Page 37 of My Book Boyfriend
“No.”
“It’s set in Harlem in the 1920s. It’s about two friends who meet up. Both are Black, and one is passing as white. Her white husband doesn’t know she’s Black. It’s very good.”
“I will have to read it,” Rupert says.
Rupert points out how bright the colors still are of the manuscript copy of Ptolemy’s map. It’s amazing what they have here: the 1789 Bill of Rights, a Gutenberg Bible, a home video of Malcolm X visiting Egypt, a decorated Jewish marriage contract from the thirteenth century, among so many other items.
“Did you want to work for your family company?” I ask. “Or did you have dreams of doing something else?”
“I’ve always wanted to work for my family company. My father was the rebel. I was the one fixing it all.”
Before us is the New York section. Rupert peers closely at the architectural drawing of the plans for Grand Central.
“So cool,” he says. “Imagine being the architect designing this.”
“Rumor has it that you’re competing against your cousin,” I say.
He tilts his head. “Rumors are not always correct.Page Sixwill have us married by tomorrow.”
“There are still twelve hours left in this night,” I say.
He laughs. “Are you proposing?”
“Not on the first date,” I say. “I usually save that for the third date.” I do tend to be way too up front about my feelings. I sent Aiden a fricking valentine cupcake last year. But he did give Bella and me flowers the next day. Maddie pointed out that was conveniently the day flowers go on sale. She’s such a cynic.
“Are we on a date?” he asks.
Our glances meet, and the air between us becomes zippy. And I freeze.
Yes. No. I don’t know.I can’t date him when he’s trying to tear down the community garden. Not just because he’s the enemy but because it’s clear he doesn’t share my values. But I pride myself on not judging a book by its cover—much as I do like some elements of this cover.
I take a deep breath. “Yes. Sort of. For tonight.”
“Then I’d better make it count.”
It’s too much pressure for one night.
He takes my hand and pulls me along. “We have to say hello to Winnie-the-Pooh.”
“One of my favorite bears,” I say. “I still remember my mom reading me that story and both of us crying at the end.”
“But the message was happy … that memories of a little boy and his bear playing in these hills would always remain,” Rupert says.
I stare at him. “That’s true.”
I had forgotten that was the message of Winnie-the-Pooh and only remembered that the boy had to leave the bear behind when he grew up.
But the memories remain, just as I will always have my memories of my mom.
“Are you okay?” Rupert asks.
“Yes, I am,” I say. “What made you want to work for the family company?”
We join the line in front of the glass case of Winnie-the-Pooh and Tigger and his friends.
He looks away, as if considering what to tell me. “This is all off the record. Off the record for our dispute and any press, right?” He gives me a tight-lipped smile, but it’s really more of a grimace.
I stare at him, sad for him that he has to clarify that.
