Page 53 of Yes No Maybe

Sara announces the imminent arrival of Thai food while I plod down the hallway. A maroon T-shirt and sweat shorts replace my blouse and dark jeans. My hair goes up in a loose bun before I pour a glass of chardonnay. I meet Edgar Allan Poe in the living room, where he saunters up with a soft meow before collapsing at my feet and pawing the air in my direction. I plop beside him, delivering belly rubs and playful tugs to his ears.

The doorbell rings, followed by a quick pound. Sara rushes to answer it.

“Food’s not here yet,” she announces dryly.

Jack wears the same bothered expression as moments ago. He sets a full paper bag on the floor beside me.

“What’s this?”

“Books. My books. Will you read them?”

I smirk, confused. “Sure. I was planning to, anyway. Just haven’t checked them out from the library yet.”

“No, I want the full dissection. Every muscle. Every vein. Every nerve. Critique each word if you want to. Hold nothing back.”

“Um, okay.”

“For your trouble, I’ll take care of the tree.” His pinched face reminds me of frustrated students bargaining for extra credit.

“What’s with you and that tree? You’re obsessed with it. No need to do anything except meet my classes, as we agreed. Reading and annotating your books to death will be my pleasure.” A coy grin stretches over my cheeks at the last word,pleasure, a not-so-subtle I-told-you-so over him valuing my annotations after all.

“Don’t worry, Jack. I went all out with dinner. It’s going to be a feast.” Sara hands him his credit card with a devious smirk.

My smile joins hers as I peek inside the paper bag.Cape Moonsits on top—the one I want to read next.

“Jack, do you have other books I might borrow? Contemporary books?” I say tentatively. “I want to read other genres my students might be drawn to. I’ll read the hell out of these, but I’m having trouble scoring recent bestsellers at the library. There’s a waiting list for everything good.”

He holds out his hand to help me up. “Come, check outmylibrary.”

We traipse across the lawn to his house barefoot. His study is an add-on—a sunroom with long windows, tacked onto the side of his house closest to mine like an afterthought.

Upon entering, I gasp. It’s something out of a whimsical Instagram post. Books wrap the room like wallpaper. All available wall space is a bookshelf, even the few inches above the window frames. Books form funny stacks in odd places like stalagmites in caves. Three pieces of furniture occupy the room—a rustic wood desk in the middle with a matching chair, and an oversized cushy red chair tucked into a corner with open books perched upside down along the armrest and back to save his place. He reads multiple books at a time.

I peruse the shelves like a quaint bookstore, starting with the nearest to my left.The Magic Treehouse Books, Little House on the Prairie, The Hardy Boys, Tolkien,Choose Your Own Adventure Books, Shel Silverstein and Dr. Seuss—the shelves are a timeline, starting with childhood, moving into classics and college books, then a mystery and horror phase, and wrapping around the room to current reads—including every book I’m waiting for at the library. Contemporary romances share the space with thrillers and science fiction, as if he indiscriminately pulls books from shelves without noticing the genre. From the looks of it, Jack Graham has never met a book he didn’t like.

Funny bobbleheads, including one of Edgar Allan Poe, decorate the shelves. In front ofThe Hardy Boys, I pick up a small framed photo of him and his brother in their Coastal baseball uniforms. Devin shared Jack’s devious side grin and thoughtful eyes, and seeing them together makes me sad. My finger traces over their faces before returning the picture to its perch.

The desk is scattered with Moleskin notebooks and pens—goodpens. Pilot G-2s and expensive gel pens sit beside heavy gold pens—the kind I see in cases in antique stores. The other paper bags from my earlier stack remain on the desk’s corner. He snatches one and whacks it open.

“I hit a few local bookstores every month for whatever looks intriguing.” He motions to the shelves with the latest titles. “Take whatever you want… except the ones on the chair. I haven’t finished those yet.”

“It’s amazing.” I’m a little breathless. “Where should I start?”

My question makes him smile—he wanted me to ask. He picks books from the shelves while delivering elevator pitches like he’s been dying to talk about them. The bag fills quickly. He goes for another, but I stop him.

“Jack… thank you. That’s enough for now. I promise I’ll return them in pristine condition.”

His brow furrows. “No, don’t do that. Do your fucking worst on them. I’m actually hoping they get worse marks than mine. Counting on it, really.”

Through the open window, I hear Sara giggling into her phone in my kitchen just across the hedges.

My eyes return to Jack’s. “Come back and have dinner with us.”

He heaves the stuffed bag into his arms. “Definitely.”

Eighteen

Jack

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