Page 57 of The Nook for Brooks
“Progress,” he said, accepting a plate. “If you start listing items alphabetically, I may faint.”
“One step at a time, handsome.”
We ate.
He critiqued the pears for being overripe and then ate three.
I pretended not to see him refold a napkin that was already folded.
Between bites, I decided I deserved another shot at the game we’d played at Aunt Bea’s. “Right-o. Round two of Guess Brooks’s Favorite Book.”
“Must we?”
“It’s our picnic. We must.” I crunched down on a walnut. “First guess…Great Expectations.”
He gave me that patient look people give to enthusiastic dogs.
“Hear me out,” I said quickly. “You love a story where order fights chaos. A kid who starts off small and overlooked, then gets reshaped by ambition, etiquette, society rules. Plus, you respect a title that promises something and delivers it in spades. Admit it, you’ve got a little Miss Havisham in you.”
“Reasonable argument,” he said. “Yet incorrect.”
“Not even in your top five?”
Silence, which was worse than a “no.”
“Fine. Second guess…The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo.”
That made him tilt his head.
“Think about it. It’s unexpectedly perfect for you. Evelyn spends her whole life building this image—flawless, untouchable, larger than life—but behind it all she’s protecting a love the world isn’t ready to see. Tell me that doesn’t ring a few bells. You with your bow ties and your tower and your routines? That’s your Hollywood gown. Everyone thinks they know you, but only a very few ever get past the costume. That’s why you’d love her. Not because she’s scandal and sequins, but because she’s the definition of conviction. She knows who she is and who she loves, even if the rest of the world doesn’t deserve the truth.”
“Flattering,” he said. “But unfortunately, also wrong.”
“Damn it.” I considered him carefully over a cucumber sandwich. “Third guess…American Pscyho.”
He actually laughed, soft and surprised. “I beg your pardon?”
“I’m serious. You’d never admit it, but it’s got you written all over it. The obsessive lists, the endless cataloging of shirts and suits and ties—tell me that doesn’t sound like you reorganizing the Biography section on a slow Tuesday. Bateman hides a monster under all that polish, but you? You’ve got your own sexual deviant lurking in the shadows somewhere. I know! I’ve met him… in the best possible ways. Don’t even try to deny it.”
Brooks eyed me in open disbelief. “Are you suggesting that my favorite book is a novel about a homicidal maniac? Have you seen the little turret I live in? I couldn’t swing a cat in there, let alone an axe.”
“So, am I right?”
“No! Absolutely not!”
I flopped back on the blanket. “You’re impossible.”
“And that’s news to you?”
“Come on. Give me a hint.”
“No.”
“An era?”
“No.”
“Genre?”
