Chapter 34
GEORGE
My phone buzzes way too close to my ear and I startle awake, knocking the offending device to the ground as I bolt upright. I squeeze my eyes shut immediately. It’s blinding white every way I turn.
I try to put my feet on the floor, but they’re tangled in some kind of throw blanket. Where am I? This isn’t the sleeping loft. The light’s all wrong.
Wait, did I…
I chance opening my eyes a slit.
Yep, I fell asleep on the four-season porch. It’s full daylight now, sun reflecting off the snow that covers the ground and trees around the house and along the lake shore. It must be mid-morning already.
Also, it’s freezing, I suddenly realize.
Glancing over at the wood stove, I see why. The fire I had going last night has gone out. Definitely shouldn’t’ve left that burning unattended overnight. Not with my track record. I’m an icicle, but this is much better than the alternative.
I wrap the afghan around myself, scoop up the phone, and head to the kitchen to start brewing my coffee. On the way, I look at the message that came in.
Owen
So, did you fall asleep too? Tell me I’m not the only one.
George
You are not the only one. Plus, apparently, you’re up before me, so I think this means you win.
Oh, man, did I wake you? I’m sorry.
Don’t be. I should be up. I should be working.
Without coffee?!?
A smile tugs at my lips.
God, no. Brewing it now.
WHEW.
I set about filling the French press. Another text comes in.
You seriously have to work though, huh?
Only if I want to keep my current existence.
Fair enough. But open your present first, okay?
Which is a weird thing to say. I guess he assumes I have some presents that I brought with me. You know, like a normal human with people who care about him might. I mean, I have Zoe, but we don’t exchange presents; we get super dressed up and take each other out for a ridiculously expensive meal.
Which we can’t even do this year because I’m in fiction exile.
God, this is depressing.
No presents here, I’m afraid.
I pour my coffee and remind myself that I lead a fucking privileged life and feeling sorry for myself is not something I do.
Uh, yeah there is.
Wait, what is he talking about?
Under the tree.
Under the—I look back over and realize he means the little box with the velvet ribbon. The one I thought might be from his ex. Only… it’s for me?
I go over and pick it up, turning it over in my hand. And yes, now that I look closer, there’s a little tag. I flip it over:
To George Knight
This is for me?
Yeah. I mean it’s not much. I just wanted to leave you a little something.
My throat feels tight. He left me a Christmas present? Even though he didn’t know me at all at that point? Even though I’m the guy booting him out of his home for the holidays.
Except of course he did. Zoe says let a stranger take over your cabin and he thinks, “I wonder what he would like for Christmas?”
Because he’s sweet and genuine and so goddamn good, of course he would do that.
Owen, that was so thoughtful of you. I feel rotten. It didn’t even occur to me to get you anything.
What? No! I just did it because I wanted to. And you’ll see. It’s nothing. Come on, go ahead and open it.
So I do. I set the phone down and carefully untie the ribbon, sliding my fingers under the tape and slipping the brown paper off what appears to be a block of wood.
It is. It is a block of wood, maybe four inches on a side.
With some holes drilled in one surface and…
the words “Writer’s Block” burnt into the wood on another. Clearly handcrafted.
You made me a “Writer’s Block”?
Yes?
You’re supposed to put your pens in it.
I mean if you use pens. I don’t actually know if you use pens when you write. Which would make it kind of useless I guess. I’m sorry, it might not be a very good present.
It’s so dorky and sweet and goddamn adorable. He’s so dorky and sweet and… well, anyway.
It’s perfect.
Really?
I love it. Thank you. I wish I had thought to leave you something.
I run my fingertip over the dark lettering etched into the smooth wood.
It’s really fine. Why would you? Hell, you don’t have any decorations up, no tree. I figured you weren’t into the holiday thing. No biggie.
Crap.
Uh…
Oh God, or are you Jewish?
Or Buddhist? Muslim? Nothing?
I didn’t mean to imply anything. It’s all cool. Really.
Shit. Did I offend you by giving you a Christmas present?
No!
Jesus. He is not making this easy.
I celebrate Christmas.
Oh. Okay. Just not into it then?
I mean, that’s cool.
There’s a beat of silence where I think maybe we’re going to move past the subject, then:
You would tell me if you were Jewish or something, right? Because I feel pretty shitty about making assumptions.
I cringe, because I realize I’m going to tell him the pathetic truth.
There is an artificial tree in the hall closet.
… a Christmas tree?
