Author spotlight, courtesy of author Lara Henley

Author Lara Henley has chosen me to be featured in the "author spotlight" section of her website! Since my turn only lasts 3 weeks, I'm posting the interview here:

Brief biography:

 

Caplin was born in Connecticut as Sarah Elizabeth Caplin, and legally changed her name to Sarahbeth at the age of 22, thinking it would look more distinctive on future book covers. Now unofficially known as “Beth,” she grew up outside of Cleveland, Ohio, and has a bachelor’s degree in English Literature from Kent State University. It was during college that she first saw her name in print as a columnist for her campus newspaper, The Daily Kent Stater. Within a year after graduation, her memoir Confessions of a Prodigal Daughter was self-published through Halo International. Within that same year, her second book, Someone You Already Know, was also released through Halo. In 2013 Caplin switched to Createspace, from which Public Displays of Convention and Sorting Myself: a collection of poetry were released. Now living in Denver, Colorado, Caplin can be found in various microbreweries when not chained to her laptop working on future books.

What was the first story you ever wrote?

Probably around the age of 6, I wrote my mom a crayon-and-construction-paper “book” called Why Kids Love Their Moms: about a little girl who ran away from home after her mom punished her, only to realize her mom loves her after all.

 

What genre do you write? 

My first book was a memoir, because several people kept asking me to explain how a girl who grows up Jewish ends up choosing to be Christian. It started as a long essay, but then I figured I might as well publish it. My comfort zone right now is YA fiction, and I’m always trying out different story angles. My most recently published book is a small collection of poetry, which I used to write all the time, but lately not as much. Most of the poems are from college.

 

What inspires you to write? 

Honestly? Being angry. My first novel is about two teenage girls who are affected by rape culture in different ways, so if something upsets me, it’s extremely likely to end up in a book. I like stories that make a point, but aren’t necessarily pushing an agenda.

 

Are you working on something new at the moment? 

My fifth book, but third attempt at a novel, is inspired by a true story of a pastor who is hailed as a hero for saving a teenage girl from a burning building, but no one knows that he was in the building in the first place because he was having an affair. It’s my first time writing in 3rd-person POV and it focuses mostly on the teenage girl, who has issues of her own.

 

What should readers be on the lookout for? 

My stories tend to be heavy, but I’ve been told they make readers think. There are always lots of layers and difficult situations to consider. My next novel shows the ugly side of evangelical Christianity, which lots of readers will probably resonate with. The cast of characters are mostly unlikeable, but they change and grow when confronted with their hypocritical tendencies.

What are your dreams and aspirations?

In a perfect dream world, I’d love to be a New York Times best-selling author one day. More realistically, I’d like to earn enough with my writing to pay rent. Hell, even just the groceries. I wanted to be famous as a kid, but the older I get, the less important that becomes. What matters most to me now is building my relationship with my readers. I love getting feedback, good or bad, and I love when people engage with me via blog posts and updates on my Facebook page. I learn a lot from my target audience: twenty-somethings (mostly women) trying to find themselves, with colorful pasts.

Do you have any tips for aspiring writers?

You have to be patient in order to build a loyal following of readers. It can take several books to accomplish that. Also, start marketing your book well before it’s published. The fan base won’t appear out of nowhere once the book is released. Take advantage of every social media platform that’s out there and start engaging with your target audience. “Please buy my book!!” has helped no one. Lastly, never write expecting to make a ton of money.

Final preview of "Public," chapter 10

Alas my friends, this is the final free preview selection of Public Displays of Convention. Hope you have enjoyed these excerpts! You can read them all in order here. Happy reading!

“Good morning, ladies,” chirps an unusually perky Julia. “Meet Zach, your new co-worker.”

     Eryn, Morgan, and I all look up in unison – a male employee? No wonder the boss is happy this morning; she’s probably thinking this will be better for business, since most of our clientele are women, but the fact that he is – hate to say it, but it’s true – good-looking is definitely a bonus for all of us. Not that I care, or am looking to date again. At any rate, Zach will be a nice distraction from Eryn and her Curly Head of Opinions.

     “Hello,” he says softly. I detect a slight southern twang in his voice, which is a perfect lead for Eryn to introduce her loud, obnoxious self. “You don’t sound like you’re from here,” she says brashly. “Did you just move here or something?” And then, as if she could subconsciously hear her mother nagging about manners, she coyly added “I’m Eryn, by the way.”

