Love Literary Style

by Karin Gillespie

  Aaron shook his head.

  “It’s the imposter story line. Like in Maid in Manhattan or While You Were Sleeping. It’s my favorite complication in a rom-com. To be honest, it’s tricky to extend it for the length of a movie or a book. Talk about your suspension of disbelief.”

  Aaron felt like she was speaking a foreign language. What was a rom-com?

  “If you’re not Laura T. Leer—” he said.

  “Ha! Not even close.”

  “Then who are you?”

  “No genius, I can tell you that. I can barely solve the Jumble in the newspaper, although I’m pretty decent at the People crossword puzzle. I’m plain old Laurie Lee who works as a temp and is planning to go to school in the fall.”

  At least she was furthering her education. “What are you studying?”

  “Nails.”

  “Nails?” Aaron was thinking of nails that were hammered into walls.

  “Nails.” Laurie wagged her ten red fingernails.

  Aaron had no idea such schools existed. “And what do you write?”

  “I already told you. Romance.”

  “Ahem...When you say romance…Are you to referring to parlor fiction?”

  “What fiction?”

  “Books with heaving bosoms and tumescent breeches?”

  She ran a hand down his chest. “You keep talking like that, mister, and you’re going to lose your breeches.”

  Aaron captured her hand. “Can we be serious for a moment?”

  “If you insist.” She pouted. “What was your question again? Oh yes, breeches. No breeches in my books, only blue jeans that are constantly shimmying down my hero’s hips. I write contemporary romances. Like you.”

  “You’re mistaken. I don’t write romance.”

  “But you told me your novel is about the relationship between a man and a woman.”

  “There’s a relationship in my novel, but it’s not a romance.”

  “Are you sure? Because sometimes when men write romances publishers like to call them ‘love stories.’ Like with R.K. Harris’s books.”

  “Who?”

  “I told you about him. He’s the gold standard of male-authored love stories. Although his first one, Love’s Prophet, is definitely the best.”

  “For once and for all, I don’t—”

  “How does Wilbur categorize your work?”

  “It’s not Wilbur, it’s Wilner, which is an imprint of W&W.”

  “W&W? Woo hoo! That humongous publisher?”

  “Yes.”

  “Cherry St. James, my favorite romance writer, is published by W&W…You’re sure you’re not writing romance?”

  “I keep telling you. I don’t write—”

  She wound a strand of Aaron’s hair around her index finger. “Are you balking at the romance label because you’re a guy? You’d be surprised at how many guys—”

  “I don’t write romance!”

  Laurie untangled her fingers from his hair; she sat up straight. “Good gravy. You don’t have to yell.”

  “I apologize, but you weren’t listening to me.”

  “And I don’t particularly like your tone. You said ‘romance’ like you’d say ‘hog entrails’ or ‘raw sewage.’”

  “I didn’t.”

  “You did.”

  Maybe his tone was a little negative. Aaron always maintained that genre writers were formulaic, predictable and had no respect for Craft. And romance was the least appealing of all the genres. Why bother reading a book when you knew what the outcome would be?

  “I didn’t mean to use a tone. Who’s the publisher of your romance novels?”

  “Breathless Press.”

  “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “That’s because it’s my publishing company.”

  “You own a small press?”

  “I suppose you could say that. But I’m the only author.”

  “You’re self-published?”

  “Indie-published, but yes. That’s me. I know it’s not Wilbur but—”

  “Wilner. What are your aspirations? Are you hoping one day to be traditionally published?”

  “Maybe. But honestly, right now all I want is a few more readers. And I would love to win the Pink Heart.” She got a faraway look in her eyes. “I can just imagine that beautiful trophy on my mantel.”

  “I’m not familiar with—”

  “The Pink Heart is a romance award for pre-pubbed authors. If I won it, I’d feel like the Cinderella of the romance world.”

  How did they determine a winner? Aaron wondered. Did they pick out the least banal?

  “What about you? If you don’t write romance, what do you write?”

  “Literary fiction.”

  “You mean book club fiction?”

  “Definitely not.” Aaron had strong objections to book club fiction, because it was commercial fiction masquerading as important fiction.

  “Give me an example.”

  “Blood Meridian.”

  She feigned a shiver. “Sounds like horror.”

  “The Body Artist.”

  She smiled. “Kinky.”

  “The Human Stain.”

  “Eww. Get out the Comet.”

  “I take it you haven’t read any of these novels?” He was trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice.

  “I stick with romantic comedies mostly. It’s what I like to write too. Are you upset I’m not Laura T. Leer?”

  She waited for his answer, and for the first time he saw how affected her mannerisms were. Cocked head, pursed lips, almost as if she was posing for a cheesecake shot. A parody of a coquette. There was nothing quite real about her.

  Under any other circumstances he’d have never coupled with her; they had nothing in common, and yes, to be honest, he was a little let down. All this time her impressive resume had colored his view of her.

  When she made a seemingly silly comment, it surely had a double meaning that escaped him. When she cracked a joke, he judged it to be more clever than it might have been. When she did something unexpected, he deemed it to be fresh instead of silly or impulsive.

