Page 36 of Bad Words

“I just know.” I glanced again at Selina, at the curve of her neck licked by the violet lamp on the bar beside her. Her head had bowed swanlike over her book, a lock of dark hair brushing her cheekbone, her dress’s zipper a dot of steel at her nape.

“She doesn’t want people to like her,” I said. “Or, you know, defend her. She wouldn’t care about that.” I took a long swallow of my Jack Rose. “Actually, I’m sure she thinks being liked too much would be a red flag, because it would mean people weren’t taking her seriously.”

“How long have you two known each other?” Emily asked.

“Known each other?”

“I mean when did you meet? Was it after her first review?”

“Oh, no. That night the video went up—that was the first time we met.”

Emily looked confused. “Oh.” She measured another sip from her copper mug.

“Sorry,” I said, realizing it had been a minute since I’d asked anyone a question. “Um—how are things at Word? Thank you so much for doing my launch, by the way. I can’t wait.”

Emily lit up. “Of course! We’re so excited to have you!”

We spent an hour discussing the ups and downs of running an independent bookstore, but throughout, my eye kept straying to Selina, those long fingers delving between pages, her lipsticked mouth leaving pink arcs on the rim of her glass. She looked as unconcerned now as she had onstage, Christian’s insults bouncing off her armor. Nothing like the night we’d fought at the party, when she’d reddened, snapped—engaged.

Something in me kept picking at the idea of that, as though I were picking a scab. She’d looked at Christian like he was nothing, utterly beneath her notice. That wasn’t the way she looked at me.

When the bar dimmed its lights, Emily checked her phone and stood. I rose to let her by, and as she slipped past, she said, “It was so great to see you, Parker!”

“Yeah, you too. I’ll see you at the store sometime.”

“For sure! Or, um…” A flush rose in her cheeks. “I don’t want to make it weird, but maybe we could trade numbers? We could grab a drink in the neighborhood at some point?”

I felt a pinch of surprise. My eyes, which had been sliding toward the end of the bar, snapped back onto Emily.

“No pressure,” she added quickly. “I understand if it’s, like, a conflict of interest.”

“No, it’s okay.” I was suddenly very aware of the way Emily was winding one of her curls around her fingertip. “Um, yeah. I can—I’ll add myself?”

“Okay, cool!” I created my contact in her phone, and she left with a fluttery wave. I settled back into the sofa feeling both flattered and worried that the group would make some innuendo, but they didn’t seem to have noticed.

As the open bar wound down, we ordered a last round, and in the corner of my eye, Selina passed the halfway point of her advance copy. The tipsier I became, the more I caught myself ruminating on the panel, and the more outrageous it seemed that Selina Chan loved Asylum Piece. First of all, nobody had read that book. It was my obscure book to recommend to people, and she was encroaching on my territory. Second of all—

I stood and headed up to tip the bartender. This time, there was plenty of space, but I stopped at Chan’s side again. “You like Asylum Piece,” I said. “You.”

She lifted her dark head from her book. Two deep furrows had appeared between her brows, pointing toward each other.

“What,” she said slowly, “are you saying you’ve read Asylum Piece?”

“Yeah. Six, seven times.”

She stared at me like she couldn’t believe I was literate.

“City reviewed it when I was a freshman in high school.” I set my empty on the bar. “So, was that—I’m guessing you also—”

“Yes,” she said.

For another long moment, we just looked at each other. I had an uninvited vision of the woman across from me as some gangly teenager, lying in bed under a band poster she’d find humiliating now, poring over the same issues of City that I had, month after month.

It was bizarre to think of her ever having been a teenager. I’d sort of assumed she’d sprung out of her father’s head fully formed, like Athena.

“Anyway,” I said. “It just doesn’t make sense that you’d like that book. Because, you know, I read somewhere that a narrator not having agency is such a dealbreaker for you.”

Chan recovered, her surprise disappearing with a single slow blink, like an unimpressed housecat’s. “I love a passive narrator. I also love a book that knows its cutoff point should be two hundred pages.”