     “I did just move here,” Zach answers. Would it be cheesy to say that his voice is somewhat musical? Well, his voice is somewhat musical. “From Mississippi.”

     “Oh yeah? What for?”

     His gaze drops suddenly. “It’s kind of a long story.”

     Eryn laughs. “Well you’ll notice we have very long, empty shifts here. What’s the story?”

     “’Long and empty’? Don’t believe her,” interrupts Julia. “There’s always something to do around here. Eryn, if you’d like to go run your mouth to the woman who’s been meandering through the self-help section for the last twenty minutes, I’d greatly appreciate it.”

     With a devious grin and notorious clang of her giant hoop earrings, Eryn saunters off. I have to hand it to Julia: she comes off as a little spacey most of the time, but she does know how to handle Eryn well. But with what I’ve heard Eryn say in her presence, I’m honestly surprised she hasn’t been fired. Then again, it’s not like there’s much competition for a job like this.

     As Julia explains the lay of the land to Zach, I hear a bell ringing, indicating that someone has entered the store. I have yet to see Morgan greet anybody – I doubt anyone would hear her if she did – so I walk to the front with my prepared speech. “Welcome to Book Nook, can I help you find –”

     I stop short, realizing I already know this customer.

     “Well hey there, Anna-Kate,” Collin says. “How ya been?”

     I have never been Anna-Kate to him before. He must really be pissed that his advances were rebuffed; this is the first time I’ve seen him in over a week. “I’ve been just fine. How are you?” Why have you all of a sudden stopped talking to me?

     “I’ve been great. I didn’t know you worked here.”

     Knowing his gift for finding me anywhere, I somehow doubt this, even if Book Nook is cornered in the only shopping center this area has to offer. Collin coming here could be just a coincidence.

     I refuse to speculate. “Are you looking for anything in particular?” A book of scenes from The Lion King, perhaps? Given that ridiculous tattoo?

     “Nothing really, AK. Just browsing for now. But thank you so much for asking.”

      Using my initials is somewhat of a relief; so we’re not total strangers after all. Yet the lack of “47” following them is not what I’m used to from him, and I’m embarrassed by how much it disappoints me that he didn’t say it.

     He walks away from me, but then turns awkwardly to add “Nice hair, by the way.”

     I’m pretty sure that is not a compliment.

     Tess doesn’t know anything about Collin. I guess I was afraid to mention him, as if doing so would be prophetic and turn our situation into something bigger than it is. Which is ridiculous, because he never intended for anything concrete to happen: he proved that when he told me he only wanted to “have fun” when he almost kissed me.

     It’s still creepy to imagine what more might have transpired if he had.

     Returning behind the cash register, I watch Collin as he wanders over to Fiction, where Morgan is stocking a new shipment of New York Times best sellers. Fifty Shades of Grey just happens to be sitting on the shelf above her head, and I watch, incredulously, as Collin picks up a copy and appears to ask her about it.

     His back is facing me, so I can’t tell what he’s saying, though if I know anything about that man, it’s probably something snarky. Morgan, on the other hand, lights up like a Christmas display, and giggles incessantly. Why on earth would she be giggling about anything that has to do with Fifty Shades of Grey? It wasn’t too long ago when she made it perfectly clear to Eryn that the series was – how did she put it? – glorified sadomasochistic abuse. Yes, that’s quite a humorous subject.

     He continues to talk to her, nodding every once in a while, and Morgan is still smiling. Good grief, it looks like Collin is flirting with her! Poor girl, this may be the longest conversation she’s ever had with someone who’s not her boss or fellow employee.

     Okay, that was mean. Whatever the reason for Morgan’s extreme introversion, she seems like she’s genuinely enjoying her conversation with Collin. I wonder if he’s come up with a clever nickname for her yet (“Mousy Morgan,” perhaps? No, again, that’s unnecessarily mean). Her face has softened into an expression I’ve never seen on her before, but I know it well.

     It’s probably how I looked when Collin first started flirting with me.

"Public Displays of Convention," chapter 9

Only one more free chapter left to preview for Public Displays of Convention! This week it's only 99 cents to download on Kindle. Starting next week it will go up to $1.99, and then return to its normal cost of $2.99. Get it cheap while you can, and enjoy reading chapter 9 (previous chapters found here).

