Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 68864 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68864 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
I groan into my glass. “You people are going to ruin my tough-guy image.”
“Too late.” She sips her wine, then lowers her voice conspiratorially. “Also, Muriel told off a couple of her church friends this afternoon while they were baking. They made a comment about ‘keeping wholesome spaces wholesome,’ and she said—and I quote—‘You can’t call love sinful when you’ve been praying to find it since 1974, Lorraine.’”
I choke on a laugh. “She did not.”
“She did.”
The humor softens, leaving something truer behind. “It’s a strange feeling,” I admit, “having half the town show up for me and the other half holding signs I don’t think they understand.”
Penny turns her fork in her fingers, thinking. “Where we live, faith and fear sometimes share a hymnbook,” she says. “People are taught that modesty equals morality and anything outside the lines is dangerous. It’s not always cruelty—it’s habit. It’s how they were raised and I might not like it, but I do understand it.”
“Same.” I poke at a pea on my plate. “But it’s hard seeing my mom scared of something I’m proud of. It’s making it hard for me to identify with this new life.”
“You’re a good son and a man who writes love stories,” she says. “You can love your roots and still grow past them. I have a hunch that your mama’s love is deeper than her fear and she’ll come around.”
“I hope so,” I reply. “Because I know that I can’t give this up when it’s just getting started. I want this too much.”
“And you shall have it,” she says with a nod.
“You know they’re not just after romance,” I say after a pause. “Half the books that get banned have nothing to do with sex. To Kill a Mockingbird, because it makes people uncomfortable. The Color Purple, because it tells the truth. The Hate U Give, because it asks hard questions. 1984, because irony is dead. I saw a list last month that had Charlotte’s Web on it—talking animals were deemed ‘inappropriate.’”
Penny blinks. “If talking pigs are the downfall of society, we’ve got bigger problems.”
I huff out a laugh. “I’m with you. And this issue is so much more important than them wanting to ban my books. Stories are how people practice empathy. Take them away, and you end up with folks who only know the world they already agree with.”
She reaches across and covers my hand. “The best way you can fight is to keep writing what you do. And we keep reading them. And tomorrow, you let Derek post your face, and you stand up in your own name.”
I look at our hands. “You make it sound simple.”
“It is,” she says, and her smile tells me she knows it isn’t, not really, but she’ll say it until I believe it.
After dishes, we refill our glasses and carry them out back. The patio’s enclosed with screens and a string of retro café bulbs I found in a moving box. The new couch is deep and squishy, the throw blanket still has crease marks. I stack kindling in the outdoor fireplace and coax a flame until it catches, low and steady. It’s comforting and romantic.
Penny kicks off her shoes, tucks her legs under her, and pulls the blanket over her feet. The cool air is perfect. “You did good, you know,” she says. “Today. The signing.”
“I felt like I was teetering on a cliff’s edge the entire time.”
“But you didn’t jump. You flew.”
I settle beside her, shoulder to shoulder, the warmth of the fire a slow creep across my jeans. “Derek says there were three different Facebook threads by the time we hit the county line. Someone posted a photo from Raleigh. He’s panicking about tomorrow’s official rollout. Says we’re either about to go big or go home.”
“Maybe both,” she says, smiling into her glass. “Go big, then go home with me.”
“I like that plan.”
We fall quiet and her head tips to rest on my shoulder. I don’t know that anything has ever felt this right.
“This evening is absolutely perfect,” she muses, echoing my inner thoughts. “I don’t understand how you and I’ve known each other practically our entire lives, but we’ve never really connected before.”
I don’t lift a shoulder for fear of dislodging her weight. “I don’t know, but what I do understand is that I make a living from writing about connection in a fictional setting. But this is the first time it’s felt… real.” I turn my head, appreciate that she is basked in the glow of firelight.
Color blooms on her cheeks. “Really?”
“With you,” I say, “it feels more real than anything I’ve ever experienced.”
We look at each other, the kind of connection that shifts the ground under your feet. Then her fingers slide over, find the edge of my sleeve, tug lightly like she’s checking I’m not going anywhere.