Better Than Fiction

by Alexa Martin

The woman, whose name I don’t remember, gives my hand one more gentle squeeze before walking away, off to bury her problems in a book with a happily ever after that’s so elusive to actual humans.

don’t even like myself half the time and you’re telling me it’s a good idea to latch myself on to one other person until death do we freaking part? Or more likely, until they cheat, get bored, or whatever other reason fifty percent of marriages end in divorce. Yeah. No thank you.

feel a little guilty. Just the smallest, tiniest amount of guilt for not being the kind, welcoming hostess Gran taught me to be. But the rest of me is so relieved that while Jasper might be literal physical perfection, who he is as an actual human is the last thing I’d want in a boyfriend. Because I’m busy, you know? I don’t have time to pine after a guy who will undoubtedly leave me high and dry and sadder than I already am.

I might not love to read—okay, fine, I hate it—but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find an odd comfort in the smell of a book. Maybe some of it is because of the familiarity of it, but nothing calms my frazzled nerves more than taking inventory back here. The weight and feel of a book in my hand, the crisp pages beneath my fingertips, the bright and colorful covers that are all so similar, yet so different. It’s almost hypnotizing.

“Why don’t I help you grab the rest?” he asks, the stupid timbre of his voice doing stupid things to my stupid body. “Teamwork makes the dream work, am I right?” Teamwork makes the dream work? This guy, who is an award-winning writer of words, just said that? His cheeks redden beneath my gaze and a kinder person would move on, pretending that didn’t happen. “Did you really say that?” I guess I’m not very kind. “I honestly regretted it the second the words came out of my mouth. I was hoping you would let it slide.”