by Pippa Grant
There’s also a freelance reporter who works for Bustle, an NPR editorial director, the newscaster who emceed the bachelor auction, and someone from Library Journal coming.
I’m bringing my friends as two more romance lovers. Willow’s been reading Harlequins since she was twelve, and Sia just loves a good love story. Much as I love Eloise, though, I know better than to let her near reporters, so I blackmailed Sia into making her brothers take Eloise out for the afternoon.
Which is basically the only thing that could have kept her from being here.
“Wow, this place is packed,” Willow says as we walk in mid-afternoon.
I hand our tickets to Knox’s boss, Gertie, who looks more than a little constipated. “Just…be good,” she tells me.
As if I could be anything else.
My butterflies are already starting for my own performance tonight. We’ll be cutting it close to get back to my place and get changed before the reunion, and I need to be there the whole time so I don’t miss Randy.
And after tonight—after my reunion and after this event—Knox and I are basically done.
Because that was the deal.
I refuse to think about it as we step into the community events room on the second floor. The scent of books surrounds us. I’ll never be able to sniff a book again without thinking of him.
And I’ll probably do a lot of book-sniffing in the next few months, because even though I know it’s for the best, I don’t know how I’m going to let him go.
“Hey, pretty lady.” My worries are forgotten, because Knox is suddenly there beside me, his hand settling naturally at the small of my back, tension vibrating out his pores, his smile deceptively easy and relaxed. He’s in dark jeans and a chest-hugging polo with an official library employee badge dangling from his neck.
Like it always does, the sight of him makes me tingle in all my favorite tingly spots, though I’m nervous about that tingling in my chest.
“Got a minute?” he says. “Sia, Willow, thanks for coming. Grab a seat. We’re starting soon.”
“We’ll save you a spot,” Willow tells me.
Two rows up, Lila Valentine turns and waves. She has that beautifully feminine name, like she could be Lila Valentine, Goddess of Love. Her hair is the best thing to happen to New York since Debra Messing in Will & Grace. And I have this weird feeling in my gut that we have way more in common than I ever could’ve expected.
“I have three seats,” she says to my friends, who happily skitter up the row to climb in and join her.
“Did you call her?” I ask Knox.
“Nope.”
And there goes that little hitch between my shoulder blades.
Do I think he’s right, that romance novels are wrongly dismissed in literary circles? I do, actually. I’ve listened to two this week on my commute, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t hooked.
And impressed. There’s so much reality packed in so many of those books, I could cry.
But putting his job on the line to get the approval of a snooty newspaper? It’s insane. And I think he knows it. There are tight lines around his eyes. I don’t know if anybody else notices, but he’s definitely worried.
I squeeze his hand. “If you’re interested, you should do it. Sounds right up your alley. Or your bookshelf.”
“I already have a job. Don’t need a second.”
My dad worked himself to death, he’d finally confessed to me the other night. Balance is important. Then he’d poked me. For all of us.
Yes, I work long hours. But I also have an outlet in my band, and no family obligations or responsibilities. Plus, I like my job.
Except for maybe today. Ask me after my reunion.
He steers me to the side, where a woman with a pinched face and a guy in a mustard brown sport coat with elbow patches are chatting with a tall brunette woman in kick-ass boots, black leggings, a white top, and a sporty, light suit jacket with buckles on the sides. “Why would anyone question a woman’s ability to do anything in this day and age? We’re pilots and professors and researchers and scientists. What did your mother do, Mr. Sampson?”
“She was a homemaker,” poop suit says. “Happy to do it.”
“Did you ever ask your mother if she was happy to be a homemaker, or do you just assume she didn’t have any greater aspirations? Wasn’t she raising you about the same time Katherine Johnson was calculating trajectory paths for NASA?”
Knox is sporting some smug in his smile as the pinched-face middle-aged woman tilts a brow at poop suit.
Yes, I know that’s the venerated Times reporter, but I prefer to call him poop suit.
