Page 120 of Book and Ladder
and take the risk to live the life you dream about.
~ T. Arigo
I’ve become a cave-dweller.The glow of the TV is my campfire; the hum of the heater, my hibernation soundtrack.
It won’t last. I’ll start my new job at the library soon. Until then, I’m happy to burrow on my couch, eating canned soup and watching reality TV, dressed in yoga pants and a T-shirt … or the pajamas I slept in the night before. Don’t judge.
My friends have no respect for my impersonation of a bear in winter. They keep popping by to check on me—and then they linger for hours. I wouldn’t be surprised if they had a schedule posted somewhere with color-coded shifts and all.
It’s Winona’s turn to babysit me, I guess. And she’s pestering me about the email from the host ofBurning Through the Pages. Why, oh why, did I share it with her?
“I am currently choosing to ignore it,” I tell her, assuming she’ll give me a high five for my restraint.
Instead she says, “You have to write him back!”
“Do I, though?”
“He’s so sorry.” She gives me puppy dog eyes. Her tone grows soft. “I know you were stood up by Patrick back in high school—and he cost you the dream of Vanderbilt and whatever would have come after that. His failure to show up made you hypersensitive to being abandoned by someone when you need them most.”
“Okay, Doctor Winona,” I joke.
“I’m serious. I’m not trying to psychoanalyze you. Am I wrong, though?”
“No. I even told the host that. Standing me up is a hot button for me.”
“Right. So, hear me out. This guy isn’t Patrick. He made one mistake, and he’s obviously sorry. Don’t make one man pay for the sins of another.”
I stare at her. “When did you get so smart?”
“I’ve always been smart. I just don’t flaunt it. People expect too much if you let them see how much of a genius you are.” She wags her brows and I laugh.
“So?” she asks. “Are we writing this thing or what?”
“We?”
“Yes. I’ll help you. I won’t even charge.”
I laugh again, not even protesting when she stands, takes the seat next to me and commandeers my laptop.
“Dear … What do you call him if you don’t know his name?”
“Here. Give me that.” I retrieve the laptop. “I call him BTTP.”
“That’s so futuristic.”
“It stands for his podcast.”
“And what does he call you?”
“M&M.”
“Like the candy?”
“Like the bookshop.”
Winona places her hand on my knee, a soft look of shared grief and comfort passing between us.
I start typing, reading my draft to her as I compose it.
