Vivian leans forward, the creak of her chair cutting through the quiet chatter. “Last Hope, by Jasper Williams.” Color fills her cheeks as she summarizes the book for me, and I can’t help but wonder exactly how dirty these Dirty Birds are getting. Maybe I should start reading along, given how single I am. “Oh, and it was just so lovely. The way he writes. I’ll never get over it.”

“You’ve read him before, haven’t you?” I recognize the name right away. It’s a popular one in the store; soccer moms and pierced pixies alike request his work weekly. Jasper Williams stands out among the shelves of female romance authors despite the understated covers that grace all his books.

“You’d know that if you’d read the damn books with us.” Collette’s raspy smoker’s voice rises and I bite back my smirk. I didn’t mean to, but getting her worked up is one of my favorite pastimes.

“Maybe next month,” I lie. And by the exaggerated roll of her eyes, she knows I’m full of it.

It’s not that I don’t like stories. Of course I do. I’m human, after all. I just like my stories told to me in a different way. I like visuals. The countless stories photographs can tell. The real-life images where the curve of a mouth can tell more than any book can. The perfectly framed shot of a mountain that allows your imagination to drift to the countless lives that have graced the landscape. Those are the stories I’m drawn to. I love conjuring hope myself, not being force-fed broken promises or lies telling me love is for everyone and I’m right around the corner from a happy ending of my very own.

“Oooorrrr . . .” Ethel drags out the word. My spine snaps straight. I recognize that tone and the meddling that always follows it. “You could read it before this weekend because Jasper Williams has agreed to come to the store. He’s going to join our book club and do a reading.”

I shake my head, trying to understand. “What do you mean? Shouldn’t I know about in-store events?”

“Well, now you know, dear.” Mona reaches for her copy on the table . . . the one with about eight hundred sticky notes popping out from the pages. “It’s Saturday evening. The reading begins at five, followed by a discussion lasting until six or so, but he said he’s flexible. I put it on your calendar. I thought you would’ve seen it by now.”

I grab my phone out of my back pocket and open up my calendar, but nothing is there. I swipe around a little more, trying to see if she entered it somewhere else by mistake.

“It’s not on my calendar.”