What? It’s nicer than dick.
“Interesting question,” the woman with poop suit says. “Mr. Moretti, what did your mother do?”
“She was a librarian and an inspiration. Sitting right over there if you want to talk to her too.” He points to Judy, who waves and blows us both a kiss from her folding chair in the front row. “Parker, this is Jedidiah Sampson and Ruth Aarons from the Times, and MK Meredith, who’s joining us from DC as one of our featured authors tonight.”
I hold out a hand, which MK bypasses in favor of a warm hug that smells vaguely like peanut butter. In a good way. “So nice to meet you. I was just telling these lovely reporters how romance novels could bring about world peace if more men would read them instead of mocking them.”
“Can’t argue with that.” I like her. The two reporters, I’m not so sure about. “Mr. Sampson. Ms. Aarons. Pleasure to meet you.”
Both of them smile at me. “Ms. Elliott.” Ruth’s wearing the expression of a shark circling a baby dolphin. As if she’s going to get me. “The mysterious fiancée.”
“Yep, I’m one of those mythical, mysterious New York career woman who fall in love with intelligent men who like to read. We’re enigmas. So rarely seen.”
“And you’re suddenly engaged to Mr. Romance.”
“When it’s right, it’s right.”
“You two are adorable,” MK says.
“It’s not strange that your fiancé reads romance novels?” Ruth presses.
“Love is what makes us human. Knox’s blog is beautiful, and what he does matters in this world.” The fact that this is rehearsed makes it no less true. Some of the comments I’ve seen on his blog—mothers and sisters and daughters who have sought solace in romance novels after death, divorce, illnesses, and other tragedies, much like he himself did—have made me wonder how my life would be different if I’d read romance novels during some of my darker years.
Like high school.
“I find it interesting that he’s only recently mentioned you, considering his reputation,” Ruth says.
“Mr. Romance is about great books that Knox is passionate about. And that’s why his readers keep coming back. His blog isn’t about him, it’s about them. He’s giving them what they want.”
“You read romance novels?”
“I’m new to the genre, but I could’ve used some of these amazing books Knox has introduced me to years ago.”
“Parker’s a vice president at Crunchy, and she plays in a band on the weekends.” Knox supplies.
“Not a lot of time to read for pleasure,” I add with a shrug of and that’s such a shame.
“I call it self-improvement,” MK says.
I smile at her. “My life has definitely improved since romance novels came into it.”
“There’s nothing weak or wrong about hope and love.”
Amen, sister.
Knox squeezes my waist. “Three minutes until the program starts, MK. Excuse us, Mr. Sampson. Ms. Aarons. Hope you enjoy yourselves tonight.”
“Pleasure to meet you all.” Little conversations are going on all around the room. I can’t pick out the other reporters, but I watch Knox’s gaze sweep over the room, and I know they’re there. Willow and Sia are laughing with Lila, and a squat little man with a bulging vein in his forehead is glaring at me from one side of the room as Knox nudges
me toward the seats. I go up on tiptoe and kiss his cheek. “You’re doing great,” I tell him.
He meets my eyes, all green flame and determination. “Thank you.”
My belly flutters. He squeezes my hand one last time, and then he’s off to run the show.
I’m not sure how many people will fit in this room, but it’s well over a hundred. Probably closer to two, and we’re squished in like sardines. There are smiles all around, chocolates being passed from one book-lover to another, and a full panel of guest speakers lining up on the raised dais at the front of the room.
“The Times are complete and total dicks if they ruin this,” Lila says softly to me as I take the seat between her and Willow.
“Think they’ll be asses again?”
“Fifty-fifty odds. Thank you, by the way, for passing on my message.”
“Glad to help. He call yet?”
“No, but he said hi to me when I got here.”
Progress.
Mr. Jedidiah and Ms. Aarons pause on their way down the center aisle and peer at Lila and me. “Ms. Valentine, didn’t you win Mr. Romance in a bachelor auction not all that long ago?”
