Chapter 16 #2
Doc’s words roam inside me, not quite nestling in and finding a place to call home.
They’re just there wandering around. Logically, I understand the gist of what he’s saying.
One shouldn’t take responsibility for other people’s actions, but I don’t see the correlation.
Doc’s injury was an accident. I know that, but it doesn’t change my regret that it occurred.
“I sound like an inspirational poster.” Laughing, he taps my hand. “Enough life philosophy, let’s see what you brought me?” He pulls out a paperback from the gift bag. “ Dating Dr. Dill by Nisha Sharma,” he reads the title out loud.
“It’s a modern retelling of Shakespeare’s The Taming of the Shrew ,” I say, taking the chair by his bedside, hanging my purse on its arm.
“Is it steamy?” He waggles his eyebrows.
“Just a bit.” With a cheeky expression, I squeeze together my index finger and thumb.
“Guess Estelle and I can’t do this one for our weekly dramatic readings.”
“Perhaps just a buddy read for you two.” I laugh. “There are two other books in the series that I’ve already ordered from Heartbound Book Shop. They’ll be delivered on Monday. They should keep you busy while recovering.”
He sits the book on the bedside table. “I’d rather use my downtime to read your next book.”
“Ah…” I tap my foot against the chair leg.
“Still blocked?”
“How?” I gesture at him.
“Each time I ask you about it, you get all dodgy like you owe me money. Once you committed to the idea for your first book, it only took you four months before you had the initial draft complete. The same for the other two. It’s been at least six months since you started this book.
With the others, you brainstormed and discussed ideas.
You were almost like a kid the night before Christmas, all full of anticipation about your story. ”
I slump into the chair’s cushioned back. “I don’t think I’m that kid anymore.”
My passion for storytelling is braided into my DNA. Whether I’m reading or writing them, stories offer comfort. Each celiac flare up. My parents’ turbulent marriage and, later, divorce. Will and Lena. Through every big and little heartbreak, my stories were there.
“They’re not talking to me.” I blink back the sting of looming tears.
It’s silly to cry over this, but pain radiates in my chest with the idea that I’ll have no more stories to tell. It almost hollows me out, leaving nothing behind but me.
“Are they not speaking, or are you just not listening?” Thoughtfulness shimmers in his gaze. “Anytime you have a story idea, you start with how it turns out. It’s hard to start a story at the end and even harder to write it, if that ending isn’t the right one.”
Blinking, I think of Owen’s critique of Twice Baked Love . It’s his and Selena’s story, and even he believes the ending may be the wrong one.
“If we only have a single notion of how things are supposed to turn out, we’ll never hear the rest of the story. We’re too focused on trying to force things to fit that ending, and when they don’t, we toss them.”
“But if you know how it should be, why wouldn’t you work to make that happen?”
“Does the end serve the story, or does the story serve the ending?” His mouth quirks. “Peach, you’re one of my favorite writers, but you get so bogged down by making things turn out the way you picture that you aren’t open to anything else.”
The comfort I find in my stories is the endings.
That no matter what happens, everything turns out as it should.
Well, as I believe it should. That singular focus on not just the ending, but that things would end how I want them has steadied me in choppy waters, but it’s also kept me from seeing the here and now.
Both my brothers’ voices echo inside me. Jackson’s warnings about Will that I ignored, and Rem’s concerns about my inability to commit after a single date. So many of those dates were terrible, but some of them weren’t… Until I found a reason for them to be.
“And not just in my books.” I dash away the few tears that escape.
It’s strange how my little security blanket now seems to smother, rather than snuggle around me.
The stories may not be talking to me, but the fixation on happy endings guides me like a wayward compass.
I have no idea how things will turn out.
My book boyfriends. My writing. Davis. All were impacted by my fixation.
“I hate to see you cry, but sometimes we need to just let it out.” Doc holds up the tissue box from the bedside table.
I take a few and dab at my eyes. “I’m supposed to be here comforting you. You’re the one busted up and in the hospital.” I wipe away my remaining tears and toss the tissue in the waste basket near the bed.
He tsks . “I broke my hip, but my noggin is still at one hundred percent.”
“And so is your heart.” I lean over and take his hand.
