Page 23 of Spotlight
No, not a man.Flynn Holland. He’s dressed in a long-sleeved gray shirt and jeans. He has this effortlessly handsome way about him. Sporty, casual, but undeniably attractive. I gawk at him for several seconds while he takes a photo with the boy who can’t stop glancing over at Flynn with wide-eyed admiration.
After a woman, who I presume is the boy’s mother, stops taking photos, Flynn squats down to the kid’s level and says something to him I can’t make out. Whatever it is, the kid beams bigger. Then Flynn holds out a fist and the kid bumps his against it.
It’s heartwarming, but right now I don’t want my heart to be warmed. Especially by him.In someone else’s bookstore.
As the little kid jogs off, Flynn stands. His gaze roams from the line over to me. My feet move toward him of their own accord.
There’s a flicker of surprise on his face but is quickly replaced by a wide smile. “What are you doing here?”
“What areyoudoing here?”
“Wait, is this your bookstore?” He glances around as if he’s seeing it for the first time.
“No.”
When I don’t offer any other explanation (frankly, I’m still too shocked to come up with one), Flynn says, “My agent thought it would be good to do some community events. I wasn’t sure a bookstore was the best endorsement, but the owner is a fan. And I mean, look at that line.”
“I saw it,” I mumble under my breath, then scoff. “Unbelievable.”
“We need to move the line along,” a young woman says quietly. She’s a bookstore employee, judging by the official way she speaks. She at least has an apologetic look as she does so.
“Do you want me to sign something?” Flynn asks me.
“No.” The word comes out with a little too much force.
The line patrol shifts uncomfortably as neither Flynn nor I move.
“Give us just one more minute.” Flynn holds up the same hand that has the Sharpie to the woman. He angles his body, so his back is to the rest of the line.
“It’s so good to see you again. I was hoping I’d run into you.” He picks up a shirt off the table. “Turn around.”
“What?”
He makes a circle motion with his finger.
I turn, still too stunned to object. He places the shirt against my back, and I feel the marker as he scribbles on the material.
“Is this going to be a regular occurrence or a one-off event?” I ask. I can’t believe they brought in an athlete. Why not an author at least?
“I told him I’d stop by as often as I could to sign jerseys. I’m not sure about future events. With the season starting, I won’t have a lot of time. Where is your store? Do you have my jersey? I’d love to come see it sometime.” He finishes and I turn back to face him.
“No.”
“No, you don’t have my jersey at your store or no, I can’t see it?”
“Both.”
“Why not?” he asks, laughing softly.
“We don’t sell sports memorabilia, and you can’t help another store sell books and then come by mine.”
“Because….?”
“I’m really sorry,” the woman managing the impatient line interrupts again.
“It’s fine. I’m going,” I say.
I start to walk off, but Flynn calls after me.