“Great night for literacy,” Lila says.
“And friends.” I smile, Lila squeezes me in a shoulder-hug, and we both wave at them.
Weird?
Yes.
But far from the weirdest moment of my life.
And honestly, much better than what I’m facing next.
32
Parker
My reunion starts in one hour and four minutes, and I am a flipping disaster. It’s so bad, I think even Sia and Willow know something’s wrong.
We’re still at the library. The program was amazing, and now there are about four hundred more books that I want to read. Which will have to wait, because we need to go.
But Knox is still talking to Nancy, the newscaster who did the bachelor auction. She remembered me too, and I think she sniffs a story. She’s still peppering him with questions while her cameraman films it all. Even Judy’s chewing on a fingernail.
Knox’s boss—not Gertie, who’s a total sweetheart, but the grumpy bald dude whose face reminds me of one of my ex’s infected testicles—has been getting twitchier and twitchier, but he still has nothing on me.
“I really need to go,” I whisper to Judy. It’s physically impossible to stand still. “We need to go.”
The Times reporters are gone, as are most of the people who came to the program, including Sia, Willow, and Lila, who snuck out without a word to Nancy the Newscaster. A couple bloggers are still chatting with the last two authors and one of the reporters.
Knox cuts a look at me.
Go on, that look says.
I’ll meet you there, that look says.
I’m pretty sure my face replies Oh, fuck, no.
One eyebrow twitch is all I get back.
One eyebrow twitch of you can do this, Parker. I believe in you.
Dammit.
“I have to go,” I say to Judy again. “Tell Knox—just tell him to meet me at the high school. Wear whatever. But I need to go get changed.”
“He’ll be there as soon as he can.” Judy squeezes my arm. “If he loses this job…” she murmurs.
“I know.”
More than that he needs a job, he loves this job. And his patrons love him. Or so I assume by the number of women who stopped on their way out to tell me how lucky I am, or how his recommendations changed their lives, or how much they hate those Times reporters and how glad they are that he put them in their place.
He belongs here. Even if his blog could put food on his table and keep a roof over his and Nana’s heads, it wouldn’t give him the human interaction he needs.
Same for Lila’s job offer.
“Go on,” Judy says. “Your classmates aren’t going to recognize you. I can’t wait to hear all about tonight.”
I just can’t wait until it’s over.
Instead of going home, I race to the nearest department store and grab the first dress that fits, then splurge on a pair of Louboutins that the sales lady assures me will say fuck you, high school bitches, check out my shoes now.
My knee bounces the entire ride to my old high school. No renting out a hotel ballroom for this reunion. Nope, we need the full experience of lingering cafeteria food smell, squeaky tile floors, and the dank mustiness of sixty years of high school misery. But I’m barely out of my Lyft before I spot disaster. “What the hell?”
All four of my brothers are lingering just inside the fence surrounding the school grounds. Rhett, Gavin, Brooks, and Jack, all in suits, none of them fresh-shaven, all sporting identical We’re going to kick someone’s ass faces.
“Ready for your reunion,” Rhett says.
Jack looks like he’d rather gouge his eyeballs out with a dull spoon than be here. I can relate.
“Figured sissy-boy could use some backup,” Gavin adds. “Where is sissy-boy?”
“Stuck at work. He’ll be here soon.” Never thought I’d hear myself say that about Knox, but there it is. I texted him when I hopped in the car, and I’m still waiting for his reply.
“Also, you are not coming in,” I say, earning a curious glance from a couple in matching jeans and Julian Oakland High sweatshirts.
Oh, fuck. Was this supposed to be casual?
“No defense for sissy-boy working?” Brooks asks with a smirk.
“Go have your pissing contest somewhere else. Aren’t you supposed to be playing a game tonight?”
“Family emergency.”
My brothers combined are almost as big as Sia’s brothers combined. In a normal situation, with normal humans, they stand on their own and are supposedly a fairly intimidating bunch. I’ve known them too long for them to be anything other than four annoying nuisances.