Yes, a Christmas tree. A tiny, embarrassing decorative facsimile of an evergreen with little silver and gold baubles that came in a set from Bloomingdale’s that I hid in the closet because I didn’t want you to see how I lived.
There’s a long pause.
George…
No, it’s fine. Really. My point is it’s Christmas and you’re alone in my apartment and you made me a freaking “Writer’s Block.” You should have a tree if you want it.
I look over at his beautiful fir tree in the corner, all decked out in years of unique and personal ornaments. My heart squeezes.
I mean. That would be nice.
Are you sure?
A laugh hiccups out of me.
I don’t know how sure YOU are going to be once you see this thing. But yeah. It’s on the left, behind the longer coats.
brB
While he’s gone, I sip my coffee and make some toast out of the insanely good loaf of home-baked bread I thawed yesterday.
I guess I should start thinking about the chapters I have to draft today.
I have a thought about a side character Sebastian is going to meet at the masquerade ball in Zurich and start jotting some notes.
It takes a while, but eventually Owen texts back.
Got it! This is charming. You made it sound like it was an abomination.
Tomato/tomahto.
Inside I’m relieved, though.
It fits nicely on the table by the window.
Already there.
And then I can see it. Owen carefully arranging the branches, bending the metal spines back into place having liberated the thing from the crush of the closet.
Or not, because I still don’t know what Owen looks like.
But I get a flash of strong hands moving with gentle purpose over my little tree. And I can’t help smiling. Again.
I, uh, found something else I wanted to ask you about.
Oh, God. I mentally catalogue the locations and state of every sex toy and embarrassing fan letter and, shit, that album my mom sent me full of awkward childhood photos. I really hope he didn’t find that last one.
Sure? Ask away.
Okay, first let me say I only opened the box because I thought there might be ornaments in there. And I really didn’t mean to read it—I just glanced through the first few pages, but… I think I might have found a manuscript?
Manuscript. I mean, I have printouts of various Sebastian Steele drafts, but most of those are in storage. And the ones I have at home, I keep in the office.
And then my heart just about stops, because I know exactly what he found.
Oh, yeah, that’s nothing. Just something I was playing around with.
Not an actual manuscript. Not really.
More like a little experiment. Not even.
Except, of course, for all the new pages I’ve written while I’ve been up here. But he does not need to know about that.
Oh.
That’s too bad. It was really good.
My insecure little writer heart surges. I can’t help myself.
It was?
Yeah! I wanted to keep reading. I wanted to know what happened to the characters. I felt an immediate attachment to both James and Henry and I mean I was already super invested.
James isn’t introduced until chapter two…
How much of it did you read?
It takes a moment for him to respond.
Three chapters.
Are you mad?
It was so good.
Owen is either really good for my ego or really bad for it.
No, of course not.
Whew.
I laugh.
Okay, just tell me to fuck off if you want to, but would you consider letting me read the rest of it?
I stop laughing. I stop everything.
Would I let him read my super secret book, the one that no one but me—and now him—knows exists?
Not the book I’m supposed to be writing, not the one predestined to become my thirteenth number one bestseller in a row.
No. The one I can’t tell a soul about. The one I’m not writing.
Not really, passionate fits of inspiration dumped onto the page aside.
The one I wish I could be writing.
You know what? That was out of line. I shouldn’t have asked. And I definitely shouldn’t have read those chapters. I’m sorry. Forget I said anything.
I don’t know what to say, so naturally I make a joke.
If you want to read my work, I have a dozen spy novels you can pick up if you like. The New York Times didn’t like the 6th one so much, but it still has a 4.2 on Goodreads.
Yeah, but this one just seems… more YOU, somehow.
That knocks the breath out of me. Because… yeah. That’s what I think. But I didn’t expect anyone else to be able to see it. (I mean, in the hypothetical world where I would ever voluntarily share the book with anyone).
Not that I have any authority to say what’s you and not you.
And suddenly, I want him to read it.
I want nothing more than to share this deep, secret, personal part of myself with this kind, earnest, awkward man.
You can read it. If you want.
Seriously?
I’m already feeling sick at the prospect. But…
Yeah. Yes. Please. I’d love for you to read it.
I’ve actually been working on it a little while I’ve been up here. I can send you the new pages.
If you like! No pressure!
Are you kidding?
No? Yes? Which one is the right answer?
I would love that. Thank you.
And YOU said you didn’t get me anything for Christmas.
I’m still feeling slightly queasy over the whole thing, so all I manage is a smiley back.