It rained on the day of graduation, but I let my hair down and wore a strapless dress anyway. I don’t know why I was shaking in the moments before my name was called to walk across the stage – this is, after all, the moment I’ve been waiting for. My diploma is my ticket to freedom.

     Limited finances notwithstanding, my opportunities are endless now. The thought of going anywhere, pursuing anything, without being tied down by another person is liberating and frightening all at the same time. It’s sad to admit, but if he were still in the picture, I might have agreed to stay in this dead-end town for as long as Jared would be in it. But that’s not an option anymore.

     When I think of the opportunities that await, my longing for a relationship almost pales in comparison. Almost. Do I need to belong in anyone’s arms to be somebody important?

     Believing this is one thing. Living it is quite another.

     On her last day before heading off to India, Tess helps me pack up my little box of a dormitory and prepare to move in the spare bedroom left by her previous roommate. I feel bad that we’ve barely talked about her excitement for this upcoming trip; she seems to be more concerned about how I’ll handle the next few months without my best friend, still knee-deep in the muck of post-relationship insecurity.

     “You’re still hurting, aren’t you?” she asks carefully.

     I don’t cringe, even though it still feels raw to talk about it. For the first time in weeks, my expression is completely blank, even if my words are not: “It kills me every day,” I tell her.

     “You’ve taken your grief out on your hair, I see.”

     I touch a piece of newly dyed reddish-black hair: quite a contrast from my natural dishwater blonde. “Yeah, well, I decided to start over, and be as unrecognizable as possible.” Tess looks somewhat shocked, so I hastily add, “Unrecognizable from the codependent woman I was with Jared, I mean.”

     “I’m worried about you,” Tess says plainly. “Are you sure…are you sure you’ll be okay?”

     “Tess.” Setting down the pants I was folding, I walk across the room to where she’s sitting on my bed, and hug her tightly. “You’re going to go to India and not worry about me. Promise.”

    She looks unconvinced. “I just need some distraction,” I continue. “Working full-time at the bookstore and getting to know my co-workers will do just that. And when I’m not working, I’ll be filling out other job applications, maybe to teach writing courses somewhere.”

     Tess’ face softens. “Well that’s good, but you can’t just heal from something like this overnight –”

     Sigh. “I know that, Tess.”

     “All right then.” We resume folding clothes, and I bite my tongue to keep from saying what I’m really thinking: You don’t think I’m stable enough to handle being alone.

"Public Displays of Convention," chapter 8

Chapter 8 of Public Displays of Convention. Only two preview chapters left! Catch up on previous chapters here.

     There are several ways to tell it’s officially spring: the crocuses peeking out of the ground, the leaves growing back on the trees, and the flurry of engagements of people who have never been anything more than acquaintances to me.

     Somehow, I end up clicking through dozens of Facebook photos of rings, hundreds of congratulatory messages…and I feel increasingly pathetic with every wasted minute of envying others’ happiness, but once I start, I don’t know how to stop.

     Luckily, graduation is just three weeks away. I have no idea where this new season of life will take me, but Tess’ roommate is graduating too and moving back with her family, so I’ll be taking her place once I sign away my little box of a dorm room. I’ve always preferred to live alone, but I can’t afford a full month’s rent by myself, and Tess is the only logical roommate choice. Just one step closer to growing up, however small the step may be.

     At Book Nook today I helped a rare male customer who was looking for a gift for his girlfriend’s birthday. He proved to be the most difficult customer I’ve helped yet. It wasn’t him that was the problem – he was polite, cordial, smiled a lot – it was the fact that the girlfriend, whoever she is, had literary interests so similar to my own; it was like helping Jared shop for a gift. My heart splintered when he purchased My Sister’s Keeper, another one of my favorites. It was all I could do to fight back tears as I handed back his change.

     “Hey, Weepy,” interrupts Eryn. I swear that woman has a gift for speaking up at all the wrong moments. “It’s all right, really. We only sold one copy of Twilight today!”

     I laugh, in spite of myself. “Well thank God for that. It’s just so hard, you know? All those young minds being corrupted by poorly-written literature –”

     “At least it wasn’t Fifty Shades of Grey,” pipes Morgan, and we both turn around, shocked: it’s the most I’ve heard her say since I started working here.

     “Hey now,” Eryn retorts. “At least Christian Grey is a real man who doesn’t sparkle, for goodness sake.”

