Chapter One #2
“Do you have those notes on my story for me?” Cara asked.
“As a matter of fact, I do.” He shuffled through his distressed leather briefcase and handed Cara a stack of papers. “I’ve written them in the margins.”
Cara craved constructive criticism, but I never found the professor’s notes all that helpful, even when I was in the program. After I graduated, I stopped letting him read my work.
As she scanned his marginalia, Professor James looked me over. “What are you working on, Emiline?”
“Just doing scene exercises.” I looked away, avoiding his gaze.
“I didn’t mean with your students. I meant with your personal projects.”
I thought idly that the only personal project I wanted to work on was plucking my eyebrows and shaving my legs. “Oh, just some short stories.”
“If you ever want some feedback, feel free to drop your work off in my office.”
I shifted uncomfortably. “Thanks, I’ll consider it.”
I glanced at Cara’s story and noticed, in bold red writing, at the top of the page, the note brILLIANT!!
Professor James nodded good-bye and walked away. I turned to Cara. “Two exclamation points? He’s never said anything that nice about my work.”
Cara frowned. “You know what I think about that, Emi.”
“Oh man, here we go.”
“I know you don’t like to hear it, but it’s true. Maybe you’re writing about the wrong stuff.”
First Trevor, now Cara? “I’m really good at baking—does that mean I should be a baker?”
“You know that’s not what I mean,” she said.
“I know.” I looked down at my thrashed Nikes. “I’m just tired of missing the mark on these short stories. Trevor basically panned my last one.” I looked up and nodded toward the end of the hall. “Come on, let’s walk.”
We headed toward the staff room to check our mailboxes in silence.
“Maybe you could start a memoir? Even if you don’t finish it, you might figure out what you want to explore in your short fiction. Something that’s more personal to you?”
“No, thanks,” I said, hoping that my tone conveyed how much I wanted her to drop it. She seemed to have gotten the hint and abruptly changed the subject.
“So, have you heard of this debut novelist that everyone’s talking about? J. Colby?”
I shuffled through papers from my staff mailbox, tossing the junk mail in the trash. “No, who’s that?”
“Columbia grad. He’s around our age. I can’t believe he’s already published. Everyone’s raving about his novel.”
“Good for him,” I said bitterly.
“Well, I’m going to read it, see what it’s all about,” she said as she jammed a sheaf of mail into her tote bag. “It’s called All the Roads Between. Don’t you love that title?”
“It’s all right, I guess. Kind of reminds me of The Bridges of Madison County or something.” I turned to her. “Okay, well, I’m done here. I’m gonna head home. You coming with?”
“I’ll see you back there—just have to run a few errands. But, hey, you know what we should do since it’s so rainy out? We should stay in, get takeout, watch trash TV, and drink until we pass out. That’ll cheer you up, right?”
“I guess. Yeah . . . that sounds good. Great, actually. Let’s do it.” Never mind that I’d told Trevor I’d watch football with him and talk. What I needed was a night in with my best friend. “I’ll pick up the wine, you get the Chinese?”
“Deal. See you at home.”
* * *
The sun was going down behind the storm clouds as I sat on the window ledge and watched the waves crash against the rocks of the cove.
I thought about the story I could write.
I knew I had more than pages’ worth of material.
I had books’ worth. I just didn’t know if I could ever put the words to paper.
Cara came barreling through the door with a Barnes and Noble bag.
“They have Chinese food at Barnes and Noble now?” I joked.
“Our date is off! I went and got that book, read twenty pages in the store, and cannot put it down. I have to know what happens. Emiline, I’m in love with this author. I’m going to find him and make him marry me.”
“How will Henry feel about that?” I teased.
She threw the bag on the counter and poured herself a glass of wine as I watched her from the window ledge. “He’ll understand,” she said, giggling.
“So you’re bailing on me to read in your room?”
“You know how I am when I get into a book. I can’t be stopped.”
I understood exactly how she felt—I was the same way. “Fine, you’re off the hook. But you owe me.”
