One Month Later
"I think everything's as perfect as it's going to be, Isaac," Quinn said as I tweaked the book display yet again.
I stacked the books another way. "I just think they'd look better if they were arranged like this..."
"Isaac," Jill said. "You've done all you can do. Now relax."
I couldn't relax. It was the night of the inagural Moonlight Café Book Club. We were reading Al's book, River of Gold. It was due to start in half an hour and I was a mess. I had rearranged the display by the counter dozens of times over the past month, and it felt like I had doubled that number just tonight. We had sold thirty copies in the past month—thirty!—but now the chickens would come home to roost. How many of the people who had bought it, taken a flyer advertising the book club discussion, and promised to come, would actually come?
My phone buzzed with a text.
August: Good luck babe!!! I'll be there as soon as I can, just got to wrap up this meeting. Shouldn't be late but don't wait for me to start.
The theatre company gig had really ramped up. August was working with them almost full-time. Luckily, he had gotten The Barkeep's Beau published just before things ramped up. Even weeks after the launch, it was still selling hundreds of copies per day. It was on track to be August's most successful book yet. Of course, he was in another crunch with the next one, but at least he was actually starting to make some money.
Isaac: No need to come if you need to go home and write :) I'll just tell you about it tomorrow.
August: No I want to come! I'll be there soon.
Soon. Things would be starting soon. I had already set up a bunch of our tables into a big square, with enough room for about fifteen people. Me, Al, August, and a dozen others... I figured we'd be luck to get that turnout. I arranged my copy of the book and the notebook I had used to jot down potential discussion questions at my place, and went to brew a pot of coffee and grab cups, cream, and sugar for book club attendees. Florence and I had gone back and forth over whether to offer just coffee to attendees who had purchased a book or a few baked goods as well, but I had made the final decision—no, we'd offer plain drip coffee and that's it. They could buy more if they wanted more. We were trying to make more money, here, not lose it.
Now, of course, I was second guessing myself. Twenty minutes before book club start time, no one was here yet. Regular customers sat in seats far away from my little book club nook. Did they sense the desperation radiating from my little sign that read "Book Club meeting tonight! Meet Al Rogers, Local Author of River of Gold!"? Maybe if it said "free snacks!" all the seats would be full right now.
I broke out in a sweat. There was nothing left to busy myself with, though—all I could do was sit and wait.
Al opened the front door, peering inside like a mouse checking for cats before creeping into the kitchen at night. He was wearing a button-down shirt, khaki pants, and loafers. His gray hair was combed and pomaded, and his beard was freshly trimmed. My hearted thudded—he had dressed up for this! Oh God, that would make tonight even worse if it was a failure. What if the whole thing was just me, him, and August sitting with this huge cluster of empty seats? What if it made him sad?
I waved to Al and he came over, looking apprehensively at my little sign and the sea of empty chairs.
"Oh, you've really set up for this," he said. I could hear the nerves in his tone.
"Well, we sold thirty copies," I said. "We've got to be prepared, here."
Silence. Al looked pale. He tried to smile but it didn't quite blossom.
"Why don't you sit down?" I said hastily. "I'll get you a coffee. Two creams, right?"
"You got it," Al said.
"Want you usual blueberry muffin, too?"
He looked alarmed. "Oh, if you're offering."
I went and made him a larger size coffee than we were providing for book club attendees, and grabbed him a blueberry muffin from the snack display. My heart thumped in my throat the whole time. I didn't want people to come just for me. Sure, I'd be a little frustrated if the book club didn't take off. Disappointed for a few hours, but I could move on. I wanted all those seats to fill up tonight, for Al's sake. River of Gold was a good book. I was riveted by the story of Josiah, Joseph, and James Macrae coming to this area and braving the wild waters of the Fraser River to pan for the gold they hoped would save their family (spoilers: it didn't, and it was sad as fuck). Al was just like August—insecure, almost embarrassed about being an author, and I couldn't imagine why either of them would feel that way.
I wanted to help them see themselves differently. If tonight was a success, it would be a good first step in that direction.
Once I had Al's coffee and muffin, I turned around to bring it to him and saw that our first book clubbers had arrived: Meredith, a regular who owned a shop up the street, and her teenage daughter, Ana. They came to the café for a mother-daughter date every Saturday. I remembered them reading the back of Al's book while they waited for their coffees a couple weeks ago, and how Meredith got back in line to buy it. Now, they came in and sat down shyly at the book club table, tucking their purses under table. I almost dropped Al's coffee in my haste to get over there and welcome them.
Before I could sort out exactly what to say, I blurted out, "Hey, you guys! Or, uh, ladies, or whichever you prefer. You came!"
"Of course!" Meredith beamed. "We had to come meet the local rockstar."
"Oh, shucks," Al said. "I'm not all that."
