to hear clearly despite my headphones. “Heard about the play.” He gives him a one-armed hug. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks, man,” Mike says, and he has the nerve to act all gracious.
“How’s the remodel going?”
“Slow. Hopefully, this will help.” He waves the book in his hand.
