I laughed as she continued on.
“Some kids played baseball and rode bikes. I read books. Books were what I asked for for Christmas and birthdays. They were what I spent my allowance on.”
“I think that’s the best use of allowance that I’ve ever heard. I blew mine on baseball cards and Bomb Pops on the ice cream truck.”
She shrugged. “I was weird, but so were my parents. I think it’s just an Emerson thing. But I didn’t really care, you know? I lived a thousand lives to escape from real life, because real life is boring and shitty. There’s no adventure, not like we get with Tolkien or Lewis. It’s fun to escape into a book, and I want you to experience it, so back to the drawing board we’ll go.” She picked the book up with a sigh, her fingers grazing my thigh without a thought, and she shook her head at it. “I really thought I had it this time.”
“I bet next time will be the one.”
She patted my knee and gave me a patronizing smile. “You’re sweet.”
She settled back into the couch and sank a little into the crack of the cushions. Her thigh was pressed against mine from hip to knee, and she let out a sigh. I echoed her with a sigh of my own, comforted by her warm body against mine.
“Damn, it feels good to sit down,” she said, leaning into me a little more.
“I bet.” Instinctively, I wanted to put my arm around her, but stopped myself. “Still not used to being on your feet so much?”
“Does one ever really get used to that?”
“Dunno. I figured they’d have to, right?”
“Well, if it happens, I’m not there yet. I spent most of my time managing the comic book store from the comfort of a stool behind the register. Even when we did inventory, I sat on that stool. A tired butt I can handle, but tired feet are the worst.”
I chuckled.
“Tomorrow is another long one — a meeting with everyone in the morning, managing all day, and then singles night that night. You’re still coming, right?”
“Only for you,” I answered, and that was true, even though it was sure to be a good time. I wasn’t the most social creature these days. For a long time, really. But with Cam, it was always easy.
“It makes me feel better that you’ll be there.”
“How come? You’ve got this locked with your eyes closed.”
“I dunno. You just make it easier. Like my magic feather.” She smiled up at me, and the apples of her cheeks touched the frames of her glasses.
I nudged her with my shoulder, smiling back. “Same here.”
“Anyway. I think this one will be even better than the last. Everyone loves dressing up, and dressing up as comic characters is the absolute best kind of dressing up. Is your costume settled?”
I nodded. “Just put the finishing touches on my shield.”
“Good. You’ll make a better Captain America than actual Captain America, as far as I’m concerned.”
I laughed.
“I’m serious,” she said. “You look straight out of a poster for cigarettes from the 40s. They always used the hottest models for those.”
I smirked to cover the fact that I was suddenly very aware of her thigh pressed against mine. “Aww, you think I’m hot?”
She gave me a look. “Anyone with functioning corneas would say you’re hot. I shouldn’t even limit it to that. I’m pretty sure I saw a blind guy give you a double-take the other day.”
A laugh burst out of me, and she smiled, looking smug. “Well, thanks, Cam. You’re not so bad yourself, you know. I’m pretty sure I saw a guy at Wasted Words who was one set of batting lashes away from a proposal.”
She made a noise in dissent. “Please. The only guys who think I’m hot look more like Jabba the Hut than Han Solo.”
I snickered. “Aw, come on. You’ve dated some decent guys.”
Cam laughed. “It’s true. I mean, I only date nerds, but they’ve been mostly decent, if not forgettable. But I’ll take what I can get. I mean, guys who play Magic aren’t all bad, although they’re usually serious babies when I beat them.”
“Nobody likes a sore loser.”
“Nothing hoses off the libido like a grown man in a My Little Pony T-shirt throwing a tantrum over Magic cards.”
The visual made me smile. “You should teach me how to play.”
She raised a brow. “I dunno. Are you a sore loser?”
“Not really.”
Her brow climbed.
“Listen — Street Fighter doesn’t count because you cheat.”
She gaped in mock surprise. “Sir, I do not cheat.”
“Sure, sure. And I hate steak and beer.”
“Says the guy who cheats at chess.”
I gave her a look. “You can’t cheat at chess.”
She folded her arms. “Uh-huh. You can Google it — there are strategy sites where you can put in the board and it tells you how to win.”
I folded mine back at her. “Oh? And how would you know?”
Her lips pursed. “I don’t cheat.”
“Prove it,” I challenged.
She huffed, rolling her eyes as she climbed off the couch. “Fine, but we’re playing on the board this time, no cheating phones. I practiced for at least six hours last week, so bring it on. Oh, and I’m black this time.”
I rubbed my hands together. “You can lose as whatever color you want.”