Michael's Arc

Chapter 6 of 9

Michael slipped his shoes off on the mat and set them beside a pair of polished boots. The house was warm and smelled like black tea and old paper. A narrow hallway opened into a living room with a low couch, a reading chair under a lamp, and a wall of books arranged by height. Everything was in its place. He stood in the middle of the rug with the book still under his arm and didn't know where to put his hands. Haydon hung her scarf on a hook and watched him for a second. Then she crossed the room and took the book out from under his arm. "Sit," she said. "You look like a man waiting for a bus." He sat on the couch. She went to the shelf and ran a finger along a row, pulled one out, checked the spine, and set it on the coffee table in front of him. Thicker than the first. He looked at the cover, then at her. "Same deal?" he said. "No." She sat down on the other end of the couch, one leg folded under her. "Different deal." She reached for the mug she must have left out that morning, found it cold, and set it down again. She looked at him directly. He had never seen her look at anything without a plan behind it. "I don't invite people here," she said. "I wanted you to know that before I say the next part." "Okay." "I like talking to you. I don't want to pretend I only wanted to hand you a book." She kept her hands in her lap. "You should tell me now if that's a problem." His throat went dry. He had rehearsed clever lines in the car three nights running and none of them were for this. She had done what he had not been brave enough to do. "It's not a problem," he said. "Say it plainly." "I like you. I've liked you since the tea." She let out a small breath, not quite a laugh. The corner of her mouth moved. "Good," she said. "Then read this one too. Same Wednesday. Same bar." She tapped the cover once. "And Saturday I'm making dinner. Here. Seven." "Saturday," he said. "Seven." She stood. "You should go home before I decide to quiz you on something else." He stood too, slower. She walked him to the door and handed him the book. Their fingers touched on the spine and she didn't move her hand right away. "Wednesday," she said. "Wednesday." He stepped out onto the porch. The green door closed behind him. He stood under the lantern with the new book in his hand and understood two things at once. She had said it first. And he had four days to figure out what he was actually going to bring to a dinner cooked by a woman who did nothing by accident.