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Surprisingly, a number of people stayed behind and wanted their books signed—by both Gretchen and me. That was weird. And fun. But mostly weird. Holden hung back to help us clean up once attendees scrambled away to catch the fashion show where models were sporting far more flesh than leather and mesh.
The plans to go out for post-reading food dissolved when Gretchen complained of a headache, and although I think Holden was disappointed, I was glad that we were going home to quiet. I don’t think I can handle any more titillation—of any kind.
The drive home is strained. “You okay?” I ask.
“Fine.”
Gretchen pulls in front of our building. En route, we’ve had no witty banter, no silly commentary on the free show of boobies and leather chaps, not even a snide remark about Suzette’s choic
