The Bookseller's Boyfriend

by Heidi Cullinan

  Every restaurant owner immediately perked up.

  “Do you think it’s too late to ask our new celebrity to be featured at Founder’s Day?” someone asked, sending Clark into another round of bluster.

  The meeting droned on until well past ten, at which point Jacob only wanted to bolt home and soak in the tub. Instead, he lingered afterward, making small talk with the restaurant owners who suddenly had great deals for him, especially if he booked in advance, and with Rebecca, who drew him aside.

  “Thank you,” he said to her before she could say anything.

  She waved a hand at him. “Nothing to worry about. I’ve got your back. But speaking of that. Are you still open for running for office?”

  Jacob startled. “You knew I was considering that?”

  She winked at him. “I had a feeling, but thanks for confirming. Wanted to let you know I was behind you.”

  “I’m not sure I have a real chance, though.”

  “You have more of a shot than you think. Everyone knows you’re absolutely dependable and respectable.”

  Why did people keep saying that, and why did it bother him so much?

  She kept going. “This town needs new blood in all its leadership. I can’t do it—they hate me too much, plus I’m still busy with the hospital board for a bit. I pity you in advance, because I know Nick is going to turn to you to be president next after my term is up.”

  Good Lord. Jacob wasn’t looking forward to that.

  It’s probably because you’re so dependable.

  Rebecca continued. “That won’t be for a while, yet, though. Besides, right now I want you to serve office here. There’s no one better suited. You’re not as young as Gus and Matt, but you’re not so old you’re… well, them. You embrace new ideas, but you’re still conservative in some ways, like how you resist social media. I just wanted you to know I have your back completely, and so do several others.”

  He thanked her, hugged her goodbye, and went to join Matt and Gus.

  “Does everyone really see me as dependable and boring?”

  “Not boring,” Gus said. “But yes, very dependable. Loyal, dependable, solid. That’s Jacob Moore.”

  Not the adjectives he wanted to be used to describe him.

  He thought of Rasul telling him he liked his brain and wanted to see more sparks of passion.

  Sighing, Jacob ran a hand through his hair. “I need to get home, feed my cats, and finish the books.”

  Matt grinned. “See? Dependable as the day is long.”

  Jacob frowned all the way back to his apartment.

  Chapter Six

  ON WEDNESDAY Rasul packed up his laptop and headphones and headed down Main Street toward Moore Books. He was a little apprehensive about going, despite having explicit permission.

  It was ten in the morning, and the place was decently busy. It seemed there was some sort of book club going on in the circle of chairs near the front window, and the collection of mostly older women waved to Rasul as he came through. The blond ponytailed employee was also there, watching him intently as she loaded books from a cart onto shelves.

  Ah, he finally saw her name tag. Jodie. He waved at her.

  She ducked her head and turned away.

  He frowned, then shrugged. Weird to have a teenage girl hate him for no reason, but at least he could be in the store without having his photo taken.

  Jacob was at the checkout desk, working at the computer. He glanced up at Rasul and gave him a polite smile as their gazes met. “Good morning.”

  Rasul had to fight the urge to straighten his clothes and run a hand through his hair to smooth any errant strands. “Hey. How are you?”

  “I’m well, thank you.”

  Rasul was highly cognizant of the other patrons in the store getting quieter to listen to them. He wasn’t sure how to behave with Jacob. Normally if he were dating someone, he’d come up to them and give them a kiss, touch their face, their hair, their shoulders, their hands. He was a highly tactile person on a lot of levels, but especially in regard to romance. He knew being overly touchy wouldn’t be a good way to approach Jacob for actual courting, but at the same time, Rasul worried their fake relationship would be found out if they weren’t engaged enough with one another.

  If Jacob had these same fears, he hid them well. After closing his computer, he glanced at the women in the front of the store. “Maryann, I’m taking Rasul upstairs so he can start writing. Will you keep an eye on things for me for a few minutes?”