     “There ought to be to parental advisory warnings on some of these shelves,” Morgan continues. I don’t know what’s more surprising: Morgan actually talking, or instigating a debate with Eryn. It’s not that I’m afraid of her, but Eryn definitely comes across as someone who doesn’t believe in censoring her opinions, no matter what the context. Personally I’d rather steer clear of her than challenge her.

     “I’ll admit they’re not the most well-written books I’ve ever read,” replies Eryn, “But I give props to the author for trying to normalize taboo –”

     “You mean sadomasochistic abuse.”

     “It’s not abuse if she wants it!”

     I can’t believe I’m hearing this. The only other time I can remember wanting to crawl beneath the floor boards and hibernate was when I fell asleep watching a movie with Jared, and woke up to find I’d drooled all over his sleeve.

     “What do you think, Anna-Kate?”

     I pretend I’m so immersed in the act of stapling receipts: anything to avoid eye contact with Eryn. “I’m sorry, what?”

     “Morgan seems to think the S&M activity in Fifty Shades of Grey is misogynistic and abusive; I say whatever floats your boat is fine as long as everyone’s cool with it. What do YOU think?”

     My throat feels lined with sandpaper. “I haven’t read that book, so I really can’t say.”

     This seems to be the answer Eryn expected to hear. “Well, in my experience –”

     “No one wants to hear about your experiences, Eryn.” Dang, where is Morgan’s fire coming from all of a sudden? She must only speak when she’s really irritated about something.

     “Oh, that’s right. I forgot I was speaking to virgin ears.” She says virgin like it’s a dirty word, too scandalous even for someone with Eryn’s brazenness. Her hoop earrings, so large I can probably fit my hand through them, clang as she shakes her head; a move that seems to summarize the personality I’ve come to expect from her.

     Turning to me again, she asks, “Do you have a boyfriend, Anna-Kate?”

     Because this workday just hasn’t been awkward enough. “No,” I say, teeth clenched. “I don’t.”

     “It’s a lot easier not to. It’s nice not to be tied down, you know?”

     Curiously, I turn to look at Morgan, whose face now looks like mine did when I was helping that guy pick out a present for his girlfriend. Eryn must have triggered something in her, as she’s retreated back to her usual mouse-like self, and scurries back into the fiction section.

     Interestingly, now that it’s over I’m almost grateful for Eryn’s brashness today, for no other reason except to show me a possible ally in my shy co-worker. I wonder if Morgan has always been quiet, or if she’s harboring a secret devastation like I am. Maybe this is the gateway for us to be friends.

"Public Displays of Convention," chapter 7

Is a motorcycle ride ever just a motorcycle ride?

Catch up on previous chapters here!    

     It’s Easter Sunday, and Tess has convinced me to resume our routine of going to church together. We used to go every week, but laziness and self-pity kept me from going to any of my usual places, including the gym, in the weeks after Jared broke up with me. Now, finally, I’m taking responsibility and re-immersing myself in the world I’m used to.

     Not surprisingly, as I return to the dorm that evening, the shout “Hey, AK-47!” stops me in my tracks. I’ve barely crossed the parking lot, and already my presence has been detected. Playfully I ask “Are you stalking me or something?” but I’m not entirely kidding. It’s starting to feel a little weird, the way he keeps surprising me like this. There might be a small chance it’s a coincidence, since we do live in the same building, but what are the odds of that? Why doesn’t he hang out in the student center like everyone else?

     “You flatter yourself, AK. I’m just about to indulge in some bad habits.” He holds up a pack of cigarettes, which is a perfectly convenient excuse not to kiss him!

     Asking where I went in such a pretty flowered dress, I remind him that today is Easter. His response: “Right, Zombie Jesus Day! How could I forget?”

     For the life of me, I cannot figure out what it is about this guy that still tempts me. I’ve never poked fun at his beliefs – actually, I’m not sure what his beliefs are, exactly, but I don’t pick up any religious vibes from him – so what gives him the right to make fun of mine? His only purpose in my life right now is to validate my sick need to feel loved, however temporarily. That makes me feel pretty despicable.

     Stuffing the cigarette box in his pocket, he says “On second thought, I’m kinda hungry. How do you feel about an Easter dinner? My treat.”

     Oh goodness, this is tempting. A meal I don’t have to pay for? Can I really refuse that, broke almost-graduate that I am? Or am I a tool for blatantly using him for food?

