“So … did I ruin it?”
“Ruin what?”
He shrugged. “Any chance for … an attachment.”
My hand struck out and hit him on the shoulder before I could think. “That’s Jane Austen. You read Jane Austen!”
He nodded. “I went and bought that book you had after I found it at the field.”
“Sense and Sensibility? Why?”
“So I’d have something to talk to you about. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but conversation isn’t exactly one of my strengths.”
“How were you going to work it in?”
“I don’t know. Maybe if we were hanging out, and there was a conversational lull, I could be, like, ‘Man, that Willoughby’s a dick, right?’”
“He’s not, really. He is but he isn’t. Mr. Wickham’s the real douche bag of Jane’s work.”
“Yeah, Wickham. I fucking hate that guy.”
“You read Pride and Prejudice, too?”
“I thought it was, like, a sequel or something.”
No one had ever read a book for me before, let alone two.