Also, Knox can hold his own with each of them. I’m almost positive.
Whenever he gets here.
Which better be soon, because I don’t know if I can do this.
Still, I shoulder through the wall of my brothers like I’m large and in charge. And I can’t deny some comfort at knowing they’re trailing me up the stairs and into the tan-brick-and-windowed building.
We check in at the registration desk, a fancied-up cafeteria table, which—of course—is manned by the former head cheerleader. Nary a wrinkle, gray hair, or sag to her boobs. She probably married a billionaire and had some work done. Would it be petty of me to hope he’s also left her for a younger model?
“Oh my G-O-D,” she says. “Did Pimple Popper Parker hire you to play her tonight?”
Nope. Not petty.
My heart rate is leaping into the stratosphere. The terror of reliving the trauma of high school floods my mouth, and my confidence shrinks to the size of a pimple. She looks Brooks up and down and mrrowls. Seriously. She mrrowls at my brother. “Hello, you handsome devil. What’s your name?”
Brooks gestures to his nose. “Ah, you’ve got something…”
Her eyes flare and she lunges under the table, coming up with a compact mirror. “What? Where?”
“Oh, sorry. Thought that was your nose, but your asshole’s showing, and you sprouted two,” he says. “You’re not in high school anymore. Grow up.”
Her jaw hits the table. He peels the backing off my nametag, and rubs it onto my breast. “Do me, baby?”
I’m going to kill my brother. But not until someone actually recognizes him as my brother. “Again?” I grit out.
I push too hard making sure I get that nametag on good and solid. Still, it’s working, because my blood pressure is actually going down.
Brooks tucks my arm into his elbow and turns us to follow the crowd of my former classmates trailing past lockers to the cafeteria.
Behind me, Ms. Former Head Cheerleader is sputtering to my other three brothers. “You can’t go in there without an invitation. I’ll call security.”
“I am fucking security,” Rhett growls, and I know he’ll do something in
sane like climb the walls to Spider-Man his way across the ceiling to get in if he has to. “And you’re fucking pissing me off.”
Okay, fine. Sometimes having brothers isn’t so bad.
“I still don’t understand why you’re here,” Brooks says.
“Closure.”
“Liar.”
“It’s because her jackass boss wants her to talk to Mr. Pickle,” Rhett supplies.
Gavin growls. Jack doesn’t say anything, but I know he’s back there, lurking with us.
After a lap around the cafeteria, we’ve concluded Randy Pickle isn’t here. We’ve also concluded that only half the football jocks got fat and bald and took jobs selling furniture at their uncle’s stores—or something similar—and some of them think thrusting their hips at me while their wives or dates or whoever watch is appropriate, and the rest think Whoa, dude, you grew up to be a girl is a nice thing to tell my boobs. My brothers take turns as my escort, with three branching out to look for Randy while one makes sure I don’t need to suddenly be whisked away and saved from myself or anyone else.
“Not so sure I would’ve bid on Tarzan, but I’m beginning to think that bachelor auction is the smartest thing you’ve ever done,” Gavin tells me after we’re propositioned for a three-way by my old geography teacher.
Who, for the record, was student teaching back then, so he’s not that much older than me. Also, he should know Gavin’s my brother, but he’s now sporting more hair out his ears than he is on the top of his head, and I’m wondering if the space between his ears has suffered as much as his hairline.
“You’re such a dick magnet.” Jack plays the quietest of my brothers—keyword being plays—and has uttered exactly five words since we got in the building. “If Tarzan fucks with you, I’ll fucking kill him.”
“I can kill my own ex-boyfriends,” I tell him. “Butt out.”
“Parker? Parker Elliott?”
I recognize the hint of a squeak in the feminine voice, and when I turn, I actually squeal. “Melly Schnozzleheimer!”
“Melly Johnson,” she corrects with a smile. “Thank God I didn’t get married until my late twenties, right?”
