“You could’ve bought them,” she says off-handedly. There’s a pause punctuated at last by Adair turning a horrified look on me. She’s just realized what she said. “I mean…”
“It’s cool,” I say her, feeling oddly exposed. “Libraries are free entertainment.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to insult you.” She means it, which goes a long way toward keeping me from reacting.
It’s not like she understands. It’s not like she’s ever had to borrow a book in her life.
“I didn’t really steal them. I couldn’t return them.” I find myself confessing—and I’m not sure why. I don’t owe her an explanation.
“Oh yeah?”
“I moved. Different school. I forgot to leave them with the foster family. It happened a lot. Pretty soon it just felt like they were mine. I didn’t have much else to my name.” Why the fuck am I telling her this? Adair doesn’t care about any of it. Why should she? It’s not like shitty things haven’t happened to her. So what if she judges me for taking a book or writing in one?
Adair doesn’t say anything for a minute, she just stares at the book in her hands.
“I think it belongs to you now,” she whispers.
“Yeah, but only because I stole it,” I say trying to sound like I’m teasing. She’d shown up here upset and I’d dumped a bucket of pathetic all over her. It’s no wonder that foster parents were constantly shipping me off to a new life. I’m such a joy to be around.
She doesn’t comment, instead she picks up a few more books. “You like American authors.” It’s true. There’s Hemingway and Steinbeck and Fitzgerald in that stack. She puts them back down and shrugs. “To each his own.”
“I’m guessing it’s not just Austen for you?” I say based on her reaction. “You prefer Brits?”
“I’m a total Anglophile,” she admits. “I think that’s the reason I took up horseback riding. They’re always dashing off to visit someone on horseback or a hero is arriving on horseback. I think that’s what I imagine England is like still. Just people going off to the country over the weekend to ride horses, drink tea, and read in the library.”
“Maybe for people like you.” I can’t help but laugh at this visual. “I doubt people in the city ride horses very often.”
“Hey, I’ve seen police on horse back in New York,” she says. “Horses can be in a city.”
“That doesn’t mean that most New Yorkers have ridden a horse,” I inform her. “I haven’t.”
“You’ve never been on a horse?” Cynical, aloof Adair MacLaine is actually shocked at this.
“I don’t think it’s that strange.” I suspect I’m in the majority on this one.
“Around here it is,” she explains. “I’m surprised they don’t make everyone get on a horse during orientation. Everyone in Valmont has stables. It’s expected. And horses? Riding them is total freedom. It’s like pausing time. Total magic.”
Hearing her talk about them is magic. Most of the time I’ve spent with her she’s been on the defensive, careful to keep a tough face for the world to see. But it turns out that she has a softer side. I find myself liking both. “I guess I have to go horseback riding.”
“I’ll take you.” Our eyes meet like we’re both a little shocked. I’m not entirely certain, but we might have just made a date. Or maybe she knows that I’m going to make a jackass out of myself trying to ride a horse and just wants to see it.
By the time the pizza actually arrives, we’re deep into a discussion of British versus American literature. She’s wrong. I just need her to see it. When I put the box down, she stares like she doesn’t know what to do with it.
“Hold on.” I dash down the hall to the bathroom and swipe a stack of paper towels. Passing her one, I lift the lid and grab a slice. She hesitates for a second before she reaches for one, too. It’s strange to see her acting like a normal person. Mostly because she makes it look a little awkward and cute at the same time. The whole moment—from the comforting smell of melted cheese to the piles of books to the smart girl sitting cross-legged on the couch—looks like it should be photographed and stuck in one of those brochures Francie used to bring home for me. This is what college life is supposed to be like—this is what they’re selling.
And it’s not so bad.
“How is it, Lucky?”
She screws up her nose, clearly she still hates the name. “It’s so good. I think it’s better out of the box.”
“How do you eat pizza?” I ask her.
“Off the plate,” she says in a puzzled voice as though a plate is a prerequisite for all food.
“Tell me you don’t use a fork,” I plead.
“I don’t use a fork,” she says slowly but it’s clear from her expression that she does.
“So you do have flaws.”
She flinches before her shoulders square. “There’s no wrong way to eat pizza.”
“Yeah, but there’s a right way.” I ignore that she’s bristling for a fight and grab a piece. “Let me show you how we do it in New York.”
“Why do you fold it in half?” she asks, staring at my slice.
“They cut it bigger in New York. Serve it on a paper plate. No fork,” I explain to her. “You have to do it this way. Plus, it helps you keep everything from falling off.”
“Okay.” She follows my lead, her eyes narrowing warily. As soon as she takes a bite, a smile dances over her lips. “It’s like a pizza sandwich.”
I can’t help laughing at her delight. “I guess so.”
“I have to confess something.” Now she sounds a bit embarrassed.
“Don’t be shy,” I encourage her. “It can’t be worse than eating pizza with a fork.”
“I’m not sure about that,” she warns me. She sets down her pizza, her face growing deadly serious.
