Chapter Thirty-Six
Simplicity is wrapped within Serenity.
I spend the majority of the morning and mid-day wrapped in her embrace and buried deep within her. Our morning romp was quickly followed by another tryst in the shower. I have never been so thankful for renovating all the bathrooms. It was then when we found a new, fun way to use the shower head. Even the thought of her moans while I held her naked against me as she came apart in my arms almost has me ready for round three. Almost.
We manage to end up back in bed and I have been flipping through whatever nonsense romance novel she swore I’d love if I only gave it a chance while she checked emails. I watch as she gets sucked into her work. Most people dread what they choose to do with their life. Not her though, Serena is eager.
“One quick edit,” she had said. Soon, an hour had passed, then two. She’s entranced by whatever fictional world she had been pulled into.
“Do you still write?” I ask while twirling her hair around my fingers.
“You remember I used to write?” Serenity questions, as if I could forget that hideous notebook she carried everywhere with us as children.
“Yes. Do you?” I push, truly curious.
“Not often, I prefer to help others. I believe there’s something noble in publishing the written word . . . in bringing someone’s story to life, to being a part of the process,” she answers, staring off into the screen at that world she was pulling into this world.
“I would agree,” I say while nodding.
“You don’t even read,” Serena snaps, whipping her head in my direction.
“What do you think I have been doing for the last two hours while you stare at that screen?” I challenge.
“It has not been two hours.” She rolls her eyes before looking at the clock. “Fuck! It has been two hours.” I chuckle as she closes her laptop, waiting to push it away so I can kiss her.
“Tell me why you don’t write,” I ask between kisses.
“I haven’t found anything worthy of saying yet, that’s all. I don’t want to just write any story. I want to write a story that makes readers feel something. I will write a story one day.”
“Good. When you do, make sure it’s dedicated to me,” I tease.
“Nope, you don’t get all the credit for being my muse,” she draws out the word muse, laughing as she speaks.
“What if I give you some great inspiration?”
She shakes her head before leaning in for several more sweet kisses. “I could have written a novel about you already. One full of heartache and betrayal, you know?”
“Ouch! I’m wounded, my sweet Serenity.” The teasing stops as a bit of pain shows through my eyes. I pause, “I am sorry. I know that doesn’t change anything, but I am.”
“You know, when you left no one spoke your name. It was as if everyone was afraid the mere mention of you would destroy me. Like I was so fragile the reminder of you would send me tumbling over the edge into insanity. They weren’t wrong, I suppose, I felt like I was living with the memories of a ghost. As if you and how I felt about you never existed, like what we shared was never truly real. I almost believed for a while . . . you were nothing more than a figment of my imagination, someone so maddeningly perfect to me.
You had to be fake, because if you were real and I had lost you that quickly, I feared my heart would never recover. I suppose I was right about that as well, I didn’t fully recover. Which is why I’m laying here—in your bed—ten years later.” Her confession leaves us both feeling raw, but she continues. “I could have written a book about that, but I was afraid it would have come off like the protagonist was a little too obsessed with her ex.” A bright laugh bursts from her before a comfortable silence falls between us. I hold her for a while, allowing her to choose yet another rom-com to watch.