     Ugh, that smile. It’s infectious and entirely too convincing. Maybe, if I lay down the condition that this is between friends only, one meal with him would be harmless.

     “Sure,” I tell him. “But only if –”

     “Excellent. Would be a shame to waste that pretty outfit.”

     I’m pitifully speechless again. He is constantly full of surprises. Rather than walking toward the student center, where I assume he meant to eat, he takes my hand and walks into the parking lot, saying he wants to show off his motorcycle. He’s as gleeful as a small child showing off a new toy, and I can’t help but indulge him a little. “All right, show me your motorcycle.”

     Well, he does more than show me. He hands me a helmet, and my first thought is, Hell no. Honestly, it’s not him I don’t trust; rather, it’s the thought of my body brutally scraping against pavement if he rounds a corner too quickly in an attempt to impress me, or something.

     Sensing my apprehension, he pouts. “Oh come on, AK. Live a little. You can’t graduate college without riding a motorcycle.”

     Oh, hell. Chalk this up to one last undergraduate hurrah, I suppose. I take the helmet, which doesn’t fit easily over my ponytail, and nervously wrap my arms around him once I climb on. Who would have thought I’d ever have to literally cling to him for dear life? He’s loving every minute of this, I can tell.

     It should come as no surprise, once he revs up the engine a few more times than is probably necessary, that he drives us away from campus. Briefly, I panic. What if I’ve been wrong about him this whole time? What if these last few weeks of flirtation were nothing but a ruse to charm me into trusting him, all so he could drive me away like this, completely unsuspecting, into some remote wooded area, where God only knows what could happen…

     “Where are you going?” I hiss, having no choice but to hold on to him tighter as he speeds up.  “It’s a surprise!” is his predictable answer. Joy.

     We end up at Bellacino’s, a semi-fancy (by college student standards) Italian restaurant. Much too fancy to accept the school’s dining plan, which is accepted at some places outside of campus – usually places that are no fancier than McDonald’s.

     I don’t know whether to laugh or cry at this irony: I’ve longed for a genuine, loving relationship for so long, and the first guy since Jared to show an interest is someone I shouldn’t want. Is this a normal phenomenon, or is my life sitcom material?

     I wouldn’t feel guilty about having Collin pay if we were dining at McDonald’s: but Bellacino’s? It doesn’t seem fair to accept this dinner off him when I have no intentions of dating him. At the same time, it’s too late to tell him now that we’ve already been seated, and he’s placed an order for a bottle of sparkling grape juice. Besides, he never actually used the word “date.” So, technically, this could be an outing for which the only goal is to enjoy each other’s company. That’s a stretch, I realize, considering his offer to pay. Still, I don’t want to be one to assume…

     Staring at the menu, I realize what a mistake this is. I want someone to love me, I want to feel cherished and special, but I hate dating. I hate the façade of putting on a show, the pressure to be my best self. I hate feeling self-conscious about which of my quirks to reveal, because who knows what personality traits are considered cute, and which ones are turn-offs?

     I want to be done with this agonizing competition to try to win a man’s heart. There’s so much pressure to be the prettiest, the smartest, the funniest; pressure to look my best when all I really want is to show up in sweatpants and my favorite T-shirt.

     There was never a “comfort period” like that with Jared. With constant subtle reminders of my imperfections (“You should work out more if you want to wear pants like those”), I could never simply be myself around him. I’m not convinced I can be myself around Collin, either. We’ve built a pseudo-relationship on a foundation of non-stop sarcastic banter that, quite frankly, is a little exhausting to keep up with. It’s like I’ll lose an unspoken competition if I can’t fire a comeback quickly enough.

     Dating, when it comes down to it, is a lot like auditioning for American Idol: thrilling, if you’re approved to go to the next level; devastating if you’re rejected.

     We have just placed the order for our meal, but already I feel sick. Deciding I no longer care about keeping up appearances, I ask a question I’d never dare to ask if this were someone I was truly desperate to impress: “Why are we here, Collin?”

     His confused expression, I must admit, is somewhat adorable. “We’re here to eat dinner, silly.”

     “No, I mean why are we here, in a booth at a fancy restaurant, implying to other people that we’re a couple or something? Where are you trying to go with this?”

     I’ve gone ahead and done what Tess says women should never do: initiate the DTR, or “Define the Relationship” conversation. It’s such a juvenile expression, but a very fitting one. Supposedly, the guy is the one who should start it, but I can’t remember why that is and I’m beyond caring about convention anymore.

