“If you’re expecting me to stop you from buying books, you got the wrong man.” I reached over and took his hand, threading our fingers together on the console between us. “As far as I’m concerned, you can buy all the books you want.”
He squeezed my fingers. “N-no, I think I have the r-right man.”
If he kept saying things like that, the fire inside me would burn out of control fast, and we might not even make it to dinner.
Elliott Bay Books was exactly what a bookstore should be, with warm lighting, exposed brick, and the comforting smell of paper and coffee. The poetry reading was in the basement event space, already half full when we arrived. I found us seats in the back corner where Calloway could hide and where I could see the exit, which worked for both of us.
“D-do you want coffee?” he asked, eyeing the small café bar.
“I’ll get it. You save our seats.”
But he shook his head, a flash of determination crossing his face. “I can d-do it.”
I watched him navigate the counter, pointing instead of speaking, returning with two cups and a triumphant expression that made me want to kiss him right there in the bookstore.
The reading was by a young Pacific Northwest poet whose work focused on queerness and nature. Their words were raw, honest, full of imagery that made me think of Calloway’s garden—things growing wild, thriving outside prescribed boundaries. I snuck glances at him throughout, watching how he leaned forward during particularly resonant passages, how his lips moved slightly like he was tasting the words.
“That was incredible,” I said when it ended, the audience dispersing into a book-signing line and discussion clusters.
“The p-part about salmon…” Calloway’s eyes were bright. “How they c-carry the forest to the sea,” Calloway finished, his voice soft with wonder. “I’d never thought of it that way before.”
“Want to get the book signed?” I asked, but he shook his head.
“Too many p-people. But maybe…” He glanced toward the poetry section. “Could we look around?”
We spent the next hour wandering the shelves. Calloway moved through the store like it was a cathedral, touching spines reverently, pulling out volumes to show me passages he loved.I followed, content to watch him in his element, seeing the confidence that emerged when he was surrounded by books.
“Oh!” He stopped suddenly in front of a display. “I’ve been w-waiting for this to release.”
“Get it,” I said. “Early birthday present.”
“My birthday isn’t until F-February.”
“Really early then.”
He laughed, that free sound I was still getting used to, and added the book to the growing stack in his arms. By the time we left, he’d accumulated seven books, despite his protests that he already had too many.
“You can never have too many books,” I said, loading them into the truck. “That’s like saying you can have too much air.”
The restaurant Brianna had suggested was small and intimate, tucked into a Capitol Hill side street. Candlelit tables, exposed beams, the kind of place that took reservations seriously. It was certainly a hell of a lot more upscale than what I was used to, but Calloway was worth it. And my guess was that he’d been in places like this often, having lived in New York City. Not gonna lie, that did make me a little nervous, like I somehow had to measure up.
“Reservation for Fraser Strickland,” I told the hostess.
“Right this way, gentlemen.” She led us to a cozy table all the way in the back, like I had requested, so we’d have some privacy.
The way Calloway’s eyes lit up told me I’d picked the right spot.
We settled in, Calloway visibly relaxing with his back to the wall and a clear view of the room and me with my eyes on the emergency exit. The menu was Pacific Northwest cuisine with a French twist, exactly the kind of thing Marcus would’ve loved, according to what Calloway had told me.
“This is c-cute,” he said, looking around the restaurant. “I l-like that it’s not so l-loud. You can hear each other.”
“Exactly. I find it so hard to have conversations when you have to yell to make yourself be heard.”
When the waiter came, I ordered for both of us—not because Calloway couldn’t, but because we’d discussed it in the truck and he wanted me to. Date nights were for enjoying, not struggling through interactions with strangers.
“Tell me about your f-favorite fire,” Calloway said once we were alone again. “Not the worst or the b-biggest. Your favorite.”
It was such a perfectly Calloway question—unexpected, thoughtful, designed to elicit stories. I thought about it while our wine arrived, a Willamette Valley pinot noir that cost a fortune and tasted like any other wine, but maybe that was my lack of a more refined palate.
