Page 58 of A Thin Line

He focused on some spot across the kitchen but then looked around a bit as if trying to access a database in his head. I was surprised that he really hadn’t had much exposure to stories in any of their forms. Finally, though, he said, “I know documentaries don’t count.” After I laughed, he said, “I suppose I like…” He shook his head. “I guess I really don’t know.”

“I don’t think I can make a recommendation if I have the entire world of books to choose from.” So I decided to take a different tack, narrowing down the list. “What about romance?”

“As in Shakespearean—”

“Just good old-fashioned romance. Like Jane Eyre, Gone with the Wind, Outlander, Twilight, Fifty Shades of—”

“No,” he said, chuckling, “I don’t think so.”

“What about sci-fi?”

“Uh…maybe.”

I picked a tiny corner off the piece of bread on my plate, planning to pop it in my mouth after I spoke. “Fantasy?”

“No.”

“Mystery? Like Agatha Christie, Arthur Conan Doyle, Rex Stout, to name a few, but—”

“I don’t think I’d hate it.”

“Good,” I said, picking up my fork again. “I think we agree on that. What about drama?”

“I doubt I’d like that. I’m not one much for drama.”

“Fictional drama is way better than in reality.”

“Still, I’ll pass.”

I stabbed a piece of lettuce before using one of his lines against him. “Suit yourself.” When he looked up from his plate, obviously catching my homage to his way of speaking, I intercepted him. “Literary fiction?”

“I do know what that is. I’m sure there is much out there worthy of praise but what little I had to read while earning my degree came off as pretentious. Maybe that’s why I got a C in my literature class.”

Another comment I’d keep to myself was that what he termed pretentious literature was what I’d assumed was written for men and women of his class. The majority of people I’d grown up around—for the most part, from lower class to upper-middle—didn’t care for that sort of reading. Yet many of those books received the highest praise and got the most attention. So exactly what people were actually reading them?

But I thought of another genre we hadn’t discussed. “What about thriller?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Action or adventure?”

“Maybe.”

One last attempt. “What about mainstream bestsellers?”

“Probably not.”

I let out a long sigh. “Well, you haven’t made this very easy.”

“I told you I didn’t read fiction.”

“I know, but I want to find something that will change your mind.”

His smile was warm and genuine. “I look forward to reading what you come up with.”

I hated admitting to myself that lunch had been an enjoyable experience, but I tried not to think about it as I opened the door to the downstairs area and began heading down. I’d brought with me the glass of water I’d had at lunch topped off so I wouldn’t have to keep going back upstairs every once in a while to quench my thirst.

When my phone vibrated in my back pocket, I was sure it was dad—but we usually texted in the early mornings and evenings. As I slid it out, I was still heading down the stairs and, distracted, my foot hit the crumbly stair wrong. Even as I lost my footing, I yelled in fear, because I knew I couldn’t stop myself from falling. It happened so quickly that I wasn’t sure how I’d done it, but the glass of water and phone had landed several feet from the stairs. Fortunately, a big box broke my fall, but I lay there on it for some time as I assessed my injury.

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