The Secret Poet, page 4
“You know how much I love your brother, that I want him to make an honest man out of me one day. How long have I crushed on him?”
“Ever since you got hair on your manly parts, I think.”
“Exactly.”
“He’s straight.”
“Everybody’s straight until they’re not.”
We’d had that conversation about seven hundred times. It always went the same way, in the same rhythm, always with a lot of flourishes and tsks and mm-hmms. And it always ended with me laughing and Stefan rolling his eyes and sighing like he was the most misunderstood homosexual on the planet.
“Pretty sure you’re out of luck with Perry, but hey. I mean, you can give it a shot.” I shrugged, took a sip of my pinot noir.
“Make the first move? Me?” Stefan pressed a hand to his chest and scoffed. “Please.” Another sip of his appletini. A shake of his head. Mock disgust. “I am the pursued. Never the pursuer. Do you not know me at all?”
Pizzeria Cannavale was our place. It was about halfway between my work and Stefan’s work. It had a bar, a fantastic wine list, and amazing wood-fired pizza, and Stefan’s boyfriend Justin was the bartender.
Yes, Stefan had a boyfriend. And the two of them crushed on my brother together. It was kind of hilarious, and they always made me laugh about it. Even Perry found it amusing when I’d told him a few years earlier.
We sat at the bar on Friday, sipping our drinks and waiting on our pizza. Justin popped by when he wasn’t busy with other customers, which wasn’t often because there was a good crowd that night. Marissa Cannavale, the owner and chef, was busy bustling around in the open kitchen, and we watched as she slid our pizza into the huge brick oven.
“So. Serious now.” Stefan turned his body on his stool so he faced me, and his bony knees poked at mine. “He says he likes this new girl?”
I nodded as I swallowed my wine. “I mean, he doesn’t know her. He’s only laid eyes on her once, so it’s purely physical. But I’ve never seen him that smitten that fast.” I told Stefan how Zoe had shown up earlier in the week, but Perry had been too busy to see her. “When he finally got to take a break, I told him she’d stopped by, and I swear to God, he got mad at me for not telling him. I was all, was I supposed to yank you out of the exam room in the middle of an appointment so you could have a moment of eye candy? I think he got my point.”
“Is she eye candy?” Stefan asked.
“Oh my God, yes.” I finished my wine and waved to Justin for a refill when he got a second. “I got to visit with her a bit, and I tried to get some info on her without making it weird.”
“To see if she and Perry have things in common.”
“Exactly. For example, does she love football and NASCAR and the Fast and Furious movies?”
Stefan snorted a laugh. “And you call me a stereotype.”
Marissa slid our pizza in front of us with a smile and asked how we were. I was always surprised that she recognized us given how busy her place constantly was, but at the same time, I wasn’t. It was the sign of a good business owner, knowing your clientele. Stefan and I were in there several times a month. We always ate and drank at the bar, in full view of Marissa as she cooked, so I guessed it made sense that our faces became familiar.
She told us to mangia, and we thanked her as we both leaned over our veggie everything pizza and inhaled deeply. “Seriously,” I said to Stefan. “Is there any better smell in the world than tomato sauce, basil, and garlic?”
Stefan’s eyes were closed in obvious bliss. “If there is, I haven’t experienced it.”
We dug in.
Isn’t it funny how you can be chatting away with somebody at dinner, but once it arrives—assuming it’s as awesome as Marissa Cannavale’s pizza—you shut right the hell up? Stefan and I made some various humming sounds and a few soft grunts, all of which added up to the wordless version of, Oh my God, this pizza is to die for, and silence reigned for a few minutes.
Back in verbal communication mode, Stefan said, “So, what did you find out about this girl? Does she have anything in common with your beautiful hunk of a brother?”
I thought back on my conversation with Zoe earlier in the week and then chuckled and shook my head. “You know, she did that thing that salespeople are so good at—she got me talking about myself. I didn’t even realize it.”
“It’s a skill.”
“She thought I was his wife.”
Stefan snort-laughed. “No way.”
