“That’s an impressive reading list.” I set the book down on the bench between us. “So, you’re not a Rushdie fan. What did you think of the others?”
“And Tango Makes Three was cute. Uncle Tom’s Cabin was depressing, and The Tropic of Cancer was…” She trails off and gives me that face shrug again. But this time she’s blushing through her freckles.
It’s been a while since I read it, but my recollection is that it’s full of graphic sex. She’s embarrassed to talk to me about it, and for some reason that sends a rush through my insides that settles in my groin. My gaze trails over the lines of her face, down her long neck, then trickles over her body. She’s on the tall side and athletic, with breasts that are a perfect handful, a flat stomach, and long, toned legs that I’d suddenly kill to have wrapped around my head.
“And what’s the verdict on this one?” I ask, handing back The Metamorphosis.
A shadow passes over her face as she looks at the cover. “It’s…thought provoking.”
“What thoughts is it provoking?” I ask, laying the innuendo on thick and hoping I’m not the only one feeling the attraction.
The thought passes through the back of my mind that hitting on another woman while my date is just down the hill is a pretty skanky thing to do, but there’s something compelling about this girl. The idea that I might never see her again tugs hard at my gut. I might only get one chance to find out who she is. I’m not going to let it slip by.
“Have you read it?” she asks.
I lean in and shake my head. “Should I?”
“It’s a little out there,” she says with an unsure squint.
“Why don’t you save me the trouble and give me the SparkNotes,” I say, looping my arm behind her and resting it on the back of the bench.
She gives me a curious look, and I feel her body tense under my arm.
I give her my best cocky smile and arch an eyebrow. I intentionally let my fingers brush her shoulder and am rewarded with a shudder. “Unless you’d prefer I leave?”
A sly smile curves her pink lips as she lowers her lashes, and the rush in my groin intensifies.
“The SparkNotes…,” she says, picking up the book between us. I take the opportunity to slide closer. “This guy Gregor wakes up one day to find he’s a giant bug…which I get is a little weird, and there’s no explanation as to why, but the upshot is that everyone is pretty grossed out by him and all his family seems to care about is that he can’t do his job anymore, so he can’t contribute to the finances. He can only speak bug, so because they can’t understand him, they assume he can’t understand them when they say they wish he’d just go away. But he can’t leave because he has nowhere to go, and also because his father threw an apple at him and injured him pretty badly, so he hides in his room and eventually just dies.”
“Seriously?” When I take the book back and turn it over to read the jacket copy again, I notice it came from the county library.
“Seriously,” she answers, earnestly.
I lift my eyes to hers. “So a happy ending, then,” I say, my voice full of sarcasm.
“Yeah, right.” Her eyes lower to the book in my hand. “I don’t really understand why it’s the tenth most controversial book of all time, but it’s a pretty true testament to human nature. Gregor is messed up, so instead of trying to help him, people just wish he’d go away.”
There’s no mistaking the mix of disdain and sadness in her tone. I only realize how intently I’m staring at her when she turns her face away. Does she feel that people wish she’d go away? If so, who is making her feel that way and why? Is she “messed up?”
The overpowering need to know sweeps through me in a rush that forces a shuddering breath from my lungs.
“So, what’s next on the list?” I ask, handing the book back.
“Brave New World,” she answers, her eyes lifting to mine again.
I cuff a laugh. “That one I have read. Another uplifting story.”
“So I hear.” She glances down the hill in the direction I came from. “So, what’s going on down there, anyway? Someone’s birthday?”
My gaze follows hers. “My sister’s wedding reception.”
“In a public park?” she asks, her eyebrows raising in surprise.
I nod. “Graffiti Park is special. We spent a lot of time here as kids.”
“Graffiti Park? That’s really the name of this place?” she asks, looking around.
“I have no clue what the real name is. That’s just what we’ve always called it.” My thumb brushes over where Nate carved my name into the back of bench we’re sitting on at least ten years ago.
She squints toward the shelter below and shades her eyes from the last of the afternoon sun. “I don’t see a bride.”
I point to Blaire. “The one in the bright blue dress.”
“That sort of flies in the face of tradition, doesn’t it?” she asks, still watching.