Page 18 of Escape Girl
Bobby shrugged and started to stroll slowly toward the interior of the library. I followed as he said, “I’m not ‘gainfully employed,’ darling. I have a lot of free time.”
I didn’t like his insouciant, self-mocking tone of voice. I hated how he called me “darling.” It reminded me of how he managed the other guests at the dinner party.
“Don’t—” But I didn’t know how to finish my admonishment. Don’t be flippant? Don’t treat me like everyone else?
Somehow, though, he knew exactly what I meant. He stopped walking, shook his head, and faced me. “I’m sorry.”
“Tell me more,” I asked. “Do you go to a different library every day of the week?”
“Yeah.” He fidgeted with a rack displaying the librarians’ recommended picks for September. “I read for several hours every morning. Newspapers, fiction, memoirs, history.Anything, really.” He gestured to the groups of people clustered at tables and browsing the stacks. “But I get itchy if I’m home alone, reading in silence. I like to be in a bustling environment. It makes me feel like I’m a part of something, even if I’m really not.” He paused and smiled sheepishly down at his feet. “God, that sounds dumb to say aloud.”
I shook my head. “First of all, it doesn’t sound dumb at all. Second, youarea part of something. You’re part of a community. Of readers, of knowledge-seekers.”
He squinted at me from under sandy lashes. “You don’t think that sounds just a little pathetic for a grown man?”
I cocked my head and shook it again. How weird. Bobby March did not seem like the kind of man who could be insecure about anything. At the dinner party, he’d been all swagger and confidence.
“Not a bit,” I said honestly. How could he think it was pathetic to use time every day to read and learn? “This explains how you know so much about everything. At the Irvings’, I couldn’t understand how you could speak knowledgeably about every topic under the sun.”
He laughed, but again, there was a mocking quality to it that I immediately hated. “Well, conversation is a kind of currency, isn’t it? Other guests bring a lot more to the table than I do: status, accolades, accomplishments.” Another biting laugh, as he led me into the stacks, wandering slowly. “I just bring the chitchat.”
“You shouldn’t downplay your gifts,” I said softly. “It would beimpossiblefor me—for most people!—to captivate a room like you do.” I bit my lip and shook my head. “You know, in one night you actually changed a long-held belief of mine.”
He blinked. “Which is…?”
“You called conversation a type of currency, which I agree with because it means it has value. I used to think thatgood, easy, interesting conversation was like a natural wonder of the world. Something unpredictably amazing that happened without a sense of manmade machinery behind it. Like the Northern Lights, an occurrence that’s beautiful and simply born of circumstance or chemistry.”
Bobby was staring at me, looking riveted. My face was so hot it felt like I’d been sitting under a heat lamp. As someone who often felt like an outsider, always on the edges of the real conversation, possibly I’d given this topic a bit too much consideration.
“But after watching you,” I continued, “I wondered if that kind of good conversation is actually more like a piece of art or a skyscraper. Something that has been worked at with skill and talent, something that’s been invested in.”
Bobby blinked again, several times in a row. He reached out to trace the spine of a shelved novel before responding. “I do work at it,” he said quietly, the corners of his mouth quirking up. “The appearance of effortlessness takes a great deal of effort.”
He turned so our eyes met briefly. “I’ve never thought of it like you described though—as something creative, something valuable. Thank you.” A small sigh. “I do enjoy it, but I’ve also always personally considered it to be the price of admission. I’m invited everywhere because I put on a bit of a show.”
This was not exactly first-date conversation. He wasn’t using that distracting and enviable charm; he was being open and direct. Ilovedit.
So, I said exactly what I was thinking. “Do you have some sort of inferiority complex because you don’t have a traditional career or something?”
Bobby stopped in his tracks, gaped at me, and then threw back his head and roared incredulous laughter. When he got himself under control, there were laughter tears in his eyes. “No one’s ever put it that way before. But yes. Yes, I believe I do.”
“Good to know.” I gave him exasperated eyebrows over a sympathetic smile. “You should really work on that nonsense.”
Too many people, men especially, wrapped their self-worth up so tightly with their jobs. My mother used to lecture my father about separating himself from his career all the time. I’m not sure it ever really took. Well, not until she died, and then he realized he didn’t care about anything anymore.
I shook away the memories, pointed to the entrance, and we walked slowly out of the library into the cool sunshine. Bobby slid his sunglasses on. “Tacos? I know a great little place.”
We sat outside, the small picnic table in front of us overwhelmed with containers of seafood tacos, chips and guacamole, four different kinds of salsa, two bottles of Mexican beer, and a burrito as big as Bobby’s forearm, smothered in Chihuahua cheese and green sauce. “We have to try everything,” he insisted, much to my delight.
“How have I never met you before?” he wondered as I took a big bite of taco and salsa slid down my chin. “I’ve met your dad several times.”
“I haven’t lived here in a long time,” I explained, wiping my face with a napkin. “I went to college and law school in Boston. Then I took a job in Seattle for several years. I’ve only been back visiting my father for the last couple of weeks.”
On the table in front of me, my phone buzzed with a call. I glanced at the screen and cleared my throat. It was the last firm I’d interviewed with. “Sorry,” I said to Bobby and picked up. “Emily Austin,” I said briskly.
The conversation was brief and expected, as my interview with them had gone very well. The firm would be delighted for me to join them and would send over an offer letter shortly. “Thank you very much. I look forward to reviewing it.”
As I hung up, Bobby picked up his beer bottle and clinked it against mine. “Are congratulations in order?”