“Way. She saw that our last names are the same.” I shrugged as I finished my first slice and reached for the triangular server thingy to scoop myself another. “It was a logical assumption.”
“I mean, really, you should be so lucky.”
“Ew, no,” I shot back. “Gross.”
Stefan laughed at his own humor—one of the things about him I loved. He thought his own jokes were the funniest and couldn’t do deadpan to save his life.
“Maybe she plays for your team,” he said then, and it was my turn to laugh.
“Doubtful.”
“How come?”
I opened my mouth to answer and realized I didn’t have a good response. My shoulders dropped as I looked at my best friend, blinked a couple times, and said honestly, “I don’t really know. She doesn’t ping my gaydar?”
“Honey, I love you, but God skipped right over you when he was handing out the gaydar.”
It was my turn to snort-laugh because Stefan was one hundred and fifty percent correct. A woman could walk right up to me and kiss me full on the mouth—with tongue—and I’d squint and tilt my head and wonder if maybe she was possibly a little bit gay, but conclude that she probably wasn’t. I was truly pathetic in that department.
“Wouldn’t matter anyway,” I told him, then took a sip of my pinot. “I doubt she’d look twice at me.”
“Oh, are we going down this path again? I forgot to look at the agenda for tonight.” Stefan always got mad when I said something like that. He said I was looking down on myself, and he hated when I did it.
“Look, I’m just being realistic.” My response was almost always some variation of this, and it was true. “I mean, she’s her and I’m…” I lifted one shoulder. “Just me.”
Stefan made a sound that was close to ugh and waved his hand, dismissing the entire conversation. He was clearly not up for stroking my ego, and that’s not ever what I wanted anyway. What I said to him was the absolute truth—I was simply being realistic. Stefan didn’t get it because he constantly had men hitting on him. I was sure a big part of that was his level of confidence. He could be flamboyant. He could be snarky, but he was never cruel. He held his head high and was unapologetically himself, and I loved that about him. I envied it.
Not that I wasn’t comfortable with myself. I was fine. I was out. I didn’t pretend to be something I wasn’t. But I was rarely hit on by women. Men? All the time. But gay women or bi women? They barely looked at me. And somebody in Zoe Blake’s league? If she happened to like girls? God, no, I would never expect her to show any type of interest outside of selling me her company’s drugs.
Stefan finished his appletini and signaled Justin for a refill. When he turned his gaze to me, his face was all serious, his light brows dipping into a V at the top of his nose.
“Uh-oh,” I said and clenched my teeth. “That’s your I mean business face.”
“Damn right. I’m only going to say this once tonight, and you’re going to hear me. Understood?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I winked, trying to keep some levity in a situation that had somehow slid into super serious without my noticing.
Stefan turned so his knees were pointing at me. The he grabbed my knees and turned my entire stool so I was facing him. Keeping his hands there, he leaned in, bracing himself on my legs, until he was looking me square in the eye, the tips of our noses only an inch or two apart. His green eyes had gone dark and stormy, and I couldn’t tell if he was angry at me or for me, but when he spoke, his voice was both gentle and firm, both pleading and matter-of-fact.
“You are amazing,” he said. “You’re smart and funny and fucking gorgeous, and I don’t care if you can’t see it. I can, and that’s why I’m here—to remind you. Having you would be like hitting the jackpot for any woman. Any woman. You deserve the best, and one day, you’ll have it. You are my best friend in the world, and I love you with every cell in my body, but I really, really need you to get the fuck out of your own way. Okay?”
Whenever this speech happened—and it was a fairly regular occurrence, I’m ashamed to say—I would smile or laugh softly or bump Stefan with a shoulder. This time? My eyes filled with tears. I had no idea what that was about, and I was mortified, scrambling to grab my napkin from my lap to hide the emotion.
Stefan, to his eternal credit, did not make fun of me for crying. He just smiled softly, squeezed my knees, and turned back to his pizza.
We took a moment…well, I took a moment, and Stefan graciously let me do so. When I had pulled myself together and shoved the emotions back into the dark corner from whence they came, I cleared my throat and spoke. “So, how’s business for the most in-demand salon in the city? Prom season is upon us, and wedding season isn’t far behind.”