     “Uhh,” he stumbles. “Well, I think you’re cute and interesting. I’d like to get to know you better. Is that a problem?”

     There’s still that obnoxiously charming twinkle in his eye, indicating that I’m supposed to retort with something clever. Instead I reply, “I guess not,” even if I think his answer is more than a little vague.

     “The day we met,” he continues, no longer grinning mischievously, but actually appearing concerned, “You seemed upset. Anything you want to discuss?”

     Well, that’s unexpected. Not to mention completely out of character, the little I’ve seen so far. All this time I thought he was being cutely obnoxious to start a casual fling, but that’s not the kind of question you’d ask someone you don’t want to get emotionally involved with. But how could he want to get emotionally involved when he attempted to kiss me before even learning my favorite color?

     “I forgot I had a paper due that day,” I say, attempting to relax. “You might as well know I’m the type who’s extremely anal about her grades.”

     “I see.” He doesn’t believe me, I can tell. “What class was it for?”

     “Great Books. It was a report on Great Expectations.”

     “There would be a book with the word ‘Great’ in the title for a Great Books class.”

     “I know, right?”

     Here we are again: the same old banter that keeps getting worse as it gets better, and damn near impossible to end once it’s already started. Like trying to contain Niagara Falls in a coffee mug.

     When our food arrives, we stop talking for a while. Is it “romantically correct” (as opposed to “politically correct”) to ask the girl to pay for her own meal if the guy decides, mid-date, that he doesn’t want to see her again?

     No, I’m the one who should offer to pay my own way. I’ll end this whatever-it-is first, just to avoid the humiliation of being the one to get dropped all over again. Always better to be safe than sorry.

     The waiter comes by, asking how our food turned out. I seize the opportunity and say “Can we have separate –”

     “It’s on one check,” Collin interrupts. Nodding, the waiter disappears, and Collin reaches for my sweaty hand from across the table. “Chill out, AK-47. I got this.”

     I am hereby excused from any accusation of leading him on. Still, it feels wrong.

     The ride back to campus is more nerve-wracking than before, now that it’s dusk, and pitch black from the tinted glass inside Collin’s helmet. I really have to trust him now that I can’t see a thing, and I hate myself for agreeing to this all over again.

     My paranoia is unfounded. We arrive back at the campus, safe and sound, and I accept his offer to walk me back to my room. Now I can pride myself on having experienced one official date since Jared: it means I’m not a complete loser.

     Yet here we are once more, alone in the hallway, and temptation creeps in like water from a sieve. What, exactly, is protocol here? With Jared, a kiss was the least amount of activity expected to close an evening together; was that just him, or do all guys expect that? Do I “owe” Collin for taking me out for a meal?

     Most importantly, do I want to kiss him, dinner or no dinner, simply because he’s Collin?

     Playing into the moment, he whispers “I had a great time tonight,” and he’s tracing my jawline again. Whatever it is he’s trying to do, he’s good at it – good in a way that tells me, somehow, it’s worked before. It feels calculated: rehearsed, even.

     When his hand cups my chin and slowly tilts my face toward his, I all but lose myself completely. His mouth is a centimeter away from meeting mine when common sense – or is it fear? – kicks in, and suddenly I am wrenching myself away.

     “There’s too much garlic on my breath, right?” he asks, at the same time I think Goodbye, last chance.

     “Uh, no, your breath is fine.” It just now occurs to me that if I were serious about this, I would have avoided kissing him anyway, simply because my breath reeks of garlic too. Or would it matter, if we both smell the same? It’s not like people never kissed each other before there was a standard for hygiene.

     “So what is it, then?” He sounds slightly irritated now, for which I can’t blame him. This was a two-person tango, after all. How can I back out without looking like a tease, or worse: revealing the real reason I can’t do this? Because even if Collin is about six inches taller than the man I used to date, maybe ten pounds heavier, and has blond hair instead of brown, I know I’d be pretending it’s Jared that I’m lip-locking instead.

     And that’s not fair to either of us.

     “I thought I was ready for this,” I stumble. “But I don’t think –”

     “Shhh, AK.” He puts his finger over my lips to shush me. “There’s no pressure here, okay? We don’t need to decide anything right now. I just want to have some fun with you.”

