Chapter 12 – piper #2
He curses under his breath and lets go of me, grabbing for his whisk and stirring the mix in the pan. “Ruined.”
“Are you sure?”
“Give it a second, and it’ll hit your nose.
” He takes the pan over to the trash and scrapes everything into the garbage can, then rinses off his whisk and starts over, melting butter and tossing in green onion and freshly pressed garlic.
I lean against the counter beside the stove, arms folded over my chest. When he reaches the point where he pours milk into the thickener, he glances up at me. “You’re a distraction.”
I want to tease him, but behind that glint of dark want in his eye is a measure of earnestness.
He means this. Dorian loses himself in the moment, in what he’s doing, in me.
He’s told me it was the reason he couldn’t sit by me in classes, and while that felt like a reason, it didn’t properly register until now, with the acrid smell of burned garlic tainting the air.
“What were you doing Monday night?” I ask.
“I came to book club. Is this a reference to your storeroom?”
“No. I’m just wondering why you were late, I guess.”
Dorian finishes adding the milk and keeps whisking.
“I was trying to take your advice that day and write something that produced the feelings I’ve had about my dad’s heart disease.
It didn’t really work, so I tried writing his story—journaling, I guess—but even that wasn’t hitting the spot.
” He sends me a sheepish look. “None of it put me in the flow.”
“You still got caught up in it.”
“I get caught up in a lot of things. I told you I’m medicated, but that doesn’t make me perfect.”
My arms drop to my sides. “I didn’t think it was a failing, Dorian. I just want to understand.”
“I’m not sure I even do.”
“That’s okay. No one’s perfect. I wear pajamas as often as humanly possible. I would wear them to work if I didn’t think it would lower my sales. And I refuse to accept that the moon landing was a hoax. Don’t start listing the proof, or I’ll walk out that door.”
“I won’t.”
I crack a smile. “I am too independent, but somehow still a little needy.”
“How?”
“Like, all week I’ve been dying to see you, but since I’m independent, I’ve refused to be the first one to text you.”
“Noticed that,” he says softly, stirring white cheese into the sauce and sprinkling it with a few spices. “Anything else I should know about you?”
My heart hammers hard in my chest. If I was going to admit my secret profession, now would be the time, right? He’s given me an opening. We’ve already been talking about writing. The door is right there.
Dorian pulls the chicken from the oven, which is off but still warm, and drains the pasta. He’s moving around the kitchen so much I can’t bring myself to stall him with my admission.
Before I know it, we’re seated at the island together, plates of creamy pasta with sliced chicken and asparagus before us. He pours two glasses of ice water and carries them over, and I guzzle half of mine down, searching for the courage to reveal my biggest secret.
“Dig in,” he says, waiting for me to take the first bite.
Now. Now is the moment to tell him. But then my gaze drifts to the stack of books on the end of the island, a few of his own books next to the recent Clancy Calloway novel he bought from my store.
The cover is lifted slightly, bent in the way that only happens when it’s been held open from being read.
Dorian tracks my gaze. “Oh, I finished it. I forgot to tell you.”
“Yeah?” My throat goes dry. Come on, words. Don’t fail me now.
“It was good.”
His mediocre response dives straight to my stomach. “Contrived?”
“No. I see what you mean about the reasons—there’s definitely a reason for everything. It’s very thoughtful and ties together well at the end.”
“What are you not saying, Dorian?”
“I don’t know, but I get the sense you care, so I’m afraid to say it.”
“I do care. I love that book.” I take another drink from my glass, guilt climbing in my stomach at the realization that I’m backing him into a trap and the lid is about to close. “But we don’t have to share opinions. We can like different books and still like each other.”
“I did like it,” he insists. “The stakes were high. I read it fast because I needed to get to the end.”
“But?”
“But it was easy to predict. I’m sure it’s a casualty of the job, but I have an easier time predicting outcomes now that I understand story structure so well.”
I know what he means. But still…predictable? My hands clench around my fork. It’s fine. What thriller writer doesn’t want to be told her twists are easy to see coming? I stab a piece of chicken and put it in my mouth. Wow, it’s good.
“If the doctor hadn’t been at the mental hospital so early in the book, maybe I wouldn’t have seen it coming.”
His words make me freeze. I consider my story. Think about the role the doctor plays in each character’s life. “What?”
“You know…how he’s insane. I wondered if that was his deal for most of the book. But if he hadn’t been in the mental hospital at the beginning, that thought wouldn’t have been planted in my head, and I totally would have been shocked by the twist.”
I finish chewing, thinking it through. He’s right. He’s totally right. And what’s even worse is that the scene in question didn’t even have to happen at the hospital. It was meant to be a little foreshadowing, but apparently it was too much.
“How’s the chicken?” he asks.
“Incredible.”
Dorian looks pleased. He eats, but I can’t because I’m thrown.
I was prepared to be sad that someone I care about doesn’t like the thing I poured my soul into, but I agree with his points. And what’s even worse is that I feel like crap for tricking him into telling me what he really thinks.
I set my fork down and push my plate away.
“Hey,” he says softly, rubbing my shoulder and being too nice. “What’s going on?”
Looking into his deep brown eyes makes this worse.
They’re so concerned. He’s going to be hurt.
I suppress the temptation to keep this secret forever.
That would be the easy thing to do here, but I can already tell that I won’t be able to eat another bite until I’ve purged myself of this secret and told him the truth.
I don’t know whether he’ll be more angry or hurt, or which one will be worse. Sucking in a breath, I square my shoulders and take a leap. “It’s me, Dorian. I’m Clancy Calloway.”