Chapter 3 The Writing Class #3
As it turns out, Grayson Rhodes is part of this Inklings group. Shoshanna looks enthused to introduce us to each other, and even more enthused to let us walk out of the lecture hall together at the back of the group, side by side.
“I’m surprised I haven’t seen you around campus before,” Grayson says, scrutinizing me through his square-framed glasses. “You don’t go to school here, do you?”
“No. I’m not going to college. Probably ever.”
Grayson lets out a surprised laugh at my blunt response.
“Good for you. I wish I had that attitude sometimes. But I’m afraid my parents would self-combust if I spoke against the hallowed institution of higher education.
” He says it in a droning, pompous way that’s meant to sound mocking, but I have a feeling it’s not far from the truth.
“They think it’s bad enough that I’m pursuing writing as a profession.
They think it’s a safety net. But honestly?
It’s my parachute. If I can’t get it to work, I’m screwed because I won’t be able to tolerate doing anything else for a living.
Climbing the corporate ladder sounds like…
a slow death. Not that it’s a bad thing; I just think it’s too ordinary and intellectually sterile for people with more creative, complex personalities. ”
“That’s probably true,” I admit, snuggling my cardigan up around my neck to block out the October wind. Shoshanna and her friends are light-years ahead of us now, two of them splitting off from the group and heading for the parking lot with hollers of “goodnight” and “see you Monday!”
I glance around for Weston’s truck, but I don’t see any sign of him. My watch reads 8:05. He should be here any minute.
“I’m sorry,” Grayson says. “I rambled so much, I didn’t get to hear anything about you.” He stops under a lamppost along the path, and I’m not sure why he’s stopping here, but I can’t very well continue walking when he’s just asked me a question, so I stop too.
Social graces, where are you?
“Uh, I’m not… very interesting.” I shrug. “No grand ambitions for my life yet; I’m just… I’m writing a novel.”
“What’s it about?”
I make a little noise of hesitation, shrugging and rubbing my arms for warmth.
“I know, I know—the three most terrifying words to utter in the presence of a writer.” Grayson flashes me a grin, and I catch a glimpse of something a tad conceited in his dark eyes. “Should I go first?”
“Please,” I urge him, nodding.
“Well, it doesn’t have a name yet or a definite genre.”
“Okay…”
“It could be considered a psychological thriller or possibly literary fiction. Let’s go with literary fiction.
In a nutshell, it’s about a psychiatrist and his patient who is suicidal, very depressed, just…
in a dark place after the loss of his wife.
The whole novel basically takes place within the walls of the psychiatrist’s office, and the character arcs are juxtaposed with each other—negative and positive.
So while the patient becomes mentally healthier and more stable, the psychiatrist slowly becomes more and more depressed and, eventually, suicidal.
And it’s going to end with him killing himself. ”
“Oh. My.” The right response to his story idea has vaporized somewhere in the mist of juxtaposed character arcs. All I can think to say is, “Not a happy ending, then?”
“Well, it depends on your perspective,” Grayson says, adjusting his glasses.
“The psychiatrist starts out happy, then gradually experiences a mental downfall. The patient starts out at his lowest moment, but ends the story quite happy and fulfilled with a promising future. I’m trying to explore the idea of our lives conforming to preconceived notions of success and how the great endeavor of intellectual ascension can eventually cause the mind to turn inward and destroy itself. ”
Again, I’m lost for what to say. I just stare at him for a long moment, my lips parted, like a beached fish.
“Oh God, that sounds really pretentious, doesn’t it?” Grayson rubs his forehead and chuckles.
“No, no, it doesn’t sound pretentious at all,” I assure him. “It sounds very… thought-provoking. I certainly couldn’t write something like that.”
It’s true—it would torture me to write such dark subject matter.
I expect Grayson Rhodes is the sort who will end up retired in a library, surrounded by first-edition collectibles, with a skull on his writing desk, and probably smoke a pipe like an academic from a bygone era.
He already has the wardrobe for that kind of retirement.
“Anyway, your turn,” he says, shoving his hands into the pockets of his blazer. “Tell me what your story is about.”
“Well,” I begin, a bit more confident now that he’s shared his project so willingly, “it’s a love story.
In England. During World War One. It’s about a young woman who’s blind and how she falls in love with a soldier who lost his leg in the war—but she doesn’t know he’s lost his leg because he doesn’t tell her and she can’t see him. ”
Grayson smiles. “That’s brilliant.”