  A spry elderly woman with a cane leaning against her chair turned so she could grin lasciviously at them. “You two lovebirds take your time. I’ll keep people in line.”

  “Isn’t there an employee here somewhere?” Rasul asked Jacob as they went to the back of the store. “That Jodie person?”

  “Yes, and she’ll do the official store minding, but Maryann likes to feel important, so I always tease her about taking charge. Besides, she’ll actually greet customers, whereas Jodie won’t. She can be painfully shy. I let her work here against her grandfather’s wishes because I think it’s good for her.”

  “Why in the world does her grandfather have a say in what she does?”

  Jacob sighed. “One, because he’s a rather significant person in Copper Point, and two, because it’s Copper Point.”

  As they headed to the door leading to the apartment, Rasul glanced around to see if he could spy the cats, but the space was currently unpopulated by humans or felines. Moriarty was on the stairs again, however, waiting to bolt until Jacob shooed him, at which time he darted away with a hurt glance.

  “I do appreciate that you’re letting me use your space,” Rasul said as they cleared the landing. “I promise not to get into anything but the tea.”

  “Well, I’ll be a little disappointed if you don’t poke around my bookshelves.” They were in the kitchen now, and Jacob gestured to it expansively. “Feel free to rearrange things on the table if you need to, and of course make whatever tea or coffee you need. It’s all in this cupboard here, the pour over and the tea strainers, and the pots and mugs are in this cupboard.”

  Rasul put his hands in his pockets to keep himself from fidgeting. “Sounds good, thank you. I’ll restock anything I use too much of.”

  “I buy everything from Gus.”

  “I’ll take any excuse to go get some more of that vacuum coffee.”

  Jacob narrowed his eyes at the two cats in the window, who were having a subtle battle for space. “If Mr. Nancy or Susan bother you, kick them out into the main part of the bookstore. Also, fair warning, if you leave your laptop open, especially on the table, they’ll sit on the keyboard. They’re a little better if you leave it on the ottoman, but they’ve been known to hop on it there too. You’re free to write from the armchair or couch in the living room—I have a small lap desk tucked behind the end table. In essence, make yourself at home.” He glanced at a living room wall and added, “Also, go ahead and stop the clock if the tick bothers you. Would you like me to do it now?”

  Rasul followed Jacob into the living room and saw the impressive wooden clock complete with pendulum swinging back and forth as a rather pronounced thunk, click, thunk, click radiated into the room. The clock had gold edges around the clock face, and the numbers were written in Roman numerals. It looked old but not ancient. “Go ahead and leave it. It’s a great clock. Seems like it would be good company.”

  “It doesn’t toll the hour, at least, which is a small mercy. I have to reset it once a week, as it doesn’t keep time as well as it did when I grew up.” Jacob’s gaze didn’t leave the clock, but his thoughts seemed to be very far away. “I didn’t keep many things from my parents’ house, but this was one of the most important.”

  This was the second time Jacob had spoken of his parents as if they were no longer in the picture. Rasul struggled for a moment to find the most delicate way to ask about them. “You keep referring to your parents in the past tense.”

  Jacob kept his gaze
on the clock. “When I was twenty-four, my parents were in what would eventually become a fatal car accident. They were hit by a drunk driver coming home from a charity event.”

  Rasul’s heart fell. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I was in Chicago at the time, but I made it back to say goodbye. Well, they were both in comas at that point, but I was there when each of them passed.” He hesitated, then touched the back of his hair before speaking again. “I started The Sword Dancer’s Daughter while I was in the hospital. I finished it in the days after the funeral. It was a huge comfort to me at a very rough time.”

  Many, many people had showered Rasul with praise for his work, had told him how much his stories meant to them, but not a one of them shook him like this confession. “I’m… honored to have written something that was able to help you,” he said at last.

  Jacob’s sad smile made Rasul want to draw him into his arms. He resisted the urge.

