Chapter Fifteen Emily
Chapter Fifteen
Emily
It’s six-forty-five a.m. , a breeze is blowing through my kitchen window and James Taylor is singing “How Sweet It Is” on my record player as I lift my cup of steaming hot coffee to my mouth. That’s when Jack opens my front door. No warning knocks. Just steps right in like this is his house too. I squeak a noise at the intrusion and barely manage to scoot away from the slosh of coffee over the edge of my mug.
He’s holding a big stack of papers in his hands, and there’s another pile under his arm.
“Jack!” I press myself back into my kitchen counter, feeling incredibly skimpy in my nightgown. It’s the exact color of champagne and of course made of silk because that’s the only fabric I will let touch my skin at night. It’s a short little number with a slit up to my hip. Oh, and it has these cute little lace straps with bows at the juncture of each seam. Fine, let’s be real, it’s lingerie. And I’m not wearing a bra because this is my home, and I will not endure that torture device first thing in the morning. It’s my favorite gown but definitely inappropriate for standard visitors.
“Oh good, you’re up.” He hasn’t looked up from his engrossing papers yet. And I’m worried that when he does, he’s going to see a lot more of me than he’s expecting.
“What are you doing in my house before seven in the morning? And ever heard of knocking?”
“We’re past knocking. It’s a waste of time.”
“I beg to differ.” I set down my coffee mug to cross my arms over my chest. He looks up finally as he steps into my little galley kitchen, full of light with window sheers being tossed by the breeze. And when he sees me, it turns out I had nothing to worry about. Jack doesn’t look fazed by the sight of me in the least. Good?
I, however, can’t help but swoon a little over the sight of him. He’s a mess. His hair is disheveled, his jaw is lined with stubble, there are dark circles under his eyes, and his T-shirt is not only inside out but backward. And he’s wearing dark gray jogger sweatpants. Sweatpants. Jackson owns sweatpants. I imagined he slept in chinos.
“Emily Walker,” he says in a firmer tone than I have ever heard from him. “This”—he raises one of the stacks of papers in the air, wiggling it a bit—“is incredible.”
I’m lost. I’m lost in a dream—that’s what this is. It has to be. I’m in sexy, flimsy clothes, birds are chirping, James is singing, and Jack is in my kitchen babbling on about something that I don’t care at all about because it’s not actually important to the plot. The plot is that we are going to have sex in my dream and that’s the whole purpose of it. That must be what is happening.
Why am I so attracted to the sight of him disheveled? Why do I want to bite his elbow? I’m ninety percent sure that’s a weird thing to think.
“What’s incredible?” I say, giving in to the dream’s silly little side plot.
He frowns lightly at my sensual tone of voice. “Your book.”
My dreamland bubble pops, and I yank myself upright when I confirm that this is reality. “My…” I blink a few times. “My book? That’s my book.”
“This is your book.”
“You’re reading my book.”
“I read your book. Twice,” he says. “Saw it come through my email when I got into bed and meant to read only a chapter and instead, ended up staying up the entire night to read it.”
“Twice.”
He grins. “Twice.”
“And you printed it out? You own a printer.”
He looks confused. “Doesn’t everyone?”
I need to sit down. I need to…there’s nowhere to sit. There’s nowhere to escape. The dreamy sunlight from a minute ago is suddenly a piercing spotlight. I’m now searching through our entire interaction of the last minute to remember what it was he first said. It’s incredible.
“You liked it?”
His eyes are bright and a little wild. “I loved it. And it’s not that I didn’t think you would be a good writer, it’s just that when I read stuff from friends or novice writers I try to go in with pretty low expectations because I never really know what I’m going to get, but I should have known better.” He cracks another smile. “I should have known you would approach writing with the same precision and expertise you approach everything else in life. Emily.” He steps forward, a little breathless. “It was exceptional. You have to do something with it. It would be a shame for this story”—the pages wobble in his hand as he shakes it firmly again—“to live in a drawer.”
I’m light-headed. Jackson Bennett thinks I’m a good writer. Thinks I could do something with this work. I turn away from his intense gaze and retrieve my coffee again; I drink it too fast and burn my tongue. “Shit.” The mug goes on the counter again and I whirl around. “You’re not lying to me, are you? Just saying what I want to hear?”
“I always tell you the truth. That’s our thing, right? For good or bad, it’s nothing but the truth.”
Jack read my book.
I breathe in, resisting the burn of my eyes. This book…it was so deeply personal. I wrote my feelings on those pages. I wrote my struggle with grief. With anxiety after childhood trauma. I wrote about how I feel like the walls close in on me when I’m alone. And although Jack doesn’t know that any of that is personal, it is, very deeply personal. And he liked it.
“I…” My eyes bounce everywhere, and I decide I need something to do with my hands so I turn and pour Jack a cup of coffee too. I add two splashes of flavored vanilla creamer too because I know he doesn’t like his coffee black. “I don’t know if I want to do anything with it yet. It’s…terrifying.”
“Unfortunately, I can promise you that feeling never goes away, no matter how many books you publish.”
I hand him the coffee mug and watch his face closely. “That’s how it’s been for your dad?”
He takes the hot cup from my hand and stares at me a beat longer before answering. “No, actually…My dad has never lacked confidence. Even when he should.” He sips his coffee. “But others I’ve known have definitely felt the terror.”
I nod, unable to shake the feeling that there’s more he hasn’t told me.