  Being with her these past few day was like watching a film with an unexpected plot twist at the end. Aaron felt as if he has to rewind his entire colony experience to pick up on clues he’d missed.

  But did he need to say this to her? Not particularly. Their time together was almost done. She had yet to express a desire to see him when they returned home, which, considering the recent development, was probably for the best. The heightened atmosphere of the writers’ colony, along with frequent and energetic sex, had obviously disguised their numerous differences.

  “I’m not upset. I’m pleased that you are…uh…”

  “Laurie Lee.”

  “Right.”

  “Great.” She jumped up from the couch. “Let me get your surprise.”

  He’d forgotten all about that. She returned, hands behind her back.

  “Pick a hand.”

  “Right hand?”

  She extended an empty hand. “Nope.”

  “Left hand then?”

  “Wrong again!”

  Would he have enjoyed this game if she was still a MacArthur Genius recipient? Now that she was a self-published romance author it seemed a little childish. “It appears we’ve run out of hands.”

  She glanced down at her bosom and winked. While she went to retrieve the surprise, she’d donned a light summer sweater over her dress, and she now looked boxy in the chest area.

  Aaron decided to play along. He unbuttoned her sweater and fished out a small square package that was nestled in her cleavage.

  “That tickles.”

 
He unwrapped the package and turned it over in his hands. She’d given him Words of Comfort, the book his mother used to read to him during tornados.

  Aaron couldn’t speak for a moment. Finally he said, “I would have assumed this was out of print.”

  “It was. A used bookstore had it, and they sent it via overnight mail.”

  He hadn’t seen the book in years and the familiar cover awakened the smell of peppermint on his mother’s breath and his small trembling form pressed against the warmth of her chest. It also brought to light a very specific day, parts of which continued to haunt him.

  “Do you like it?”

  Aaron nodded.

  “I’m glad.”

  He looked up from the book and when he did, his gaze met hers. Aaron no longer saw Laura T. Leer, revered Featherstone author. Nor did he see the cartoonish romance author he’d reduced her to only moments ago. Instead a new version of Laurie assembled itself before him, someone he couldn’t easily categorize, but felt a visceral urge to know.

  It was obvious Aaron was disappointed she wasn’t Ms. Genius Girl. His jaw was dragging so much she was surprised he didn’t get carpet burn. His reaction wounded Laurie, even though she tried not to show it. All this time and Aaron hadn’t been smitten with her at all, but with some smarty pants writer who was so different from Laurie she might as well have been from another planet called Brainiac.

  Fine, she thought. I’ll just give him his stupid gift—which she shouldn’t have bought because people in flings didn’t buy each other presents—and then I’ll leave the colony early and never see him again. But then she gave him Words of Comfort, and when she saw the naked expression on his face, it was as if someone had reached into her rib cage and gave her heart a twist.

  “I apologize,” Aaron said. “I was just startled...All this time, I thought...”

  “I understand.”

  He glanced down at the book. “This is a wonderful gift. One of the best I’ve ever received.”

  “I debated whether or not I should order it...I didn’t want you to think...You made it pretty clear from the onset that you had this whole other life back home.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The hippo in the room?”

  Aaron laughed. “Do you mean the elephant? And I was referring to the fact that back home you were a renowned author and I’m just a man with a book contract.”

  “You couldn’t have been more wrong about that. So you’re not involved with someone else?”

  “My girlfriend broke up with me before I came here. You?”

  “No one. But....”

  “What?”

  “I was married. For only a month. But then my husband died.”

  “I’m so sorry. How long ago?”

  “Over a year. It was really hard at first, but...I’m trying to move on from my grief.”

  Silence and then they both spoke at the same time.

  “I don’t imagine—”

  “I was thinking that maybe—”

  Aaron laughed. “Ladies first.”

  “We haven’t talked about where we’re from, but I’m from Atlanta...Well, Decatur—”

  “I live in Atlanta too. Virginia Highlands.”

  “That’s so close to me.”

  “We’re practically neighbors.”

  But in some ways we’re really far apart, Laurie thought. Their roles had been reversed. She was the lowly self-published author, and he was the man with a book contract from a big publisher. That didn’t bother her, but she couldn’t speak for Aaron.

  Aaron glanced down at the book and back at her. “I’d like to see you after our colony time is over.”

  Laurie flung her arms around him. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Eight

  Being in love was an utterly unfamiliar state to Aaron. With Emma it had always been more about companionship. There was no euphoria, sleeplessness, loss of appetite or excessive attention to insignificant details about a lover’s appearance. (Laurie had a tiny birthmark on her right thigh that looked exactly like a map of Italy, and Aaron stumbled into a state of wonderment over this tiny imperfection every time he saw it.)

  The only state he could compare it to was when he first started MFA school and became obsessed with the craft of writing. For an entire magical year he could think of nothing else, and it made him giddy. That state ended when his father read his first novel and found it lacking. Now Aaron approached Craft in a more intellectually appropriate manner.

