Ruthless

Chapter 19 THE BOOK THIEF

Later that same Tuesday night, Aria sat in a secluded nook at Wordsmith’s, the bookstore a block away from the Rosewood Day campus. Classical music tinkled over the stereo, and the place smelled like the freshly baked cookies from the bakery next door. But nothing smelled as good as Ezra’s cologne, which Aria was inhaling deeply as she snuggled next to him on the oversized loveseat in the café at the back of the store. It was daring for them to cuddle in broad daylight—Aria still thought of Ezra as her taboo, sexy teacher—but no Rosewood Day student came into Wordsmith’s unless they were forced to, and absolutely no one from school patronized the café. That was a holdover from the days when Real Ali was still alive—she had started a rumor that someone had found a whole finger in one of the brownies, and everyone, even upperclassmen, had banned the place. Four months into her relationship with Noel, Aria caught him sneaking into Wordsmith’s between classes, and he finally confessed that he had a major jones for the café’s cranberry nut muffins. Aria had loved him for going against the fray.

Wait. Why was she thinking about Noel right now? She straightened up and looked into Ezra’s ice-blue eyes. He was the guy she was with now.

She hefted Ezra’s manuscript out of her bag and plunked it onto the ottoman. “So I read the whole novel,” she announced with a smile. “And I loved it.”

“Really?” Relief flooded Ezra’s face.

“Of course!” Aria pushed it toward him. “But I was so . . . surprised at the subject matter.”

Ezra cupped his chin in his hand. “The subject matter is all I’ve been thinking about for the last year.”

“It was so . . . vivid,” Aria continued. “The writing was amazing—I felt like I was there.” Of course, she kind of had been there, but whatever. “I couldn’t believe the turn it took. And then the ending! Wow!”

At the end of the novel, Jack moved to New York City. Anita moved with him, and they lived happily ever after. Until a bizarre twist at the end: Jack was mailed anthrax spores from an unknown international terrorist and died. But even that was romantic: There were heartfelt scenes of Jack dying in the hospital, Anita at his side.

Then her gaze fell back to the novel. “So . . . how much of this did you want to be true, anyway?”

“I wanted all of it to be true,” Ezra answered, running his fingers up and down her arm. “Well, except for the anthrax part.”

Aria’s heart pounded, and she chose her next words carefully. “So . . . when Jack asks Anita to move to New York . . .” She trailed off, not able to look him in the eye.

Ezra’s voice grew intense. “I don’t want to be without you again, Aria. I would love it if you moved there with me.”

Aria’s eyes widened. “Really?”

Ezra leaned toward her. “I’ve thought about you so much this year. I mean, I wrote a book about you. You could come for the summer at first, see how you like it. You could get an internship, maybe, a job at an art gallery. And you applied to FIT and Parsons, right?” He didn’t even wait for Aria to nod. “If you get in—and I’m sure you will—that’s where you could go next year.”

All of a sudden, the overhead lights felt way too bright, and the oaky scent of wine made Aria’s head spin. She chanced an excited smile. “A-are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure.” Ezra kissed her lips. Then he sat back and tapped the manuscript. “I want you to tell me everything you thought of it. Be honest.”

Aria pushed her hair behind her ears and tried to focus. “Well, I loved it. Every sentence. Every detail.”

“Surely there was something you didn’t like.”

The milk steamer switched on behind the counter, filling the café space with noise. “Well, I suppose there were a few things,” Aria said tentatively. “Like I’m not sure Anita should write Jack ten haikus—that seems a bit much. Just one or two would do, don’t you think? I certainly didn’t write you that many.”

Ezra frowned. “It’s called creative license.”

“True,” Aria said quickly. “And . . . well, I loved Jack, I really did. But why was he so obsessed with building model train vignettes in his bedroom?” She grinned and touched his lips lightly with her finger. “You would never have done something as dorky as that.”

Two sharp lines appeared on the sides of Ezra’s mouth. “The model train scenes he created were symbolic. They were of the life he wanted, the perfect life he couldn’t attain.”

Aria stared fixedly at the stack of papers in her lap. “Oh. Okay. I guess I didn’t understand that.”

“It seems like you didn’t understand a lot.”

His acidic tone made Aria’s heart drop. “You told me you wanted me to be honest,” she squeaked. “I mean, those things are so minor, really.”

“No, they’re not.” Ezra turned away from Aria, staring at an ad on the wall for filterless French cigarettes. “Maybe the book sucks, like all the agents said. Maybe that’s why no one wants to represent me. And here I hoped to be the new Great American Novelist.”