“So what now?” I manage to ask despite my wobbling legs. “I mean, hypothetically…if I wanted to do something with this, what is my next step?”
That light floods his eyes again. “The next step I would suggest is to edit what you have. I went ahead and made some notes for you if you want them. And then after you’ve done another edit or two, you can either decide to get additional reads or take it on submission to find an agent. Unless you want to self-publish it, though I’ll admit I don’t know much about that. But I can find out if you want me to.” He pauses with the most uncertain expression I’ve ever seen from him. “I mean if you want help, I want to…be the one to help you. I have resources and I’m happy to use them for you.” I’ve seen a lot of sides to Jack. But this one is brand-new. He’s excited. He’s happy. He’s in his element and feeling silly about showing too much joy. Jack, as it turns out, loves talking about writing.
Maybe it’s because of his upbringing and watching his dad walk through all of it, or maybe it’s because he secretly wants to be a writer himself. All I know is it feels good being on the receiving end of his attention like this. His excitement is contagious, and the fact that he’s feeling it toward something I wrote—it’s giving me that same confidence I felt after riding with him on his motorcycle. It’s got me considering my future in a new way.
Over the last two years, I’ve become conscious of how I used to hold my siblings back from their dreams because I was afraid of them leaving me behind or them getting hurt. Afraid of that ever-creeping loneliness taking root in my heart and leaving a permanent ache. But that awareness has led to me championing my siblings toward their dreams even if I secretly—and like a terrible, horrible monster—hoped they’d fall through. Misery and fear will do that to a person, though.
I’m in possession of enough self-awareness at least to know that I was in the wrong. To bury those feelings and pretend they didn’t exist so I could outwardly cheer them on. I’ve made helping them achieve their dreams my whole personality. My main objective. And I never realized until this moment how much I needed someone to do that for me. How good it feels to be on the receiving end of a person believing in you.
“What kind of notes?” I ask with equal parts anticipation and dread.
He smiles. “Well, that depends on what you want from me. If you need a cheerleader who only focuses on the good parts of your story and lavishes you with compliments and praise until you find your footing and confidence to dig into the meatier stuff—then you’ll want this one.” He holds up one stack of papers.
“And the other one?”
His smirk turns into my favorite smile. The one that reminds me of a jungle cat stretching out in a patch of sunlight. “The other one is not for the weak of spirit. It’s brutally honest and doesn’t pull any punches.”
“That one,” I say without hesitation. “I’m no wimp.” My smile is just for him.
And something about it seems to snap Jackson into an awareness he hasn’t had until this very moment. His eyes now drop to my body with a leisurely perusal that has chills blooming across my skin. His jaw flexes and I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. “God, woman. How many of these outfits do you own?”
About time you noticed. Except, no. I don’t want him to notice. Do I? Ugh, I’m all conflicted and inside out. He’s my nemesis—but also…my closest friend? Neither of those titles, however, lends itself to a casual quickie to relieve tension. The struggle, I realize, is that he is wildly attractive. Even when I hated his guts, I knew he would look incredible naked. And now that there’s an emotional vulnerability to this dynamic—which does not come easily for me, I might add—it’s throwing gasoline on the fire.
I resist the urge to cover myself like I’ve done something wrong. “This is my house, I’ll remind you. And you didn’t knock. Seeing more of my skin than you’d like is the consequence of your actions.”
His mouth tilts. “Who said anything about me not wanting to see your skin?”
And now I’m nervous. Why am I nervous?
Jack and I have always been equally matched in all ways, but secretly deep down, I’ve known there’s one area where he would easily outpace me. Jack exudes sensuality. And I’ve never felt overly confident in that department. I mean, I’m not terrible by any stretch of the imagination, but I’ve never considered myself as overachieving in it either.
I clear my throat and pull the manuscript from his hands. “Let’s see what kind of remarkable insight you’ve given me,” I say sarcastically, because I can’t actually let him see how eager I am to read his thoughts. It’ll go straight to his pretty head.
I pad to my breakfast nook, coffee in one hand, manuscript in the other, and set them both on the table. I feel Jack following behind me. I pull the chair out, sit, and begin flipping through. There’s a lot of ink on this page from his pen. And though I should probably be nervous, I can’t help but smile at his handwriting. It’s meticulous. It’s clear he’s used a ruler when underlining certain parts. There are also tabs marking the sections with his notes, and at first glance they appear to be color coded.
The first few notes, I agree with immediately.
Pacing issues.
This passage could be moved up.
Dig deeper here? What is she really feeling in this scene?
This line doesn’t make sense.
He wasn’t lying—these notes are brutally honest. And I’m grateful for it because it makes the sections where he’s highlighted and added I love this feel all the more honest and important. Like little hugs.
I pause when I get to the only chapter with no notes.
“Why didn’t you critique the intimacy scene?” Intimacy scene feels like the mature and professional way to refer to the chapter in question. Like when you go to the gynecologist, and you talk about your breasts even though you never say that word in your life because why would you when boobs is sitting right there.
I slowly turn in my chair to find Jack leaning his shoulder against the kitchen entryway, arms folded, ankles crossed. He’s got a little frown behind his glasses. How is it possible for him to look so damn attractive with his shirt on backward? “I didn’t know if you’d want me to. Didn’t seem right without permission.”
I’m used to confrontation from him. These other C-words, though—consideration and consent—turn my heart into an overripe avocado. So mushy my thumb would go right through the skin. What a terrible thing.
“You have my permission now. Tell me what’s bad about my intimacy scene.”