  But his feelings for Laurie seemed to resist intellectual examination, common sense or restraint. Any well-read person knew that happy endings belonged in the realm of children’s fairy tales, and that most romantic relationships were doomed, particularly when they involved a couple of opposites. There was Romeo and Juliet, The Hunchback of Notre Dame, The Great Gatsby, Anna Karenina and Tristan and Isolde. He could go on.

  Opposites attracting worked in novels because it kept the conflict level high. Without conflict, fiction was dead on the page. But in real life, too much conflict could kill a relationship.

  On the other hand, over time, Aaron might influence Laurie to broaden her reading horizons. One of the reasons she was immature in her literary tastes was because she’d had little exposure to excellent writing.

  A week after they got back from the colony, Aaron ordered two copies of Laura T. Leer’s novel, Torpor in the Suburbs, and suggested to Laurie they both read it and discuss it.

  Aaron was pleased to discover that while the novel had sophisticated themes and was deeply layered, it was also extremely accessible. (In no way was he implying Laurie couldn’t handle a denser book.)

  Still, he hadn’t wanted to hit her with something too challenging like Alphabetical Africa. During one of their conversations he discovered she hadn’t read the work, and was only using the dust jacket to cover up a romance novel.

  Their discussion of Torpor in the Suburbs went fairly well. She agreed with him that the novel was lyrical and meditative. There was some awkwardness when he called it a fabulist tale and she said, “Yes. It was fabulous.”

  Aaron let it go. If she kept reading good books she would eventually pick up on literary terms. Most importantly, they both loved the ending.

  Laurie hated Torpor in the Suburbs. It was depressing, and never once was the reader introduced to anyone named Torpor. But that was a small complaint.

  The most aggravating aspect of the book was the author’s tendency to take off on long detours. While Laurie was reading, she’d think, Hey, lyrical lady, let’s get back to the action, but then she remembered…there was no action to get back to.

  And the ending? Worst ever…The main character turned into a sofa. Literally. Maybe that would have made sense if other characters had been turning into furniture throughout the entire novel, but no. The ending was the first and last instance of such a drastic transformation. Talk about being farfetched. It was as if the author got tired and said, “I don’t know how to end this catastrophe, so I guess I’ll do something completely bizarre and let the readers sort out what it means.”

  And Aaron fell for it. For days he went on and on about how apt the ending was because the main character was withdrawn and glum. So, of course, it made perfect sense that she would turn into the most useless piece of furniture in the house. (The sofa was butt sprung, covered in cat hair and hulked in a corner of the basement; no one ever sat on it.)

  But it was okay that they had such different opinions. Some of Laurie’s favorite rom-coms were about opposites attracting: Pretty Woman, The Way We Were, Notting Hill, Knocked Up. She could go on and on. All those films had happy endings so she had high hopes for her and Aaron.

  In fact, her hopes were so high she asked him to move in with her. One afternoon she visited the grim little cell
Aaron and Dusty were living in. It was a basement room with one tiny window and it smelled like wet wool and all the clothes in his closet were speckled with mildew. Laurie wouldn’t keep a guinea pig in that room.

  Aaron told her his landlady was kicking him out because of Dusty, and he was looking for another place. That’s when she issued the invitation. Normally Laurie wouldn’t be so bold, but he was at her house almost every night anyway. It seemed to make sense, and she could also use help with expenses.

  He didn’t hesitate. That very day Laurie helped him pack his meager possessions, and just like that, she had herself a new roomie.

  Growing up she never imagined she’d “shack up” with a man. She was definitely a girl enamored with marriage. Her Barbie doll had an extensive collection of wedding gowns, all white, of course. But with Aaron, shacking up seemed sweet instead of seedy.

  “Please don’t tell anyone in town about my living in sin,” Laurie said to Delilah when she gave her the news over the phone. “In fact, no need to mention I have a boyfriend at all.”

  “My lips are sealed with Crazy glue. You couldn’t pry them apart with a pair of pliers.”

  “Not even Bart.” Bart was Delilah’s husband.

  “I promise, but you shouldn’t have to keep Aaron a secret. It’s been over a year since Jake’s death. It’s only natural to move on.”

  “Some people might think it’s too soon.” By “some people” she was thinking of Jake’s family, all his friends and probably most of Swainsboro.

  Everybody loved him.

  “Does that mean you’re not going to come back to Swainsboro after nail school is over?”

  Laurie hadn’t even thought about that. She knew everyone was expecting her return. “I’m just taking this one day at a time.”

  Another symptom of being in love was impulsivity. That’s why Aaron immediately said yes to Laurie’s cohabitation invitation. Anything to be close to her.

  She lived in a yellow ranch the color of sunny-side-up eggs, surrounded by a rose-vine-covered white picket fence. One of the rooms she called her flamingo room. (Everything in the room—drapes, sofa, rug—was patterned with pink flamingos and the shelves were filled with flamingo figurines.) It was a ridiculous room, but it lifted Aaron’s spirits every time he walked into it. Possibly because it was also Laurie’s favorite place to engage in sexual romps.