Stefan’s face lit up, and he began telling me a story of a super-spoiled rich girl and her friends he’d dealt with that week.
And just like that, we were back to normal.
✥ ✥ ✥
My little house is just inside the city limits of Northwood, which made my lower taxes the envy of all my suburban friends, and I loved that location. I lived in a cute little neighborhood but had the ability to walk to several fun spots, including Jefferson Square, which was a large up-and-coming area made up of eclectic shops, restaurants, bars, and salons. Each year, the Pride Parade traveled down Jefferson, and since my street was just off there, I could carry my chair and a cooler to the corner, sit down with a drink, and watch the whole thing without ever having to drive through the gridlock or search endlessly for affordable parking.
One of my favorite things to do was just to wander Jefferson Square. I loved it when the weather was nice, but I’d also do it in the winter because all the businesses would be decorated for the holidays, and it made me happy. Sometimes, I’d shop. Sometimes, I’d stop for a drink or some lunch or dinner. Sometimes, I wouldn’t go in anyplace, I’d just walk. The personality of the area was enough to hold my interest. A huge percentage of businesses had some kind of gay pride symbol either in the window or hanging outside in flag form. Some of the little shops were unique all on their own—tattoo parlors and a cobbler and a store that only sold candy in bulk like an old-timey candy store. There were psychics who wanted to read your palm or your tarot, and a tiny detached building, which looked like a shed in somebody’s backyard, that only sold hot dogs. Halfway down the block was a park that boasted some gorgeous sculptures, along with several benches. I’d spent more than one sunny afternoon just sitting and reading there.
It was still a bit chilly to sit outside and read. The sun was bright, and spring was in the air, but there was a breeze, and its purpose seemed to be reminding me that we were on the tail end of a dwindling winter that just didn’t want to let us go, rather than heading into a happy, warming-up-fast spring. I pulled the zipper of my jacket up to my chin when that wind tried to cut through it, and I pushed open the door to one of my very favorite places on earth, Happily Ever After.
It was kind of hard to describe Happily Ever After. Owned by Sylvia and Michael Abbott—but it was mostly Sylvia’s baby—it was a combination tiny bookstore and café. But because it was so small, it wasn’t a full one of either. Sylvia had started it after she retired from her paralegal job. She’d gotten bored quickly, wanted a hobby, and loved reading anything about love. As you can imagine, keeping a small independent bookstore open these days is nearly impossible, especially one that only carried specific books and not necessarily bestsellers, so Sylvia decided she needed more of an enticement and added the café part. And when I say café, I really mean just coffee and tea and some comfy places to sit. Michael was in real estate and owned the building, and I was pretty sure the Abbotts kept the place open with their own money because I couldn’t see how she made much of a profit. If she’d had to pay rent for a shop in Jefferson Square, she’d have closed before she opened.
I headed straight back to the counter where Sylvia stood in a puffy white peasant blouse, her salt-and-pepper hair pulled back into some kind of twist I couldn’t see the detail of, open smile on her face. That smile was one of the things I loved most about Sylvia. It was always so clear that she was happy to see me, and who doesn’t want to feel like that, you know?
“Good morning, my friend,” she said as she reached under the counter and pulled out a book. “I have something for you.” She gently set a gorgeous hardback copy of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice in front of me.
A very soft oh slipped from my lips because I’d forgotten I’d ordered it many weeks ago. I ran a hand over what I then realized was a leather-bound cover. My gaze snapped up and met Sylvia’s.
“I thought this would look classier on your shelf than a boring old hardcover or paperback.” She gave a sort of offhand shrug like it was no big deal that she got me a far nicer version of what I’d been asking for. “Same price, though,” she tacked on quickly, and I gave her a look. See? Not much profit.
“No. I will pay for this because you’re right. It will look far classier, which will make me look far classier, and who doesn’t want people to think they’re classy, right?”
“I want people to think I’m classy,” came a familiar voice from behind me. “Should I get a copy, too?”
