Page 31 of Yes No Maybe

“Maybe… I really can’t think about this now. I’m woefully unprepared for this meeting.”

He smirks at the notebooks. “It doesn’t look like it.”

A Tale of Two Citiesslides out from the T section of my shelf, and I place it atop Jack’s stack. He awkwardly tucks the notebooks under his arm with his existing book to examine mine. “What the hell is this?”

“A Tale of Two Cities.”

“No, I mean, what’ve you done to it?” He thumbs over the multi-colored sticky notes along its top and side. Flipping through pages, he laughs over my underlines and annotations like I’m a foolish child who colored outside the lines. “Is this a social media thing? Bookstagram? BookTok?”

“No, I’m not on social media. I’m a teacher. I annotated it.”

He cocks his head before he eyes my crowded bookshelves. “Do you treat all your books like this?”

“I do, actually. It’s my job to study books.”

“You aren’t meant tostudybooks. You’re supposed to read and enjoy them.” He holds the book up. “Thisis the problem with English classes.”

My shoulders slump.Am I really doing this right now?In the kitchen, I grab my oversized bag, holding it open so he can shove the notebooks inside.

“English classes suck the beauty and life out of books and turn kids against reading. Reading is meant to be a wild adventure, not a fucking dissection. Besides, who wants to read long-dead old white guys or repressed women looking for husbands? It’s boring. Over. Done. Do you think Shakespeare would be proud of hisforcedteen readership? Doing this to a book turns a living, breathing organism into a cadaver. It’s torture, Rowan.”

“I don’t have time for this.” I grab the book and tuck it into my oversized bag before heading out the door.

At my top-down VW, I toss my bag into the passenger seat. He leans beside me, setting the coffee I forgot into the cupholder.

“I know you have to go, but here.” He hands me the book from under his arm.The Other Us.The cover is an artsy blend of blues and blacks around a silhouetted couple—close in one scene while separate in the next like an odd tug-of-war that feels intriguing and sad. “It’s an advanced reader copy. I know you don’t read romance, but can you make an exception? I’d love for you to understand what I do. I promise—it’s not a wine and roses story.”

My fingers slip over the cover, and my stress moves aside for a light smile. Being given an ARC feels like an honor.

“Well, in that case… I’ll give it a shot. Thanks, Jack.”

“You’re welcome.” His smile grows, but he holds up his finger. “But please, read it for pleasure. No highlights or sticky tabs or whatever the hell. Read it as it’smeantto be read. It’s the only way to really live in a story.”

In less than five minutes, he’s insulted my profession and poked fun at my process.

Still, I love the way he describes it.To really live in a story.Part of me wants to blow off Dr. Evelyn Tate for the beach and do exactly that.

With a satisfied grin, he opens the driver’s side door. “Don’t be late.”

“Right!” I get in, tucking his book into my extra-large bag with everything else.

Fifteen minutes later, I arrive at my meeting. Dr. Evelyn Tate’s office is as zen and controlled as she is—a peaceful island amid the unkempt sea of florescent lights, painted concrete walls, and the scent of cleaner mixed with feet. Nothing here is standard issue. She doesn’t use the overhead lights but full-bodied gray lamps on her rustic wood desk. The room smells like fresh linen, and soft blue curtains shield the dingy blinds. A cushy white leather chair awaits me, sitting opposite her more queen-like one. A plush shag carpet cradles my feet. Peaceful scenes cover the concrete walls, boasting words of encouragement.Mind over matter… First, be kind… We are all in this together… Be the difference.

Her perfectly tan face edges into a well-practiced smile. “How’s your summer, Rowan?”

“Busy but productive, thanks. Yours?”

She breaks from her script to hold up her left hand. A rock the size of my car glimmers on her finger. “Same here. He proposed on our Caribbean trip on his yacht.”

“Ah, congratulations. You and Xander are great together. You’re both so accomplished and driven.”

She contemplates my words with an amused air. “Yes. We complement each other. I bet you feel the same way about Dean.”

“We’re a good fit.”

“And you’re socute,” she adds with a girlish grin.

A forced smile covers my annoyance, though I’m sure she doesn’t mean anything by it. Dean and Iarecute. But words are important. It bothers me as if bycute, she implies childlike and small, especially compared to her and her ginormous rock.

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