My heart tumbles unexpectedly. “You think so?”
He nods without hesitation. “Yes. What a great hook—I can see the emotional conflict right away, all the little nuances their relationship would create with that secret between them. How many words have you written?”
“Uh, well, not many yet. It’s really just a short story right now. But I want to make it into a novel, somehow. That’s why I’m here. To learn.”
“Well, you already know how to come up with genius ideas,” Grayson says, the light from the lamppost twinkling in his eyes. “Where’d you get your inspiration?”
“Just from life,” I answer without ceremony. “Actually, it’s sort of inspired by how I met my boyfriend.”
His smile dwindles for a split second, then quickly rights itself. “Oh yeah? Is he in the military?”
A little laugh catches in my throat. “The military? No.”
Headlights sweep across the darkened parking lot, and I glance up just in time to see Weston’s pickup truck come rolling to a stop. Perfect excuse to break away from Grayson without appearing rude.
“Oh, there he is now. I’d better go; I don’t want to keep him waiting.” I back-step toward the parking lot, pulling my cardigan close around me. “It was really nice to meet you, Grayson. I’ll see you on Wednesday?”
He nods, his smile like a struggling flame as he eyes Weston’s truck cautiously. “Yes, absolutely. Wednesday. It was enchanting to meet you, Tessa Dickinson.”
Enchanting? That’s a word you don’t hear every day.
I give him an awkward little wave and make my exit—dashing across the parking lot, flinging open the passenger door.
Once I’m in the truck, I lean over the center console to give Weston a quick kiss.
But before I can sink back into my seat, he pulls me into a second kiss—this one so long, the ceiling light dies before it’s over.
His lips are deliciously warm compared to mine, and he smells like sweat, the good kind, earned from hard work.
“You must’ve missed me,” I say breathlessly, falling back into my seat and buckling up.
Weston narrows his eyes, looking out the window to where Grayson is walking down the path toward the dormitories.
“Who’s that guy you were talking to?”
“Oh, he’s just a writer in my class. Grayson. He’s a student here at the college.”
“Yeah? Looked like he was enjoying talking to you. Alone.” Weston thrusts the truck into reverse and backs up to pull out onto the main road. For a moment, I can’t account for his irked attitude. Then it clicks.
“Oh my god, are you jealous?” I needle him, a flattered smile curving onto my lips. “Jealousy doesn’t look good on you, Wes.”
“Me? Jealous?” Weston scoffs, shaking his head. “I’m not jealous of that college guy. What does he have that I don’t, besides warm toes? I am not jealous, Tessa. I’m possibly the slightest, smallest, tiniest bit murderous.”
“Oooh, you mean possessive.”
He brakes at a stop sign, looking over at me with hard, unamused eyes. I can’t help but laugh and lean closer over the center console to cup his face in my hands, brushing his nose with mine.
I sink my mouth into his, capturing his lips in another long, deep kiss—easing off after a moment to whisper, “Possessive looks good on you.”
WESTON
When my brothers and I were younger, we raised monarch butterflies as a science experiment.
The glass terrarium lived on our front porch, and Mom was constantly inventing new ways to stop Aidan from opening the lid and letting the caterpillars roam free.
It was fun watching them until they wrapped themselves in their chrysalises and did absolutely nothing for about two weeks.
Henry was the only one who didn’t give up on the monarchs.
He documented every update in his science notebook like an entomologist, checking on them each morning and night.
He woke me up early one Saturday and dragged me out to the front porch to see the first butterfly emerging from its chrysalis.
It wasn’t much to look at—just some crumpled orange wings struggling against the sticky film of the chrysalis.
He wanted to open the lid and help it along, but Mom told him that he could hurt the butterfly if he tried to do that.
“Leave it alone,” she said. “This is something it has to do on its own.”
So we waited and watched and, slowly, the butterfly made it out of the chrysalis on its own. They all did. When the terrarium was filled with papery orange wings, we took the lid off in the backyard and set them free to fly away.
That’s how it feels to watch Tessa over the first week of her writing class.
She emerges from the chrysalis, one wing at a time.
That first night I dropped her off, she was anxious about being awkward around other people, but on Wednesday, she seems more sure of herself as she walks off toward the lecture hall.
By Friday, she’s got a confident swing in her hips as she strides onto the college campus.