  With a no-nonsense sigh, Jacob straightened and gestured to the clock again. “If you’d like to stop it, all you have to do is open the glass doors at the bottom and still the pendulum. I don’t have any kind of superstition about it and have turned it off for guests before. It’s another one of those things that annoyed me when I was young, but after my parents’ death, I changed my attitude about it. The clock feels like soothing company now. A steady grounding beat I barely hear consciously but would miss if it were ever gone.” His smile was the polite, distant one he used on the sales floor. “Anyway, I should get back to work. Let me know if you need anything. I’ll probably pop in for lunch once my afternoon worker shows up, but I’ll eat downstairs in the office.”

  With that, Jacob was gone.

  The ticking of the clock was louder when Rasul was alone, but he already knew he’d die before he stopped the pendulum for his own sake. Jacob had been so matter-of-fact when he talked about his parents dying, but it was clear nothing about their absence in his life was simple or tucked neatly behind him.

  Sitting down in the rocking chair, Rasul stared at the clock and rocked unconsciously in time to the clock’s beat. It was quite loud with no other sound in the apartment save the occasional growls from Susan and Mr. Nancy. But it was soothing and hypnotic too.

  He started my book while his parents were dying, finished it when they were gone.

  Rasul had never been in such close, repeated proximity to someone who responded so much to his work, not anyone who didn’t work for his publisher or literary agency. He’d never responded to a book or author like this. While he had books that were important to him for deeply personal reasons, he didn’t have anything like what Jacob described.

  Jacob had said all that, but he didn’t hang on Rasul or try to kiss his ass, or gaze at him with a kind of adoration that made his stomach queasy. He’d basically just said, “Your work is incredibly important to me and got me through a very bad time, thank you,” and then continued with his day. While letting Rasul exist in his space and use his name to deflect bad PR.

  Thunk. Click. Thunk. Click.

  Would Veil of Stars move anyone in that way? God, but Rasul wanted it to. He was aware his debut novel had received a huge boost from the serendipity of the Syrian conflict and stories about refugees drifting into public consciousness at the same time. Critics had loved that he was half-Syrian and could speak with some authority about the culture—not as much as people thought he could, not always, but he wasn’t ignorant about that side of his family’s homeland, no. There was also something about putting a literary polish on complicated matters, and of course delivering everything in an engaging way. Carnivale had been for his mother, a nod to her homeland of Brazil, but he’d also made her angry because he’d touched on political things her family hadn’t liked.

  Veil of Stars was for himself, though he’d only recently realized it. In so many ways it was his story. Sometimes he worried it was too autobiographical, that people would call him on it. Of course the only real biographical part was the main character’s orientation. Bisexual instead of pan, but it was close enough he’d own it. Well, and the part about him being part Arab. Maybe it was pretty autobiographical. Yet all the surreal bits where he could manipulate the universe with his thoughts were not even remotely how his own life had played out.

  Thunk. Click. Thunk. Click.

  He was scared to write. This wasn’t the first time he’d acknowledged that. He was scared he’d suddenly suck at it. Scared of what he might poke inside his own head. Scared it would be great to him but nobody would buy it and people would curl up their noses at him. Several times his agent had suggested he write something, anything, else.

  But to turn away from Veil of Stars felt like turning away from himself. He was in a sticky trap, flailing and making himself more stuck, all while dangers closed in around him.

  Thunk. Click. Thunk. Click.

  What if he let the main character borrow even more of himself? Would that help, or make things worse?

  What if he let some of Jacob bleed into the love interest?

  What if he made this more of a love story than he’d initially planned?

  Was that wrong, to base the character a bit on Jacob? Should he ask permission? How would he do that without making things more awkward? Wasn’t that even more of an aggression than what he’d done already?

  Could he write anything other than a version of Jacob right now, though? That had been the element he’d been missing this whole time, a better characterization for the love interest.

  Could he write such a simple story? Boy meets boy, boy falls in love with boy, boy accidentally rearranges the universe, learns to manage himself, and everyone lives happy ever after? Was that allowed?