     All the lingering temptation sucks out of me like a vacuum. He thinks I’m nervous because of how kissing would affect the friendship, not because we’re about to kiss, period. Kiss and who knows what else.

     I understand now what I could not see before: I don’t need this. If Collin and I were to hook up tonight, and I imagine with all my heart that I’m with Jared again, a man who no longer loves me, what possible good would that do? I’m tangled enough in hurt as it is. I may not feel worthy of much, but somehow I know I’m worth more than this.

     “I think we’ve had enough fun already,” I tell him. My voice is icier than I intended, but I don’t apologize. Not for that, and not for sliding my key into the lock and slamming the door in his face.

"Public Displays of Convention," chapter 6

Catch up on previous chapters here.

     The musky air and creaky floors of Book Nook must seem old-fashioned to the average customer, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t any regulars. A typical day consists of a few patrons, usually women who could be anywhere from their late forties to early sixties, looking for gifts or classic literature.

     Mrs. Jensen, for instance, is a middle-aged woman with a penchant for strong female protagonists in fiction: more so classic than contemporary. “Just give me anything” she told me on my first day, “with female characters that have more backbone than that flimsy Twilight girl.”

     Eyeing her more closely – blouse perfectly crisp, hair coiffed, lipstick fresh – Mrs. Jensen did not look like someone who would ever pick up a copy of Twilight.

     “My granddaughter loves the series,” she explained, reading my mind. “Such a shame, considering the copy of Anne of Green Gables I bought her for her twelfth birthday…”

     “So you’re looking for a book for your granddaughter, then? Is she interested in romance, adventure…?”

     “Let me handle this,” Julia intervened. “It’s Anna-Kate’s first day, she’s still learning the ropes around here. I’m sure we can find you something…”

     Thankfully, not all customers are quite as picky. Once I direct them to their desired genre, most appear content to search on their own, leaving me to unload new shipments and occasionally dust the shelves. Modern series, like Gossip Girl and my beloved Hunger Games, look very out of place in a building as old and historic as this.

     And so do my co-workers. There’s Eryn, who has a penchant for big earrings and juicy gossip. Her opinions about anything and everything are as loud and attention grabbing as her mountain of thick, brown curls. And then there’s Morgan, her exact opposite, who is so quiet you forget she’s even there. If she isn’t shelving books, she’s constantly checking Facebook on her phone when Julia isn’t looking. Because Eryn talks enough for all of us, and Morgan barely speaks at all, I can’t imagine becoming friends with either of them.

     “I can’t stand that woman,” Eryn says once Mrs. Jensen leaves with a copy of Persuasion. It wasn’t a comment meant for anyone in particular to hear – certainly not Julia – but being the closest to her at the time, I boldly ask “Why not?”

     “She’s clearly repulsed by the so-called ‘loose morals’ of her granddaughter’s generation, so she’s trying to ‘reform’ her by stuffing boring literature down her throat.”

     It’s probably a bad idea, but I can’t help myself. “Uh, ‘loose morals’?”

     “Oh, you know. Hooking up, sleeping around, whatever you want to call it. Her grandkid may be a pre-teen, but I doubt she’s as naïve as that lady thinks she is.” Her giant silver earrings clang like cymbals as she shakes her head in disgust. “Just let the kid read Gossip Girl or whatever she wants! At least those books are more realistic. Persuasion? Please.”

     “In case you’ve forgotten,” intervenes Julia, “We work at a book store, implying we know much about good books. You’d rather have that woman purchase Gossip Girl over Jane Austen, Eryn? Seriously?”

     Completely unfazed by however much the boss may have heard, Eryn simply shrugs. “For her purposes, yes. She didn’t buy Persuasion because her granddaughter is an Austen fan. She’s imposing her relationship values on her, because she can’t stand the fact that her granddaughter’s mother is unmarried.”

     “How do you know that?” Julia asks, incredulous.

     “Well, as much as I’d love to claim I know everything about our regulars, Mrs. Jensen is a friend of my mother’s and goes to our church.” She pauses, and then adds, “I mean my parent’s church,” as if to clear up any misconceptions that Eryn might be a churchgoer as well.

     “I see.” Something tells me that Julia and Eryn have a tendency to clash like this on a regular basis. If this is the case, I may take my cues from Morgan, who has been silently shelving and re-shelving the children’s section this whole time, and remain an unbiased observer.

     This may not be such a boring job after all.