Then Aaron smiles and winks. Winks. Jimmy’s knees buckle even though he’s already seated, and his hands curl uselessly around the stack of books in front of him. Tapping the cover of the one on top, Aaron says, “I read your book.”
“Me, too,” Jimmy whispers.
He meant to say, I read yours, too, but before he can correct himself, someone calls out Aaron’s name farther down the table. Aaron turns, grinning, then hurries away to catch up with someone else.
Stupid! Of course Jimmy read his own book; he wrote the damn thing.
I read your book. Not I liked it. Just I read it. And that wink. Jimmy’s face burns from both.
* * * *
Since getting published, Jimmy can count the number of readings he’s done on one hand. Most were local events—at the gay bookstore in DC, and a table sponsored by a yo
