The Bookish Life of Nina Hill(50)

Nina knew it was her turn, but she wasn’t sure what to say. At this point she had two broad options: continue the conversation, or sign off. If she signed off, Well, just wanted to apologize for today, she could feel better about herself, but she’d still have to avoid him at quiz night. If she continued the conversation, she . . . wasn’t sure what would happen.

She went with a question. “What are you doing?”

“Watching soccer in a bar on my own.”

Apparently, he wasn’t scared of being seen as a lonely loser, so confidence points to him. “Who’s winning?”

“Not me, that’s for sure.” Even the text looked rueful.

Nina smiled. Tom added, “However, the pistachio farmers of California are gaining ground. I’m surrounded by shells and feel vaguely regretful, despite the fact that I’m chock-full of fat-soluble vitamins.”

He was calling back their conversation at Trivia Night. She blushed, thinking of their kiss.

“Did you know California produces ninety-eight percent of the pistachios in America?”

There was a pause. Then he said, “And they’re only one of two nuts mentioned in the Bible.” She raised her eyebrows, but then he added, “I have Wikipedia, too.”

“I wasn’t using Wikipedia. I have a lot of facts in my head I can’t get rid of.”

“That sounds annoying. And it explains your trivia success.”

“Yes.” She paused again. Did she want to talk about trivia league? Did she want to talk about the contents of her head? That’s one positive thing about texting; you can pause and consider your options, whereas in face-to-face conversation, a silence of three minutes would be weird.

New text from Tom: “What did you have for dinner?”

This she could handle. “Sushi.”

“Huh, me too.”

“So in a way we did have dinner together.” Again, Nina, not a great response.

“And yet, in another, more literal, factual way, we didn’t.”

“True.” She reviewed the conversation. He was quicker and funnier than she had expected.

Suddenly: “Hey, I have to go. Thanks for reaching out.”

And just like that, he was gone. In the bar miles away, Tom stood up to greet the woman who’d said yes to his invitation, while wishing he could be continuing to text Nina instead. He put his phone away, so he wouldn’t look at every notification and be rude. It was tough, but he was a grown-up, so he managed.

After a moment or two of waiting in case he came back, Nina shoved her phone down the side of the chair cushion and picked up her book again.

Three hours later, the book finished, her cheeks a little pink because it was so sad and lovely and sad again, Nina stood up and stretched. Coming out of a book was always painful. She was surprised to see things had remained in place while she herself had been roaming other towns, other times. Phil had been asleep the whole time on the end of her bed, and now he raised his head and blinked at her.

“Coming to bed?” he asked silently, yawning until the tips of his whiskers touched.

Nina nodded and padded around for a moment, turning off lights, checking her door, going to brush her teeth and deciding she couldn’t be bothered, that kind of thing. Finally, she climbed into bed and then had to get out again because she felt bad about not brushing her teeth and because she needed to find her phone so she could set her alarm. For once remembering where she’d put her phone, she slid it up from under the chair cushion and saw she’d missed a message from Tom.

“Good night, tiny bookworm,” it said.

Smiling, she set her alarm and went to sleep.





Seventeen




In which Nina eats dinner with a new friend.

“One time,” said Liz, around a chocolate croissant, “I had to push a guy out of a moving taxi cab. He wouldn’t take no for an answer, the cab driver was listening to the radio rather than me, and, in my defense, we weren’t going very fast. It was Greenwich Village at eleven on a Friday night. We were crawling along. The guy barely even bounced.”

“Was he upset?” asked Nina. It was Saturday afternoon, during one of those 4 P.M. lulls that sometimes happen. Polly and Nina were sitting on the floor behind the counter, sorting books and listening to Liz’s stories about Dates That Went Wrong.

“Well, he called the next day and asked if I wanted to go out again, so apparently not very.” Liz turned and looked out of the store window, thinking of her twenties and not missing them at all.

“And did you?”

“No. I asked if he was out of his mind and hung up the phone.” Liz smiled. “That was back when you called someone on the phone and had to physically lift a receiver to talk to them.”

“Weird,” said Polly.

“Yeah,” said Liz, “you couldn’t hide behind a veil of casual, the way you guys all do. But you could slam the phone very loudly, which was satisfying.” You could also have a private life, she thought to herself, and not get haunted forever by poor decisions, but decided not to rub it in. It wasn’t as though millennials didn’t know what they’d lost; they simply weighed it up against everything they’d gained and decided it was probably a wash.

Unaware of her boss’s philosophizing, Polly shuddered. “One time I ended up in bed with this guy who was trying to decide whether or not to enter a Catholic seminary, or whatever you call Priest School. I thought I’d provided a pretty convincing four-hour case against celibacy, but the next day he called and said he would pray for me.”