  Thunk. Click. Thunk. Click.

  The clock was seriously soothing. Sometimes Rasul became aware of it, but mostly it marked off the seconds of his life one at a time. Every time the clock thunked or clicked, another measure of Rasul’s life was spent. Another second he was past his manuscript’s due date. Another moment closer to his death. Another breath drawn in, pushed out.

  What did Jacob think about as he sat in this chair in the evenings, his life marked into increments by the clock on the wall? Did he think about anything at all?

  Did he think about his parents, whose lifetimes had already been measured out?

  Did he think about Rasul?

  Thunk. Click. Thunk. Click.

  He became so engrossed in the rhythm of rocking and listening to the clock, allowing his mind to unravel, that when the door to the apartment opened and footsteps sounded on the stairs, Rasul startled and leapt to his feet. He stood awkwardly in the center of the room, probably looking guilty, as Jacob passed through the kitchen.

  “Sorry,” he blurted, averting his gaze. “I… got caught up thinking about things and listening to the clock.”

  Surprisingly, this pleased Jacob. “I do the same thing. Sometimes when I’m too overwhelmed from dealing with people, I turn on the electric fireplace—just the light and faux flames in the summer—and rock, listening to the clock, letting my mind unravel. Gus and Matt hate the tick, though. They say they feel like someone is hacking off pieces of their life.”

  Well, yeah, but Rasul kind of dug it. “I met Gus, but who’s Matt?”

  “Matt’s family owns the clothing store next door. Engleton’s Fine Clothing.”

  “Oh, I think I saw him at the gala.”

  “Yes. He was there. He’s the store manager. We sort of have our own unofficial gay chamber of commerce club. It meets here frequently.”

  “That sounds lovely.”

  “It is.” Jacob was back in the kitchen now, putting together a very healthy and delicious-looking sandwich from the fridge. He glanced over his shoulder at Rasul. “Can I make you something?”

  “Oh, no. I don’t want to impose more than I already am, but thank you.”

  “It’s not an imposition, just a sandwich. Do you want turkey, ham, or vegetarian?”

  “Uh, can I have turkey an
d ham? And all the veggies?”

  “Of course. Pickles? They’re dill, not sweet.”

  “Yes, please.”

  Despite what he’d said he would do earlier, Jacob sat at the table with his sandwich, and Rasul followed suit. All three cats appeared from wormholes and placed themselves as close to the table without being on it as possible. Mr. Nancy chose the post beside Rasul’s leg and meowed while scratching his trousers.

  When the same technique was applied to Jacob, he deftly nudged the cat aside. “I advise against giving them scraps. Once they take you as an easy mark, your life is over.”

  “I am kind of an easy mark, though.” Rasul gave Mr. Nancy an apologetic glance and telepathically told him he’d square up with him once the boss was gone.

  “I was wondering,” Jacob said around a bite of sandwich, “when would be a good time to go on a date together?”

  Rasul’s heartbeat, which had synched with the ticking of the clock, briefly stuttered ahead. “Oh? I mean, anytime really, except for my class and office hours. My class is Tuesday and Thursday, six to eight, and my office hours are Monday and Friday ten to noon. Other than that I’m supposed to be trying to write. But I do need to eat. And take breaks. And come listen to your clock tick.”

  God, he hadn’t babbled like that to a crush since he’d been fifteen. In love with the shy boy in the library, unable to sort himself out enough to get a date.

  I should start the book right there. In the library. The two of them alone, listening to the clock tick, and when he can’t bring himself to say anything, the rush of his power stops the moving hands, drops the veil of the universe, and abruptly the two of them are inside their personal nest of stars, unsure of how to get out again.

  With a cry, Rasul rose to his feet, heart galloping now, every sense wired to ninety.

  Jacob regarded him with concern, rising more slowly. “Rasul? Are you all right?”

  He must’ve had wild, terrifying eyes as he turned to his pretend boyfriend. “I just figured out the opening of the book. Maybe. But I really think it will work.”