Booked Up

by Harper Logan

  “I don’t know,” Serge told Tish. “I can’t tell how he feels! And it doesn’t matter! Because I don’t like him!”

  “Then why are we talking about him every time you come over? You had dinner, you got along okay, then you saw him again at the panel—what?”

  Serge shook his head. “Nothing. I don’t need you to bring that up again.”

  “I mean, it sounds like you two have had a good time together. For all that it’s fraught with poor communication skills.”

  “I don’t know that we’ve ever had an actual conversation.”

  “So try again?”

  “Yeah, why don’t I just call him and ask if he wants to give me a blow job?”

  She poured their smoothies into two tall glasses, and pushed one his way. “You could do it the more traditional way, and ask him on a date.”

  “A date. With a guy.”

  “Oh no,” she said in a high, mocking tone, “what will people think if they see me eating dinner with a man?”

  He sipped his smoothie, and licked the berry-flavored froth off of his upper lip. “You should put more blueberries in these. The antioxidants—”

  “Tangent! Are you going to ask him out, or not?”

  “No! Of course I’m not. What if he said no?”

  “What if he said yes? After all, he likes writers. You’re a writer…”

  “He might not like guys either.”

  “So it’s just some miraculous coincidence that the two straightest guys in town got involved in a big suckfest?”

  “God, why do I tell you anything?”

  “Because you always needed a big sister in your life, and now you have one, and all your life’s secrets have to come pouring out, like a smoothie into a glass. Ooh, see, I should be a writer.”

  “I just…can’t. I can’t call him.”

  “Then I’ll call him.”

  “What?”

  “He’s an assistant, he’ll understand that you’re too busy to make your own calls. I’ll set up dinner.”

  “No, seriously, you won’t.”

  She put down her glass and stared him right in the eye. “Sergio Faletti, I have known you since high school. In that time, I have held your hand while you sat around tortured about writing that book. I mailed it off for you. I opened the acceptance letter when you were too chicken. And I’ve had to listen to you gripe about this second book for ages. And in all that time, I’ve never once heard excitement in your voice about anyone you dated. Ever. It’s always, she’s gross, she’s boring, she doesn’t get my jokes. But right now there is this nervous-little-boy thing you’ve got going on that shows me you are seriously interested. I’m not saying you have to marry him. Maybe it won’t work out. But you’re going to give it a try. Quit being a scaredy-cat and call him.”

  “And if he says no?”

  “Then you can ask out one of those boys you’re staring at all the time in the gym.”

  He admitted defeat. “Fine. I will call him. But you really are the most awful person on earth.”

  13

  Cam

  Madeleine took it better than expected, merely choking on her cigarette smoke. “Sergio Faletti asked you on a date?”

  “I don’t know! I mean, it might not be a date. I have no idea. Dinner, he said.”

  “Dinner.” She peered at him. “We know what happened last time you two were in a restaurant together.”

  “I don’t get it,” Cam said. The voicemail, coming days after their last conversation, had been direct, to the point. I’d like it if we could get together and talk over dinner. No mention of any of the drama that had taken place before. Nothing about the review, the panel, or the fact that Sergio had been turning booksellers against Madeleine.

  “Is he trying to poach my assistant?” Madeleine wondered aloud.

  “I doubt it.”

  “Don’t be too sure. You know my reputation. I only hire the best.” She scrunched her nose and shook her head. “Quit smiling. Gloating is unattractive. I only mean that he must realize you are an effective assistant. He probably needs someone to research those awful guns for him. Don’t you despise books that go on and on about calibers and the smell of oil? It’s almost masturbatory, the love these people put into their description of guns. One wonders what their readers could possibly be thinking.”

  Pistols in Pisa hadn’t really had any descriptions of guns, but he wasn’t going to argue with Madeleine. He’d finished the book in one long session. Sunday afternoon, reclined on one of the white couches, a cup of hot tea by his side, Cam opened the book. His teeth hadn’t been bared, but he still felt a primal anger at the book, this symbol of its author.

  That anger hadn’t survived past the first page. The story—an intricate mystery involving the theft of a cache of ancient firearms and a collection of 13th century mystical poetry—was gripping enough, but had what propelled Cam forward through the book was the picture it gave him of Sergio’s mind.

  The story seemed to want to be all bluster and storming, full of proclamations about a man’s place in the world, the necessity of violence, the inevitability of death and the role of honor in that death.

  Not the most joyous read, but in its plot and themes, not terribly different from a hundred other philosophic takes on the noir mystery. Detective Valentino could hardly punch a crook without launching into a page of maudlin reflection about it. His liaisons with women prompted questions about whether sex was ever worth the damage and entanglement.

  But through it all was this character of Valentino, and the difference between how he thought of himself, and how others treated him. Women dropped at his feet, and men puffed up and made fists, ready to fight. Everyone saw him as the emblem of the great detective. But how did he see himself? A quiet poet, seeking peace and order, appalled at the chaos of the world, and deeply concerned that anyone should know the truth about him: that he wanted nothing to do with violence and crime. That he wanted to live in a little house near a lake in the village he’d grown up in, surrounded by books and sun and peace. But no one could know this about him. It would have detracted from his power, his reputation, his ability to solve the case.

