isn’t a gay-centric shop.”
“You’re gay,” Zachary answered, like maybe I didn’t know.
“I’m not for sale.”
“Just my luck,” he said with a sort of wicked shy smile.
I cleared my throat and said, desperate to fill the bizarre silence, “I mean… I do have a few daguerreotypes of what I’m quite certain are lesbian couples.”
Marilyn and Zachary exchanged looks again.
“I spoke with a professor at Columbia last week about them. He insisted they were roommates. I swear to God, the photo could have been two women naked and embracing in one bed, and he’d have defended a dissertation on the familiarity of female friendships.”
Marilyn and Zachary both gasped at the same time.
I startled and cut short my rant. “What?”
“And there was only one bed!” they both exclaimed at once.
“What—?”
“It’s my favorite trope,” Zachary explained.
“Same,” Marilyn agreed, nodding. She asked me, “Do you read romance books?”
That heat was back, crawling up my neck, across my face, making my skin feel like little pinpricks of light were going to shoot out of every pore. “Well, I, uh—I prefer mysteries.” They were both staring at me, and I felt like my face was about to combust at this point. “Sometimes I do. The bookshop next door—”
“Queer books?” Marilyn interrupted.
“No. I mean, it’s just a used bookstore, but sometimes the owner finds gay romances and lets me borrow them. I’m not really into hetero love affairs.”
Zachary began vigorously tapping Marilyn’s arm. “The flyer, Marilyn. Give him one. You brought them, right?”
She was already digging through the messenger bag hanging from her shoulder, the front covered in no fewer than three dozen buttons, although I couldn’t make out what any of them were. Marilyn unearthed a slightly crumpled flyer and thrust it into my unwilling hands.
Awkwardly holding it and realizing neither had any intention of leaving my store until I acknowledged the contents, I sighed a little, reached for my magnifying glass, and read, “Queer Expectations.” I glanced up. “After having Ethan Cohen’s hand down my pants and liking it, I’ve not really had any other sort of expectation in life.”
Zachary’s mouth dropped open.
Marilyn rolled her finger in a motion for me to continue reading.
I returned to the flyer, and after a moment, concluded with, “Gay book convention.” Not that I wasn’t interested in LGBTQ studies or biographies—I mean, I was me. History and research were at the top of my list of pleasures, right beside a generous helping of cheesecake and Calvin smacking my bare ass and calling it pretty. But I have to admit, sometimes it’s nice to get lost in a fictional story, and seeing oneself represented—
“It’s specifically for romance books,” Marilyn corrected.
I lowered the flyer and asked with what sounded like hopeful wariness, “There’s enough gay romance books to warrant a convention?”
They both nodded in sync.
I brought the magnifying glass to the paper. “It’s next month?”
“In St. Louis,” Zachary concluded.
“Oh.” I heard the disappointment in my tone and decided to tuck it away to scrutinize at length once I was alone.
But if he heard the note of displeasure, Zachary ignored it. “St. Louis’s LGBTQ community isn’t even comparable to New York’s—we know that. But we’re on the top ten list for most gay-friendly cities in the country now.”
“I’m not looking to move.”
“And Pride draws a few hundred thousand every year.”
“I’m a low-key gay. Usually celebrate Pride from my couch.”
Zachary reached out and tapped the flyer so hard, he almost punched his finger through it. “But St. Louis was really the perfect location for Queer Expectations! Good food, good sights, equidistant from the East and West Coast…. They have all sorts of romance writers, you know. Historical, contemporary, mystery—”
“Are you two the organizers or something?”
Marilyn and Zachary beamed at what I guessed was a massive compliment, but said in unison, “We’re volunteer staff.”
“Ah.” I politely offered the flyer. “Well, thanks for stopping by… I guess.”
Zachary’s expression dropped. “You’re not interested?”
“It’s not that. I just don’t leave the city very often.”
“B-but the romance books,” Zachary tried, his voice almost cracking like a kid holding back tears.
“I have a vision condition,” I tried. “I only travel if my husband can—”
“Bring him along.”
Marilyn had her hands balled into fists and was shaking them excitedly at chest level. “Yes! Plenty of spouses come. He’d fit right in.”
I swallowed and was a little surprised that it felt like a softball was lodged in my throat. Beth knew I enjoyed romances. It was sort of a back-and-forth thing between us. She’d really dug deep to find one I’d like and