Page 14 of Rooke
“The doorbell. The doorbell just rang.”
“It did?” Confusion appears on her face.
I nod.
“Well go and answer it then, you weirdo.”
“Definitely not. I’m going to ignore—” The bell rings again, almost intuitively, as though whoever is standing out there on the front doorstep knows my game and doesn’t plan on letting me get away with it.
“For god’s sake, Sasha, just go and answer the door. And grab another bottle of that Ridge & Sons white while you’re up, would you? We seem to be out over here.”
I get to my feet, unsure about what will happen next. It’s been a really long time since I’ve interacted with people in this kind of setting. I have no idea how to be polite anymore. I’m just as likely to scream at whoever is at the door, as I am to invite them inside for a cup of coffee. My hand shake is back as I reach out for the door handle. I’d hoped that maybe this interruption to book club was a case of neighborhood kids playing knock-a-door-run, but I can see this plainly isn’t the case as I observe the dark, tall shape waiting to engage me in some way on the other side of the frosted glass.
I open the door with my heart pin-balling around the inside of my ribcage—the most unpleasant, worrying feeling. And there, waiting grimly on the doormat, is a face I didn’t think I’d be seeing again. Rooke Blackheath? Oscar’s grandson? He looks older than he did under the stark strip lighting of the museum’s hallway. His hair is slicked back again, and he’s wearing a black button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing a confusion of colorful ink on his forearms. Black jeans. Black boots. No jacket. There’s a bottle of red wine nestled in the crook of his right arm. Who the hell shows up to a house at eight thirty in the evening in November, in New York, without a jacket? What the—
He smiles sharply, angling his head to one side, as if he’s waiting for me to say something. When I don’t, he shrugs one shoulder and sighs, looking off to the left, down the street.
“Rooke?” I manage.
“Yes, my name is Rooke,” he replies. “Well remembered.” He points the bottle of wine at me accusingly. “You’re Sasha.”
“Sasha. With an A. No H.”
“I didn’t say it with an H.”
I snatch the bottle of wine out of his hand, stepping through the doorway and out of the house. “You did. I could hear it,” I snap.
His face contorts, like he’s trying not to smile. “My apologies, then. Ask me inside.”
I blink at him, utterly bewildered. “Why would I do that? I’m hosting a book club here tonight. It’s not…wait, how do you even know where I live?”
A cloud of fog billows into the air as Rooke laughs. I’d forgotten about his loud, unashamed laugh. I can feel it in the soles of my feet. He holds up his other hand and in it isThe Seven Secret Lives of James P. Albrecht. “Your address is inside,” he informs me. “On the…” He turns the book around and flips back the front page. “…Bleeding Hearts Book Clubsticker that’s pasted inside. It also has your name and a best telephone number to reach you at. I thought showing up unannounced would be better than spoiling the surprise, though.”
“Where the hell did you get that?” I try to grab the book, but I’m grasping onto his bottle of red and I’m also still holding my own glass from before, so the action is entirely impossible.
“You threw it at me in the hallway remember? Outside my grandfather’s office?”
“I didn’t throw it at you. I dropped it.”
“Could have fooled me.”
“You should have returned it if you found it.”
“I am returning it. I’m returning itnow. At book club.”
“Sasha, who—” Footsteps thud down the hallway, and then Ali is peering over my shoulder, trying to get a look at Rooke. He seems extremely entertained by this whole situation. “Whois your friend, Sasha? Jesus, young man, you are not wearing a coat. You must be freezing. Come in before you die of pneumonia.”
“He’s not going to die of pneumonia. He’s going to go home before—”
Ali gasps, shoving me to one side. Her eyes are locked on the novel in Rooke’s hands, and she looks pleased as punch. “Wait a minute. Did you read this? Are you a new member of book club? Say it ain’t so.”
Rooke grins, slapping the book into his palm. “I did read it. I hoped Sasha might let me join the group. She doesn’t seem very happy I’m here, though.”
Ali rounds on me, her jaw almost scraping the floor. “No. No, no, no. You’re not making this poor guy go all the way home in the cold with no coat on when he’s read the book and he wants to join book club.What the fuck is the matter with you?” There’s an awful lot being said in that “What the fuck is the matter with you?” She thinks Rooke is hot. She thinks I’ve been holding out on her. She’s severely distressed that I don’t seem willing to let him inside the house, and she’s also threatening physical violence if I don’t.
Basically, I am screwed.
Slumping, I lean back against the doorjamb. I’m suddenly exhausted and unwilling to spend anymore time trying to figure out how this bizarre situation has come about. “All right. Fine. Come in. But this is a book club. There will be lots of questions about the book. You’re going to be in trouble if you haven’t actually read the thing.” I plan on making sure of it.
