Page 41 of The Next Lie

“Have what?”

She pulls out a paperback with the reverence of someone unsheathing a holy relic. The cover has a dark castle, a woman in a red dress, and four men looming behind her in various stages of jawline. “This series,” she says.

“I’m afraid already.”

“You should be. It is unhinged.”

“Good unhinged or file-a-police-report unhinged?”

“Yes to both.”

I take the book from her and read the back cover. There are kingdoms. Curses. Blood bonds. A heroine who apparently has to marry all four heirs to break an ancient pact. Standard Tuesday. Then Sonny leans closer and lowers her voice. “All the men have pierced dicks.”

I look up. She nods solemnly. “All of them?”

“All. Of. Them.”

“That seems statistically unlikely, especially during..." I look at the back cover again. "This particular mythical time in history.”

“That’s what I said. By book three, I started wondering if there was a group discount.”

I bark out a laugh. I have the worst, braying sort of laugh when I really get going. The woman near the fantasy shelf looks over. I turn away, shoulders shaking. Sonny pulls the next book from the shelf. “This one has a scene where she discovers the second one, and she’s like, oh, that one's different, and I was like, girl, how many magical jewelry displays were you expecting?”

“Magical jewelry displays?”

“What else would you call it?”

“I don’t know, but thank you for ruining both magic and jewelry.”

“You’re welcome.”

I flip through the book, stopping at a random page because I am nosy and lack discipline. Sonny peers over my shoulder. “Careful. You’ll open right to a scene.”

“I have survived worse.”

“Famous last words.”

I scan three lines and immediately snap the book shut. Sonny shrieks. The shopkeeper looks over his glasses.

“Sorry,” I say. “Cliterature happened.”

Sonny bends over laughing. The sound is so normal and stupid that it loosens something in me. For a minute, I am just twenty-two in a bookstore with a friend, cackling about fictional men with coordinated genital accessories. No dead sister. No living sister. No assassin waiting at the house. No old 'assignment' sitting in my chest like a loaded gun. Just this. I needed this more than I knew.

Sonny buys the first two books “for educational purposes,” which is how women have justified every questionable purchase since the beginning of time. Then we end up in a bar because she says book shopping requires hydration, and I say that is not what hydration means, and she says language evolves.

The bar is small and dim even in the afternoon, with ceiling fans turning lazily above dark wood tables. Shiloh and Ever take a table near the back like they are not completely obvious. Ever has appeared from wherever emotionally constipated shadows go during bookstore time. Shiloh pretends to study a menu he has definitely memorized. Sonny clocks them, then grins at me over her margarita.

“Which one do we make uncomfortable first?”

“Ever is harder.”

“Challenge accepted.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Sonny.”