Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 105734 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105734 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
I don’t know what I was expecting, but Frankie is sweet. He was a little tongue-tied in an adorable way that set off butterflies in my stomach. I don’t want to be attracted to him, but I kind of am.
“Keep it together, Sofie,” I tell myself out loud.
The construction worker next to me gives me the side-eye. I smile because I know I’m being strange. But then Frankie ducks back into the library, and I’m relieved the ruse is over.
I hurry away from the bus stop, not going for my car but instead heading two blocks down and one block over to the office of the city paper. I told Frankie I wanted to be a writer, but that wasn’t entirely true. I am a writer. A journalist, to be exact. And I’m working on a story about him and his family.
It’s gone beyond the personal now. I’ve spent so much time researching the Corellos and all the other crime families in the city, I might as well get paid for it. I remember pushing my editor to allow me to follow Frankie.
“Why should the readers care?” my boss asked.
“Because the Corellos are criminals,” I argued. “Just look at all the businesses they have a hand in. Wouldn’t you want to know if your favorite Italian pizzeria is a front for the mob? I would.”
Mr. Harlan sighed, finally giving in to my request. “All right, you can work on the piece. But if I’m not satisfied with it, I’m not going to run it.”
“Of course,” I said, dismissing his concerns because I knew there was plenty of juice for a story.
And now I’m on my way back to tell him what just went down. My head is full of all the minutiae of the coffee shop. How Frankie looked at me, what all the other customers were wearing, the sound of the music playing in the background—all of it is alive inside my mind, waiting for me to write it down on paper. I can’t forget even one insignificant detail. Forget the paper’s readers. I need to record what happened so I can look back on it and analyze everything. There could be some clue that I’m overlooking, which will reveal itself in time. I don’t have any recording devices on me, so it’s imperative that I write everything down as quickly as possible.
I’m practically running by the time I get to the office.
I slam my way through the door and rush to my cubicle. People see me, but no one comes over to say hello. They’re all working on projects of their own, and it’s not unusual to see a reporter urgently typing at their desk.
I wiggle the mouse so that the screen comes to life. Calling up an empty Word document, I record everything that I saw. I start by running into Frankie in the library. That wasn’t planned. My assignment was only to spy on him, but I lost him for a moment before literally running into him in the reference section.
My fingers fly across the keyboard. Everything that made an impression on me goes into the document. I’m not worried about telling the story or writing an article at the moment. These are just notes. They are unconnected, random bits of memory. I don’t pick and choose what goes on the page. I just lay everything out. It’s like a puzzle and I’m generating the pieces. Later on, I’ll come back and fit them together into a coherent whole.
“How’d it go?” a voice behind me asks.
I turn around, startled out of my flow. It’s Mr. Harlan. He’s leaning against my cubicle wall, gazing at the words on the screen. I shake my head. I’m scared that if I stop writing, I’m going to forget a key moment. But I can’t very well tell my boss to go away.
“I ran into him,” I admit, still wishing I could just go back to writing.
“And?” Mr. Harlan presses.
“And we had coffee together,” I report.
“How was that?” he asks, ducking into the neighboring cubicle to steal a chair. He sits down beside me, waiting for me to fill him in.
“It was interesting,” I respond. “I didn’t expect Frankie to be so…normal.”
Mr. Harlan laughs. “What does that mean?”
“I don’t know,” I answer. “He bought me coffee. He made a fool of himself, if I’m honest. He’s nothing like what I thought a mafioso’s son would be like.”
Mr. Harlan studies me as if I’ve said something wrong. I hurry to correct my report, making it less about my own feelings for Frankie and more about the information I collected.
“He says that he’s studying for the bar exam,” I go on. “And he also said that he typically travels around to coffee shops and libraries in order to get his work done.”
“That’s good,” Mr. Harlan allows, “but did you get anything about his family’s businesses?”