“Maybe Trevor can swing by with Chinese?”
I laughed. “You’re ditching me but you want my boyfriend to bring you food?”
She leaned over the couch and smiled at me. “Are you mad?”
“No, I’m kidding. Go, read, enjoy!”
An hour later, when Trevor did show up with Chinese, Cara came out, got a plate, and darted back into her room.
“What’s her deal?” he asked.
“She’s really into her new book.”
“Well, I guess it gives us time to talk.” We sat down side by side at the breakfast bar, opening cartons silently, waiting for someone to go first.
After a few bites, I put my chopsticks down. “You want to talk? Fine? Why don’t you ever tell me you love me?”
“I’ve told you I love you before,” he said, astonished. “And this isn’t what I wanted to talk about.”
“Well, I do. You have said it but you don’t say it often. Don’t you feel like you can say it to me?”
“You never say it to me either.”
Fair point. “I don’t think we even know what it means,” I said through a mouthful of sesame chicken.
“Whatever it is you’re going through has nothing to do with me,” he said. Trevor had this way of shifting responsibility away from himself in every argument. It drove me crazy.
“People are in relationships so they can share things with each other.”
“This, coming from you? Emi, after seven years, I still barely know you. I only know what you share with me, which doesn’t include anything from your past.”
I could feel myself getting defensive. “Since we’re playing the blame game, you haven’t made much of an effort to get to know me, or to commit to me in any real way.”
Trevor’s face fell, and I could tell I’d struck a nerve.
“Are you serious? You keep saying you don’t know where you’ll end up a year from now. What does that even mean? How do you think that makes me feel?”
“Then why are you here?” I asked, simply. I didn’t want to sound callous, but I could tell that I’d gone too far. That I was cutting him too deep.
“I moved down here for you, Emi. I built my life around our relationship.” He got up from his stool. “We’re not kids anymore. I can’t deal with your fickle shit and listen to you say I won’t make a commitment to you. You’re the one who won’t commit to me.”
I felt all kinds of retorts bubbling inside of me. The only job offer you got was at San Diego State. You didn’t move here for me. I’m just the girl you’re passing time with. We both know it. Why else would I have a hard time saying I love you? Why else can’t I see our future?
I got up and headed toward my room, and Trevor followed right behind me. I turned around to face him and rested my hand on the door for a moment as he waited silently in the doorway. And then I pulled him toward me and kissed him, pressing my body against his. I didn’t want to talk anymore.
* * *
The next morning, as I drank coffee at the breakfast bar, Cara came skipping by.
“What’s eating you?” she asked. I didn’t know how she could tell these things just by looking at the back of my head, but she could intuit moods like no one else I’d ever met.
She poured herself a mug of coffee and leaned against the counter, facing me, waiting for my response.
“Trevor.”
“Trevor eating you?” She smirked at the double entendre.
“Not in a good way, pervert.” I rolled my eyes.
“Are you guys fighting again? Sounds like you made up last night.”
“We’re always fighting. Even when we’re making up.”
She straightened, as if something had just occurred to her, and then rushed off. “I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”
When she came back into the kitchen, she set a book down in front of me. All the Roads Between. “You’re finished already?”
“Stayed up all night. I loved it. You said I owed you one for bailing on you last night, and this is my repayment. I think you could use the escape.”
“Oh yeah?” I ran my hand over the cover. It was a faint image of two kids holding hands on a road. There was something familiar about the scene, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.
“Maybe you can escape your own slightly flawed love story for a bit and get lost in something more satisfying—even if it is fiction.”
I sighed and picked it up. Maybe she was right. I grabbed my mug of coffee with my other hand and headed toward my bedroom. “Thanks, Care Bear,” I called back.
“Anytime.”
Once inside, I plopped down on my bed and cracked open the book to the first page. From the moment I read the second line in the first paragraph, my heart rate tripled. Instantly, I was sweating. By the end of the first page, I was almost hysterical.