Zoe Blake. I knew it before I turned to meet those eyes.
Her out-of-context presence must’ve made me look as confused as I felt because she laughed softly and said by way of answering my unasked question, “I live nearby and was looking for a place to hang for a bit—that’s what I’m doing here.” She shifted her attention to Sylvia. “Plus, this woman makes a mean cup of Earl Grey.” Sylvia blushed a pretty pink as Zoe looked back at me. “I thought that was you walking in. Hi.”
“Hi,” I said, wondering how I’d missed her. She looked super cute. Washed jeans, a plaid shirt in pinks and blues over a navy tank, all that dark hair in a messy bun at the back of her head. Around her neck dangled a silver chain with a small—no, two small stones of deep ruby red, sitting comfortably between her collarbones. I swallowed.
“So,” she said as she stepped closer to look over my shoulder. “What is it that’s making you instantly classy?” She smelled like strawberries and vanilla, and the mix was both fresh and warm. “Jane Austen? Huh.”
I turned to her. “I’m sorry. Did you just say huh?” I made air quotes with my fingers.
Zoe looked up at me quickly, her eyes slightly wider than usual. “Well, yeah, I guess I just didn’t peg you for somebody who reads romance.”
I tilted my head, and she immediately held up her hands and backpedaled.
“No, no. That came out wrong. There’s nothing wrong with reading romance.”
“I know there isn’t.” Seeing her all flustered was amusing me for some reason, and I rolled my lips in and bit down on them to keep from smiling.
“I just…” She dropped her hands to her sides in defeat, but then one corner of her mouth lifted. “You surprised me is all.”
I wasn’t sure how to take that, so I gave a little laugh through my nose. “Well, it’s an excellent book. A classic.”
“So I’ve heard.”
I felt my own eyes widen. “You’ve heard? You mean you haven’t read Pride and Prejudice? Like, ever?”
“I’m ashamed to say I haven’t.”
“Now I’m the one who’s surprised.”
“Yeah? Why?”
I blinked at her. Again. Then I burst out laughing. “I don’t know,” I said honestly, and she joined me, her laughter light and musical.
“Oh, good, I feel better now.” Zoe’s smile showcased those gorgeous high cheekbones. “I was worried I’d missed out on something really important. Missed the memo or something.”
“I mean, it may not be important, but you are missing out.”
“Am I?”
“Absolutely.”
Our gazes held. I’m not fantastic at eye contact. I manage it, but it’s not my favorite thing and always makes me feel a little twitchy. Eye contact with Zoe was different somehow. I didn’t feel the insistent urge to pull away.
Finally, she did and turned her attention to Sylvia, who had been standing behind the counter and observing the entire exchange with what I now noticed seemed a lot like great interest. She hit some keys on her computer.
“I can order you a copy. Just add it to your current order.”
“That would be great.” Zoe grinned at her.
I suddenly felt a little guilty. “Listen, I don’t want to bully you into reading something that doesn’t interest you.” I lightened it, though, by adding, “Of course, I also don’t want to get in the way of Sylvia making a sale.”
Zoe blinked at me, turned to Sylvia then back, and was completely deadpan as she said, “You mean this isn’t all an elaborate charade to sell books?”
I looked at Sylvia and muttered, “I think she’s on to our schtick.”
“No worries,” Sylvia said softly, playing along. “I’ll write us up a new script tonight.”
“Ladies and gentleman, the comedy stylings of The Book Pushers. They’re here all week.” Zoe’s eyes were bright and those cheekbones almost waved to me. “Don’t forget to tip your waitress.”
“You’re funny,” I said as Zoe set a book I hadn’t noticed her holding on the counter and fished her wallet out of her purse.
“Hey, looks aren’t everything.” I squinted to see that the second book was one of poetry by E. E. Cummings. “Wait a minute. Hang on here. You mock my romance reading while you’re buying a book of poetry?” I raised my eyebrows high and didn’t tell her that her stock had just risen in my eyes because poetry was something I had discovered an affinity for.