"You are, though! Ana and I both loved your book. I can't believe prospectors really went through all that, just for a chance at striking rich."
Al launched into a speech about just how few people actually found gold, and how common the novel's narrative was—the three brothers battling the mighty Fraser River, ending up stranded in the wilderness, and never finding anything more than a few gold flakes. As he talked, more people came in. Don, another café regular, sat down with his dog-earred copy of River of Gold and listened intently to Al. Miz Nancy came in, peered over at the group, and hurried over with her usual tea and raisin scone to claim the seat right next to Al. A woman I didn't recognize came in and sat down, looking around timidly. I got up and began pouring coffee for anyone who wanted it. A few more people came in, too, clutching their copies of Al's book. Almost everyone had one—only one dude came and sat down just to claim a free cup of coffee, but even he started listening to Al's goldrush stories.
At seven o'clock, all fifteen seats were full. A latecomer had to drag a chair over from one of the other tables. August would have to, too, when he got here, but that was a good problem to have.
Well, he told me not to wait to get started.
A minute or two after seven o'clock, I stood up. Everyone immediately looked at me. My stomach crunched tight, turning to ice. They were all smiling expectantly, like they were looking forward to me speaking.
"Hi, everyone," I finally stuttered out. "Welcome to the inaugural Moonlight Café book club. Um, it's really quite something to see you all here. It means a lot to me, personally. Thank you for coming and spending your evening with us."
They actually clapped. They were just being polite, of course, but it gave me a rush. This was going well! I continued, a little high on my relief.
"But you aren't here to listen to me," I said, picking up my notebook to read the intro I had written for Al. "Next to me, here, is Al Rogers. Al has worked in many different fields throughout his life, including as a millwright, taxi driver, and photographer. He has lived in Ridge Meadows his whole life and spends a lot of time researching and documenting its history, which is what lead him to write his debut novel, River of Gold, which was released by Evergreen Press. Please join me in welcoming the man, the myth, the legend, Al Rogers!"
The applause for Al was truly wild. The staff at the counter and the bewildered customers at the front of the store joined in, too. Al stood up and did an adorable little bow with a flourish of his hand. By the time the applause died down, his cheeks and nose were as beet red as Santa Claus's.
Al gave a little introductory speech about himself and his reasons for writing the book. I had my list of questions to kick off the discussion after that, but it turned out I didn't need them. People had questions, comments, and personal stories they wanted to share that the book reminded them of. Al listened patiently and answered each one careful and considerately. Participants talked to each other, too. Meredith and Miz Nancy even got into a tiff over whether or not Joe Steel, the vagrant who befriends and then robs the brothers on the road, was a good man driven by desperate times or a "low-down scoundrel," as Miz Nancy put it.
While the discussion ran itself, I zoned out a bit. It was beginning to get dark outside. When that happened, the big windows reflected back the the light in the café, turning into dark mirrors. Sometimes the effect made me sad—on a slow night, it reflected back an empty room, the only movement my own doppelgänger leaning over to wipe down tables. Tonight it showed a full room, brimming with motion and light. Energy and emotion, too.
I liked the Moonlight Café best when it was like this, I realized. Maybe I even loved it. Ideas were already beginning to creep into the back of my mind for how we could do more of this. We could really turn the Moonlight into the hub of this whole town. Regardless of how the numbers ended up looking on our reports, and they would be good, tonight felt like both an accomplishment and a starting point. We could do so much more, and I already couldn't wait.
That feeling—that anticipation, that desire to get working to make it happen—made me think that maybe, just maybe, I hadn't wasted my life working here for ten years. Like a domino effect, that sparked a dawning realization that everything was okay, with me. I shouldn't be embarrassed of this place or my life or my choices. Maybe I was actually exactly where I needed to be.
That feeling was hammered in even more when August walked in the front door. His hair was a mess, his shirt all rumpled, as if he'd run here. When he saw me, he grinned, looking around the room all excited, like look at this! The whole room was full so he make his way over to me, but he sat down at a the bar to listen to Al talk. I couldn't take my eyes off him.
If I hadn't "wasted" my life here, I never would have met him. That, right there, made everything worth it.
The book club ran over time, which was a good thing. An event no one wants to leave is the definition of success. I played the gracious host, greeting and chatting and helping the staff behind the counter as a small influx of orders came in. Through it all, August mingled on the edge of the crowd. I kept catching his eye and it made me work hard to hustle everyone out.
I couldn't hustle Al out the door, though. He hung back and, once I'd said goodnight to Miz Nancy, clasped my hand and gave my shoulder a hearty slap.
"I can't thank you enough for setting all this up, Ike," he said. "I was shitting bricks about this all week, but it went better than I could have imagined, thanks to you."
I laughed. "Me? Your book was the big draw. People loved it!"
"I guess so." Al shook his head, like he was dazed. "I guess they did."
