Chapter 14 SIOBHAN
Chapter 14
S IOBHAN
When Marcel opened the door on the morning of July 8, Siobhan could see the unmistakable signs of confusion in his face: the furrowed brow and the half-open mouth. And he was blinking compulsively, as though trying to process what he was seeing.
“Where did this troublesome apparition come from and how do I block it?” he asked. He didn’t appear at all happy to see her. Which made sense, given that their most recent text exchange had gotten rather heated. “I’m going to have to have serious words with Mr. Gonzales about this ... new habit of not notifying me about visitors.”
“See, I ... I had a job,” she blurted out. “A boring, poorly paid job in a digital marketing company that took up too much of my time. And I say ‘had,’ past tense, because I no longer have it.” She smiled shyly. “I quit.”
On sharing her news, Siobhan held her breath as she watched Marcel’s expression, waiting for him to show a spark of recognition that never came.
“Mm-hmm. And you’ve come here for me to pat you on the back?”
That wasn’t the response she was expecting, but never mind. She had felt so proud of herself for the last twenty-four hours that not even the odious Mr. Black’s sarcasm could spoil her mood. She had done it; she had dared to take the plunge. Most decisions, right or wrong, are not particularly momentous; some, however, are life changing. Siobhan had quit the day before. With no regrets. She was finally clear about her goals. Happiness and the pursuit thereof would be her number one priority from now on, even if that meant taking certain risks. Her brother was right: not only did she get nothing positive from her job, but it also robbed her of the energy she needed to write.
Work at something you love, and you’ll never work a day in your life.
“Of course not. Can I come in, please?”
“Would it make any difference if I said no?”
Siobhan limited herself to shooting him a meaningful glare from beneath her heavy lashes. Seconds later, in the living room, she dropped her purse on the sofa so naturally that it didn’t go unnoticed by Marcel, judging by his narrowed eyes.
“So ... I’m finally free. Isn’t that great? No more delays. From now on, I’m all yours.” Marcel raised a quizzical eyebrow. “In the literary sense,” she clarified hastily. She noticed herself blushing. Why did she always talk too much? It must be because of the glasses. It was undeniable—his sex appeal shot up whenever he was wearing them. “You know something? It took a lot for me to realize this was the path I want to follow. I’ve always been a delayed reaction kind of girl,” she confessed.
“L’esprit de l’escalier,” said Marcel.
She loved the way he pronounced it, with that soft, velvety cadence of French from the lips of a Southerner.
“I’ve decided to focus entirely and exclusively on writing.”
Marcel folded his arms and looked at her suspiciously.
“So why aren’t you at home right now doing precisely that? In your home,” he stressed. “In Brooklyn.”
“Brooklyn doesn’t inspire me.”
That wasn’t entirely true. She was just laying the groundwork for what she planned to say next.
“Really. Well, that’s no surprise. Have you tried going to a Starbucks? I gather it’s the preferred workspace for hipsters.”
“Too noisy.”
“And the library?”
“Too quiet.” She paused briefly and bit her lip. “I was thinking ...”
“Heaven help us. Why am I getting a bad feeling about this?”
“... that I could come here from now on.”
She could almost see the cogs in Marcel’s brain starting to turn and working up to full speed. He stared at her with wide eyes.
“What? No, no, no. No chance.” His head and arms reinforced his adamant refusal. “I understand that I might seem like scintillating company to you, but it’s not going to happen. Forget about it, Siobhan. I work alone. A-L-O-N-E. In case you hadn’t noticed, I don’t like people.”
“Look at it this way: we’ll make faster progress if we’re together. The communication will be more fluid. You must admit that each of us working in our own homes has been a complete disaster so far.”
“And whose fault is that, hmm?”
“All right, I’ll accept my share of the blame. Will you accept yours?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Marcel said.
“Well, I sacrificed the Fourth of July just to please you, and the only comment you’ve made about my chapter is that there’s nowhere to fit it in.”
Marcel shrugged.
“That’s what I think. Should I apologize for being honest?”
“Of course not. But it would be nice if you could be a tad more specific, if you want us to get anywhere. How am I supposed to understand what you want me to do if you only communicate by smoke signal? That’s why we need to change the work dynamic. Listen, I understand that geniuses need their own space to create.” There was no ulterior motive behind this last remark; she genuinely believed it. “In fact, we don’t need to be in the same room; I could write in the living room, and you won’t even know I’m here.”
“That’s highly unlikely, Miss Harris.”
“It would only be until we finish the novel. After that, I guarantee you won’t see me again.”
The prospect left a surprisingly bitter taste in her mouth. She wasn’t sure what to think about Marcel. There was no doubt she was attracted to him, but she would have to think long and hard before saying whether she really liked him. And it was clear that he didn’t like her.
“What do you say, Mr. Black? Do we have a deal?” she asked, extending her hand.
He met her gaze with those impossibly dark eyes and studied her intently. Suddenly, the air burned her lungs, and she felt like the walls were closing in on her. Her heart beat so fast she feared it might burst. When had she decided this plan was a good idea? Spending time with Marcel was something she feared as much as longed for; and yet, analyzing the situation objectively, there was no other way for this goddamn novel to come together.
They were condemned to get along.
“All right. You win, princess,” he replied. “I hope I won’t regret this.”
When he took her hand to seal the deal, Siobhan experienced a curious sensation, as though a secret door was opening that would finally allow her to glimpse what was on the other side. She couldn’t have explained why, but she was convinced that a crack had just appeared. Then, she realized the tip of her thumb was stroking that dark brown skin next to hers, and it made her go weak in the knees.
She pulled her hand away as though she had scorched it.
I hope so too, she thought.