“Ezra!” Aria laid her palms flat on her thighs. “The book is awesome. I promise.” But when she tried to grab his hand, he pulled it away and curled it in his lap.

“Hallo?”

A shadow fell over them, and Aria looked up. Standing over the loveseat was Klaudia. She wore a fitted blouse unbuttoned just enough to show off her cleavage, and her Rosewood Day skirt was rolled up a few times at the waist to accentuate her long legs. A pair of dark-framed eyeglasses perched on her head, making her look like a naughty librarian.

Aria jumped so hard the manuscript fell off her lap and onto the floor. “W-what are you doing here?” She scrambled to pick up the pages and secure them with a rubber band.

Klaudia shaped her long blond hair into a ponytail. “I meet you here for art history project, remember?”

It took Aria a moment to remember their conversation in the library. “I said we should meet here tomorrow, not today.”

“Oops!” Klaudia covered her hand with her mouth. “My bad!” Her eyes flicked from Aria to Ezra. An intrigued smile spread across her face. “Hi there!”

“Hi.” Ezra half rose, extended his hand, and gave Klaudia a much kindlier smile than Aria would have liked. “I’m Ezra Fitz.”

“I Klaudia Huusko. Exchange student from Finland.” Instead of shaking Ezra’s hand, Klaudia leaned down and kissed him on both cheeks, European-style. Then she knitted her brow. “Why I know you? Your name sound familiar.”

“I was a teacher at Rosewood Day last year,” Ezra offered in a friendly voice.

“No, that not it.” Klaudia shook her head, making her ponytail wobble. She squinted. “You not Ezra Fitz who writes the poetry, are you?”

Ezra looked startled. “Well, I’ve only published one poem—in a foreign journal.”

“Was it called ‘B-26’?” Klaudia’s eyes brightened.

“Well, yeah.” Ezra’s smile grew broader and more skeptical. “You’ve . . . read that?”

“Se tytto, se laulu!” Klaudia quoted in melodic Finnish. “Is beautiful! I have it pinned up on bedroom wall in Helsinki!”

Ezra’s mouth hung open. He glanced at Aria in an amazed way as if to say, Can you believe it? I have a fan! Aria wanted to smack him upside the head. Didn’t he see that this was merely part of Klaudia’s sex kitten act? She’d never read his poetry—she’d probably seen his name on the manuscript at the library earlier today and Googled him!

“I’ve read that poem, too,” Aria boasted, suddenly feeling competitive. “It was really beautiful.”

“Oh, but it even prettier translated into Finnish,” Klaudia insisted.

A barista approached and Klaudia moved closer to Ezra to let him pass. “I have always wanted to be a writer, so this is very exciting for me to talk to a real published poet! Have you written other beautiful poetries?”

“I don’t know how beautiful they are,” Ezra said mock-bashfully, clearly enjoying being admired. “I’m working on a novel right now.” He pointed at the manuscript that now sat on the ottoman next to them.

“Oof!” Klaudia pressed her hand to her ample chest. “A whole novel? Is amazing! I hope to read it someday!”

“Well, actually, if you’re really interested . . .” He placed the novel in Klaudia’s hands. “I’d love to hear your thoughts.”

“What?” Aria shrieked. “She can’t read it!”

Klaudia’s eyes widened innocently. Ezra cocked his head, looking stricken. “Why not?” he asked, sounding hurt.

“Because . . .” Aria trailed off, trying to communicate with her eyes that Klaudia was a psychopath. Because it’s my novel, not hers, she wanted to say, but she realized how petty and immature that sounded. Still, the novel was so personal. Aria didn’t want Klaudia reading it, knowing about the most important relationship of her life.

Ezra waved his hand. “It’s a rough draft,” he said gently. “I need as many people giving me feedback as I can.” He turned to Klaudia and smiled. “Maybe you’ll like it as much as ‘B-26.’”

“I’m sure I love it!” Klaudia cradled the manuscript in her hands. She backed away, giving Ezra a three-finger wave. “Okay, I go now! Sorry I bother you! See you in school tomorrow, Aria!”

“You were no bother,” Ezra called, waving back. There was a slight, satisfied smile on his face, and his gaze followed Klaudia as she sashayed out of the café and through the bookstore. Aria reached for his hand again, but he squeezed only lightly and distractedly, like there were far more important things—or perhaps girls—on his mind.