  Cam had come away worrying a little over Sergio. He was still furious at him. But there was so much sadness and frustration in that novel.

  It wasn’t so different from Madeleine’s books, really, except that in hers, the sadness and frustration always turned into wisdom at the end. Sometimes it was a long process. Sometimes painful. But there was always some comfort there, like a cherished friend waiting for you at the end of a long journey, holding her hands out to greet you. There was nobody at the end of Pistols in Pisa to greet Detective Valentino. He ended the book as he had begun, completely alone in bewildering chaos.

  When Cam finished the book last night, he’d set it down on his nightstand and thought about how his life had become more and more lonely. And he wondered what it must be like for Sergio here, in a new place, knowing almost no one. Getting involved in a rivalry for reasons Cam couldn’t fathom, and alienating the community around him.

  And now, this voicemail. Was it a date? Had Sergio thought about their conversation? Was he asking to see Cam so they could use each other for information? That would be so sad. Cam couldn’t even believe he’d proposed a bargain, trading physicality for secrets.

  Of course he wasn’t going to tell Madeleine any of that. She didn’t need to know that they’d had sex of any kind. She had her suspicions of the things that had gone on between them, but he didn’t think he’d ever be able to live it down if she’d known specifics.

  He couldn’t deny being a little thrilled by the invitation.

  And then immediately had second thoughts. Was he setting himself up for disappointment? If all Sergio wanted was to further the drama between him and Madeleine, it would be so horrible.

  Cam shook his head. He had to snap out of this.

  “So call him back and tell him you’re sorry you can’t make it,” she said
.

  That caught him short. “Wait, why?”

  “Because if he’s not after you as an assistant, then he’s after you as a way of getting to me. And I won’t tolerate any of his backstabbing.”

  “I don’t think that’s what this is.”

  “You don’t. He has poisoned our local booksellers against me, he has destroyed me in print, and you don’t see his invitation as a way to further his vendetta against me?”

  Don’t act like you’re innocent, he wanted to say. But of course he couldn’t. “No. Look, you saw the early sales figures. Dona Quintana is doing fine, regardless of his review. In spite of it. Maybe even because of it. People really stood up to defend you.”

  “Yes, and so I should declare victory in this brief feud. And I would, except I need to understand why he is inviting you out!” She stubbed out her cigarette and rose from her desk. She went to the kitchen, and took a croissant out of its pink box. Breaking it apart, she said, “Perhaps I should send you to the dinner anyway. Pump him for information. Find out what his next move is.”

  Cam groaned. Could everyone stop trying to use him as a pawn? “He doesn’t have a next move. He’s got his own book to worry about.”

  “Yes, yes, Gatlings in Genoa.”

  “I doubt that’s the title.”

  “AK-47s in the Apennines. Uzis in Umbria. Bazookas—”

  “Now who’s obsessed with guns?”

  “It interests me that it has been so long since we’ve heard anything about this new book. I wonder if he’s having trouble with it? Wouldn’t that be marvelous?”

  For a writer, Sergio had seemed very reticent to talk about his new book when he’d spoken to Cam.

  “I don’t know that I would call it marvelous,” he said.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” she said. “You must call him and accept. You must go to this dinner with him. You must find out everything! How far along he is in his book. Has he even written a word?”

  “I can’t ask him that.”

  “Darling, it’s simply what an assistant asks! It’s very professional to ask!”

  “But it’s not necessarily a professional—”

  “What?”

  “I just mean—”

  “Oh, Cam. Cam. Are you thinking Sergio is attracted to you?”

  “No, I didn’t say that, that’s not what I meant.”

  “Dear, I was joking when I called it a date. When I originally suggested you throw yourself at him, ages ago, I thought there might be a chance he would be receptive, but clearly not. I suppose we must believe the veracity of these tales of his exploits… as numerous as they are tedious. I have asked around. His taste in women is depressingly pedestrian.”

  What could he say? Nothing. He could only stand there, stammering.

  “I’m so sorry,” said Madeleine. “I thought you understood that, after your failed pass.” She raised a hand to her lips. “You were attracted to him!”

  “Madeleine!”

  “You were! Oh, I can see why, he’s handsome enough, well-built, far better-looking than I expected. I really thought he must be a bloated troll. But sweet, innocent Cam, just because you find a man handsome, doesn’t make him bend your way.”

  “This is the most embarrassing conversation I have ever had.”

  “At least you do have motivation for the dinner now. You’re not merely the professional assistant, but the attracted, passionate young man, eager to pump Sergio for secrets!”

  “You didn’t have to say pump!”

  She cackled in delight. “Oh, Cam, don’t you worry. When all this is over, I will find someone for you. I know quite a few sweet young men who would be eager to go out with you.”

  “I’m just going to hide under the rug now.”

  “No, no. You go hurry home.”

  “Home? But we still have to go over the—”

  “No. Darling, you can’t go on your first big date with the sexy writer you’ll be plotting against, wearing that. As much as I love your sloppy cardigans, and you know I do, I want you to be sharper and fresher for your sensual encounter.”

