Page 6 of Totally Geeked

“I’m sure it's great,” I say but don’t push, and he slips the book under his leg.

“Thanks. So you are a catcher, right, what’s that like?” he asks, and I lean back in the chair.

“It’s alright. I spend most of my time crouched so it’s rough on the knees, but I love it. Do you play?”

He shakes his head. “That’s all Gordon. He took me to the place with the automatic ball thing once.”

“The cages?”

“Yeah, that place. He wanted to teach me how to hit. It didn’t go well. I had a black eye for about three weeks.” He laughs.

We sit and talk for a while and when it gets cold, and I ask if he wants to head inside, he smiles at me and my stomach does the swirling thing again.

“Did you always want to be a writer?” I ask, sitting on the large sofa, one knee bent and on the seat cushion. This way I’m turned toward him and I don’t have to strain my neck to look athim while we speak. He mirrors the way I’m sitting, a relaxed smile on his lips.

“For as long as I can remember, yeah.”

“What do you like about it?”

His eyes take on a sadness that sends a pang to my chest and I want to take back the question, but I can’t.

“I love how the stories, these children’s ones, they remind me of my mom and dad.”

I know Gordon lost his dad a few years ago, to cancer. It was rough for him, and I expect just as rough for his brothers. His mother, though, I can’t remember him talking about at all.

“If you don’t want to talk about them, you don’t—”

“No, it’s fine. I mean. It sucks, and I miss them, but I’m okay.”

I nod. “It’s nice you are reminded of them in what you do.”

“Mom used to read to all of us when we were little. I remember her tucking us in at night and reading three books, always three books. Because each of us had a favorite and she would always let us choose. Arlo was pretty much a baby, so his books were always quick, and half had no words so mom would just make up her own stories about the images on the page.” His eyes take on that sad glassy sheen. “When she died, even though it had to be torture for him, Dad didn’t skip a beat. He tucked us in that night, and every night after, reading us three stories, just like she did.”

I lost both my parents back in high school, and me and my twin sister, Beth, hopped between foster homes for a few years before we both got into college. Our parents were not really the bedtime-story type.

We lose track of time, and when his younger brother staggers into the house, swearing black and blue “I’ll be fine by morning,” I find that almost everyone has gone home already.

“What’s in the morning?” I ask Arlo as Noah stumbles his way toward the stairs clutching the arm of a young guy I don’t recognize.

“I have a reading at a bookshop in the city at nine. With my wrist in the cast, I don’t drive, so Noah was going to take me, but it’s okay. I can get a cab,” he says, pushing his glasses up on his nose. He’s done it about ten times tonight, and each time, it draws my gaze to those stunning blue eyes.

“I can take you,” I offer, but he shakes his head.

“No, no, really it’s fine.”

“I don’t mind. I didn’t have any plans tomorrow anyway, and I’d love to see what a book reading is like.”

“I just have to sit in front of a bunch of people, hopefully just kids, and read the book. It’s silly. You don’t have to.”

“It doesn’t sound silly. It sounds great. But I get it, if you want to go alone, that’s fine, but my offer is there if you need it.”

He doesn't change his mind, and after we talk for a short while longer, I catch him yawning.

“You should get some sleep for tomorrow,” I say, standing. “Do you have a ride home?”

“I’ll just crash here,” he replies, standing, too. “Thanks for tonight. I don’t think I’ve had this much fun at a party, well…ever.”

“I had fun, too,” I say, shaking his hand. His grip is light, hands perfectly soft, and I hold on for probably a beat longer than I should. “Umm, hopefully we’ll see each other again soon.”

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