Page 37 of Play the Field

By the time we were taking seats, in the middle row near the edge of the seats, I finally found myself. “How did you know?”

Cat turned to look at me, her deep green eyes holding my gaze. “How could I forget your favorite poet?” Scanning the bar and the bookshelves, Cat nodded. “I came here once or twice over the years. But when I saw they were hosting Liv Butler, I thought of you immediately.”

“Really?” I swallowed. Even all these years later, Cat Collins remembered the woman whose work inspired me since I was a teenager. It felt impossible. And yet, Cat had made it happen.

“Oh, and this is for you.” Cat passed a pristine copy of Butler’s book,To Die in the Dark. “There’s a signing at the end.”

Shaking my head, my shoulders dropped. The same desire that drew me to kiss her was creeping back to me now. And her incredibly form-fitting outfit wasn’t helping. The rolled sleeves of her button-down made her forearms look incredibly toned.

Words hadn’t yet formed in my mind when the lights flashed gently and the rest of the crowd settled in their seats. As theother patrons settled, most of them held a glass of wine in their hand.

I took a sip of my wine, knowing I would need it to get through the rest of the night. As I rested the glass on my knee, a woman in plain clothes and a fitted blazer walked up to the mic stand with a gentle wave.

The room erupted in delicate applause, softened by the hundreds of books surrounding us.

Adjusting the microphone, Liz Butler nodded her appreciation. “Thank you all for coming. Here’s a poem called, “In Dishonor of My Dying Mother”.” With a deep breath, Butler began the reading.

With each bar of intricate poetry, my walls started to fall. The seating was tight, so I let myself shift toward Cat. I allowed my leg to press against her trousered thigh. Even through the thick fabric, I felt an electricity shoot through me.

It can’t possibly still feel like this.

But it did, as the poem went on, my comfort only grew. Cat’s body wash mixed with her light sweat and sent an inviting scent into my nose.

When the poem finished, the room clapped gently. “I’ll read one more if that’s okay with you all.”

The audience gave a collective nod as Liz read on. From my periphery, I could feel Cat watching me. It felt like she was absorbing my every reaction, wanting to know how it felt to hear the words.

But after a moment, she turned back to the reading. She wanted to absorb it herself too, so we could discuss it in the car on the way home. Suddenly, a flash of long car rides talking about our English summer reading came back to me. We used to fight about whether The Great Gatsby was actually a queer love story. Of course, we were fighting the same point so it was more of an impassioned discussion than a debate.

Looking over at her, I watched her eyes follow Liz’s mouth and the way her hands gesticulated as she spoke. As the final poem drew to a close, Cat’s eyes grew murky. Tears welled in her eyes just as the final line was read, “And so I am the leaves in the tree.”

Her hand, which had drifted toward my exposed knee, lifted from its spot to clap. Its sudden absence sent a cold jolt to the spot she’d warmed.

As Liz took her place at the signing table, the crowd slowly stood and got into a neat line. These were not the kind of fans who needed to be held off by security.

“What did you think?” Cat leaned down and whispered in my ear.

I sipped my wine. “I have so many thoughts. Probably too many for this line.”

With a smirk, Cat nudged my arm. “Car debrief?”

The line moved fairly quickly and Liz Butler was shockingly nice. She held out my autographed copy and smiled. “Thank you for coming.”

Cat looked at me. “They’re a huge fan. In high school, they used to say you would be the reason they became a writer.”

“Is that right?” Liz beamed up at me. “Well, did you? Become a writer, that is?”

I nervously tucked a blonde strand of wavy hair behind my ear. “Not quite. But I have an idea.”

Turning to Cat, Liz pursed her lips. “Lock her in a room until she writes something, anything.”

With a wink, Cat nodded. “Yes ma’am.” Her subtle country twang came out at the word.

We said our goodbyes and browsed the store for a moment. Every few feet, a new book cover would catch my eye and compel me to pull the novel from the shelf. I did my best to stock newreleases but Cleo’s Shelf ran mostly on local donations to stock its plentiful shelves.

“God, I dream of being able to stock the store like this,” I confessed as we approached the exit, setting my wine glass on the bar and mouthing athank youto the bartender.

Cat held open the door for me again, a rush of cool fall air smacking into us. “Well, I bet if you wrote something you could use the advance to get some new stock.”

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