  “Ugh, stop!”

  Her laughter followed him all the way to the street.

  14

  Serge

  When Cam didn’t show, Serge thought he was going to die.

  What’s the protocol for when someone says they’ll go out with you and then they don’t arrive? He didn’t know. This wasn’t in the guidebook.

  He checked his phone, but there were no voicemails or texts. He stayed on it a little while, staring at the latest emails from his agent and editor. Maybe after tonight, he’d go home and bang out a chapter, just to keep them happy. Or maybe Cam wouldn’t show up at all, and he could go home early and write even more.

  He penned a quick text to Tish

  >Serge: He’s not here yet.

  >Tish: Give him time. Maybe there was traffic.

  >Serge: Or maybe he isn’t going to show.

  >Tish: Do you need me to drive over and hold your hand?

  One of the things he’d always heard about authors doing is listening in on conversations. His favorite creative writing professor had always said a writer’s first duty, when out in public, was to eavesdrop. So he clicked off his phone and tried to listen in. It was hard, though; he kept looking towards the entrance for Cam.

  The couple beside his table were fighting. It wasn’t loud, and they were clearly worried about other people hearing.

  “Honestly, Joseph, if I’d known you were married, I never would have answered your ad.”

  “Divorced, Jessica. I’m divorced.”

  “You’re not.”

  “I mean, divorcing.”

  “You’ve filed the papers?”

  “Not yet, but you know we’ve been talking about it—”

  “Hush! I think that guy over there is listening.”

  Serge quickly looked back down at his phone.

  What if Cam just wasn’t coming? Serge tried to remember how he’d sounded during their earlier conversation. Eager? Yeah, that was it, Cam had sounded eager to go out.

  But sometimes people sounded eager, really too positive, when they were trying to figure out how to say ‘no’ to something but they were failing, so they revved up the other way. Was Cam trying to tell him ‘no’?

  He never should have called Cam. Tish was wrong. This entire situation, the petty revenge, the awkward conversations, they added to a history that could not possibly be ignored. Of course Cam meant “no” when he said “yes,” and of course he wouldn’t know how to say “no.” How do you suck a guy’s dick, then pick a fight, then ask him out? Cam must think he was either stupid or evil.

  Serge wasn’t either one. He was just confused. And this dinner was supposed to help him get clear on a few things about himself, but that could really only happen if Cam was here, and he wasn’t, so where was he?

  Sighing, Serge popped open his texts again. He picked Cam’s name off his contacts list.

  > Hey, just wanted to make sure I gave you the right time—

  He quickly deleted that. Jesus. That was awful.

  > You did say you wanted to come, right—

  Delete.

  > It really sucks to stand a person up—

  > I can’t believe you didn’t even call to cancel—

  Finally:

  > Hey I’m here where r u?

  He tapped it out and pressed Send.

  Within seconds, the answer came:

  >Cam: Sorry, I claudication.

  Serge looked puzzled at his phone.

  >Cam: Sorry, not claudication. I claudication. Damn it autocorrect! SORRY. I. CAUGHT EVERY LIGHT. ON MY WEIGH. WAY. DAMN IT.

  But now Serge was even more nervous. When he’d thought Cam was standing him up, that was one thing…but now he was about to be here! Sitting right there in that chair!

  He told himself to calm down. He’d been on dates. This wasn’t new territory. It wasn’t a blind date. It was just with a guy. Th
at was the only difference.

  But when Cam walked in, wearing a gray flannel suit with a black and white checked shirt that all looked just slightly too big for him, making him look a little bit lost and a little bit innocent, Serge didn’t know what to do with the burst of happiness he felt. This was new territory indeed, and he didn’t know how to navigate it. He halfway stood up so he could wave at Cam, then felt like he was being awkward standing up only halfway, and got entirely out of his chair.

  Cam smiled bashfully as he approached…then they stood at the table.

  Were they supposed to hug? Shake hands? Serge extended his hand a couple of inches then pulled it back. He swallowed. “I’m glad you could make it.”

  Cam nodded, his mouth opening but no words coming out. Then he closed his lips, scowled, and tried again. “Me too. I’m glad you asked me.”

  They stared at one another for a moment.

  “Maybe we should sit down,” said Serge.

  “Let’s,” said Cam.

  “So. How have you been?” Serge could have punched himself in the head. How was that even the first question that occurred to him? It was literally the most stupid question anyone had ever asked. Or was it just good manners? He was so freaked out he couldn’t think.

  What was this? Why was Cam having an effect like this on him?

  “I’m…fine,” said Cam, with a small hesitation where he pulled on his shirt cuff and looked around. “Madeleine always talks about this place, but I’ve never been. Is it good?”

  “I’ve never been here.”

  They sat silently for a moment.

  Cam began, “Look, I don’t want—”

  At the same time, Serge said, “I hate the idea that—”

  “Sorry, you go first.”

  “No, you.”

  Cam sighed. “This is awkward.”

  “God, I know.”

  The server came and took drink orders, the house red for Cam, and spring water for Serge. Cam raised an eyebrow. “You don’t drink?”

  “Empty calories,” said Serge. “I try to be careful.”