“Not to mention this helps me as much as you, especially after the last few days of everyone fussing over me. This reminds me that I still got it. That no matter what, I have ways to do the things that give me passion—like encouraging my favorite author to write a swoony medical romance inspired by Estelle and me.” He winks, causing me to laugh.
“Ha!” A laugh barks out of me. “Thank you for believing in me even when I don’t always believe in myself.”
“Always.” He squeezes my hand, his palm’s warmth surges through me, unwinding my tension. “Now, don’t forget about my good heart when I grill you about my grandson.” His mouth twitches into a smirk.
“Excuse me?”
“Estelle said that there were so many sparks between you two on Sunday that she thought you’d set off the fire alarm.”
“You’re ridiculous.” Despite my dismissive laugh, the heat that crawls up my neck and claims my cheeks betrays my attempt to appear unaffected by the mention of Davis.
In no world do I want to talk to Doc about his grandson. Even if I hadn’t dry humped Davis like a horny teenager and then told him I couldn’t be with him, all in the course of five minutes, talking to his grandfather about a possible romantic entanglement is too mortifying.
“He often is ridiculous.” A deep voice steals into the room.
That now-familiar rich timbre causes me to twist in the chair to the open door. Davis stands there, a large to-go bag in his arms, and the ghost of a smile lifts at the corners of his mouth.
“Davis,” I breathe, ignoring the hope that swoops in my stomach that his almost smile is due to seeing me and not just about his grandfather.
“Georgia,” he says.
Georgia? My stomach drops, the sensation akin to falling to the ground.
Those two syllables reiterate who I am to him now. I’m Georgia, not Peach. It’s self-indulgent to mourn the loss of a relationship that was barely anything, especially one lost before it started because of me.
“Are you just going to stand there gawking? I’m starving.” Estelle tuts, pushing into the room. “Hey, Peach. I’m so glad you’re still here. We have plenty, if you want to join.”
I stand up. “Thank you, but I should go. Let you all have family time.”
“Pish-posh.” She flicks her wrist. “How else are we going to meddle with you two if you dash away?”
“Nan,” Davis groans.
I offer a small smile. “I really do need to head out. Thank you, though.”
With a quick head nod to Estelle and Doc, I turn and head toward the door.
Davis remains like a watchdog beside the entryway, the bag of food in his hands, his stare jumping from me to the window.
Whether he can’t or won’t hold my gaze doesn’t matter.
It’s clear that I hurt him, and he wants nothing to do with me.
That truth reverberates with each click of my heels down the hall.
The further away I get, the more realization unfurls inside me that I will never be anything but Georgia to Davis.
It’s not that I’m someone other than who I am with Davis, but in his presence, there was a freedom to just be with someone without fixating on how things would turn out.
The ember of hope flickered awake within me at the idea of a possible future with him, but not a story already written.
Reaching the elevator lobby, I press the button.
My reflection stares back at me in the shiny metal doors.
My eyes, devoid of any sparkle, are puffy.
A frown anchors my face, my complexion pale from a night of little sleep.
My hair unwashed and swept into a messy bun.
The glossy pink lipstick and brightly colored clothes are a flimsy mask.
“Georgia, wait.”
I spin to find Davis jogging down the quiet corridor toward the small bank of elevators. With each step closer, my pulse ticks up.
“You left your purse.” He holds up my bag.
The roar of my pulse quiets with the realization that he’s not here for me . No sweeping romantic gesture. No declaration that, despite everything I’ve done, he still likes me. Seriously, no more romance novels. Only nonfiction from here on out.
“Thank you.” Nodding, I take it. “Sorry I left it.”
He shrugs. “It’s alright.”
“Is it?” I say, guilt thick in my throat.
His forehead creases.
“I led you on. I hurt you.” I gesture between us.
“Here you are, all sweet and thoughtful, and I’m all ‘Let me stick my tongue down your throat and use you as a human scratching post with no forethought about how it may impact you.’ I’m the literal worst. All I was thinking is how much I like you and how adorable you are?—”
“You think I’m adorable?”
“Have you seen you? Those muscles. That bedhead hair, which I know from last night, is all thick and silky. God, those glasses. You’re like the epitome of hot nerd.
” I swing my purse, sputtering wildly. “Even when you annoyed me on our first date, I was still attracted to you… But then you turn out to be, well, you .”
His face pinches. “Me?”