“How often do you take her out?” he asks.
“A couple times a week. Mainly to the grocery store or my friend’s apartment. On nice days I go to Central Park.”
He grips one of the handlebars, shaking his head to himself and smiling in earnest. “This is you in bike form. It’s awesome.” He walks through after that and I’m a little surprised by his reaction.
I’ve loved biking ever since I was young and that love stayed with me all through college. I’d even fixed up an old seven-speed that I got cheap online and gave it to Ryan as a birthday present when we first started dating. I always figured he went out riding with me to appease me, but maybe he enjoyed it more than I thought.
Following him and Duke into the living room, I have to say that a bulldog makes the space seem even cozier. I wonder if Ryan would let me borrow him for a few of my posts. Books and dogs are an irresistible Insta combo.
“I like the name Duke,” I soon tell him.
“Thanks. I couldn’t change it now even if I wanted to. I spent too much money on monograming.”
Inadvertently, my mind travels back to the romance novel Ryan stole from me the first day we met. “You didn’t name him after The Devilish Duke, did you?”
Ryan places his bag down beside the couch and glances around the room before turning back to face me.
“Not really. Fond as that memory is, my sister was with me when I adopted this guy and she helped me name him. She goes to Duke University.”
“Oh, cool.” For the record, I’m super-psyched I made it blatantly clear that I remember the title of the book that started our relationship. I would hate for Ryan to think that I moved on or anything.
Anxious to change the subject, I walk deeper into the room and ask, “How long was the drive up from North Carolina?”
“It was a little over nine hours.”
“That’s rough. I can barely make it to Long Island without feeling sick.”
“Well, if you still drive like you did in college, I’m not surprised. I think at top speed you only ever went thirty miles an hour.”
“I’m a defensive driver.”
“You’re an old-lady hunchback driver.”
“Let’s not throw stones, okay? You’re the grown man who drives everywhere because you’re afraid to get on an airplane.”
“You and I both know I experienced a trauma,” Ryan says solemnly.
“You had some turbulence on a flight to Denver as a child. I’m not sure that can be considered a trauma.”
“When you’re seven years old, dramatic turbulence feels like you’re plummeting directly into the pits of hell. I would have thought you’d be a little more sensitive.”
“I am sensitive, but it’s kind of extreme that one bad flight made you anti-plane for the rest of your life.”
“I’m a man of the open road, Sullivan. I’m set in my ways and I’m not changing for anything.”
“Whatever you say,” I mutter.
Ryan strolls over to the living room bookcase, where he begins perusing the titles. Thank goodness I moved the worst of the novels into my room. I currently have every mild to moderate book that I own on display in the bookcase he’s now inspecting.
“How do you choose which books to read?” he asks.
Still looking at his back, I interlock my fingers in front of me. “I don’t know. I see what catches my eye at a bookstore or I’ll buy something that’s getting posted about a lot.”
“That’s a wide net. Is there anything special you look for in books besides the consistent sweet, sweet lovin’?”
“You actually want to talk about books right now? Do you have four or five hours to spare?”
He glances over at me with a chuckle. “I think I can handle it.”
“Okay,” I say. “Well, when it comes to what I look for in each specific book, I guess it’s easiest to break it down by tropes—tropes being plot devices or themes. Examples of different tropes in romance would be friends-to-lovers, enemies-to-lovers, fake relationships, second-chance romance, forced proximity, mistaken identity...”
“So there’s a lot,” Ryan interjects, sensing I am prepared to go on forever.
“Yes, a lot. Most of which are very fun and intriguing.”
“But if there’s only a certain number of themes, aren’t books with the same trope carbon copies of each other?”
“Not at all, because each book approaches the trope in a different way. The characters are different, the location is different...” I try to think of how to phrase this in a way that Ryan would connect with.
“All right, so you asking me if books with the same trope are carbon copies of each other would be equivalent to me asking you if every baseball game you watch is the same. I mean, they’re all just playing baseball, following the same rules and always ending the same with one team winning. It must be boring.”
“Which would be an absolutely blasphemous statement.”
“Exactly. In baseball, they’re going through the same motions with the same end-goal in mind, but you’re still happy to follow multiple teams and watch them play because every game is different and exciting. The same is true with romances. Each love story is its own unique experience.”
“All right,” Ryan says, rubbing his hand across the stubble on his cheek, “I’m not even trying to stroke your ego here, but you should know that what you just said was wildly insightful.”
A wave of pride flushes through me as I feel myself going a little red. And that right there is the bookish runner’s high I was trying to explain to my mom.
Like I said, I know my truth.
“Thank you, but I’m sure other people must have used that metaphor before.”
“As they should. I have a much better understanding now.”
“I’m glad I could help