Al wandered out the door into the night, lost in thought. A few customers were still clustered on the sidewalk outside, chatting, and someone gestured him over to join them. The circle of people expanded to include him.
As I watched, I saw some movement in the reflection of the room behind me. August wrapped his arms around me, snuggling against my back. A tingling, happy warmth spread over my whole body. Even after a month, every single time we touched, my mind was taken over by thoughts of ravishing him right there and then.
"You were amazing," he said.
"Nah, it was all Al."
"Yeah, but he only did it because you supported him."
Outside, the little group of people were laughing at something Al said. He had a big smile on his face.
"It went really well," I said. "Now, I have to close up. Then we can get outta here."
I checked in with Jill and Quinn. They were three-quarters of the way through the closing list, and Jill had even scrubbed out the milk cooler.
"We just have to do the dining room, then we're pretty much done," Jill said.
Behind them came the squeak of a chair's legs on the tiles. August was putting the tables and chairs back in their original spots. Quinn sprang to help him.
Thanks to the extra pair of hands, everything was done in twenty minutes. I let Jill and Quinn out and locked the door behind them. August sat at the bar, waiting patiently.
I motioned for him to follow me. "I'm done with the cash, so you can come sit with me in the big office while I do my paperwork, if you want."
"Oh, I want," he said, hopping off the bar stool and following me.
I had never really noticed how small and cramped the office was, until he was in it with me. Then I noticed how the desk took up most of the space, and how stacks of boxes containing records and holiday decorations and other things that wouldn't fit anywhere else hemmed in on all sides.
"Sorry about the mess," I said with a nervous laugh.
"Does Florence have cameras back here?"
"No," I said. "Just in the—"
August grabbed my hips and pressed me backwards against the desk. It was at just the right height to sit on—August pushed in between my legs. He kissed me hard and squeezed my ass and oh God, I was not going to have sex on my boss's desk. I was not. That was out of the question. But maybe...
Luckily August pulled back before I could talk myself into it.
"Just a preview of later," August murmured against my lips, kissing me one more time.
I clicked through options, entered numbers, and typed comments faster than the speed of light. The quicker I created these damn reports and sent them to the management Google Docs folder, the faster we could go back to my place and have sex. I made a few typos on one of the reports and didn't even bother going back to fix them—I wanted to get the hell out of there.
August sat on the desk next to me as I worked. He watched me for a few minutes, not saying anything.
"Just the month-to-date report left," I said. "Then we can get out of here."
"Can I ask you something?" he asked.
"Yeah, of course."
"Remember that competition the theatre company was holding? To get a play produced this season? Well, I won. With the play about us."
I whipped around to face him and almost fell off the computer chair.
"What? That's fantastic, August. Holy shit!"
He nodded, slowly smiling, like it was only just hitting him. "Yeah! Yeah, it's... really, really cool. But it means I'll be working more over the next few months, working on that play as well as the others."
"That's okay with me," I said. "We'll just hang out when we can. No big deal."
"Yeah, I'm just worried about writing," he sighed. "That's a big part of my income, and it's growing. I need to start spending more time writing, not less."
"I'm sure you could publish a book every other month, for a while. Your fans wouldn't kill you for needing some time off."
"They probably wouldn't," he agreed. "But I had a better idea. Why don't you help me write the next one? I'll pay you half."
"Wait." I could not have heard him correctly. "You want me to co-write A.S. Sinclair?"
August nodded. "You've read all of them, after all."
He wasn't wrong. I had read all of the books—in fact, I was even going back and re-reading them.
"You helped me write Barkeep," he pointed out. "In fact, I couldn't have finished that book without you. You're the reason it's successful."
"But it's the only thing I've ever written that is successful," I said. "How do you know I could do it?"
August breathed a long sigh. "How's that chair? Sturdy enough?"
"Sturdy enough for what?"
He stepped slowly forward and sat in my lap, his arms encircling my shoulders. The way he looked at me was so tender and loving I wanted to look away, but he took my face in his hands. His thumbs gently stroked my cheeks, against the grain of my five o'clock shadow.
"Please?" he whispered. "I—I want us to do this together."
His cheeks flushed pink. I realized he wasn't just asking me to work on a project with him—he was inviting me to build a world with him, and live in it together for a time. That's what it was like, when we lived and then wrote the love scene in The Barkeep's Beau. I remembered what that day was like, how immersed we were in what felt like our own private reality. Just thinking about doing that again, combined with August's weight on my lap...
"Okay," I said, laying my hand on his thigh. "Okay, let's do it."
"It won't be hard," he said. "I promise."
"Well, don't keep that promise. I definitely want it to be hard."
August laughed and stood up. "If you hurry up and finish your work, we can talk about things getting hard."
I typed out my last report, every tap of the keys bringing me closer to him. Closer to our next chapter.