Chapter 2 #4
“If your writing is a sliver of the magic of what you just said about love, I can tell you with absolute certainty it isn’t complete crap.
Listen, what you said about real life being hard and wanting to give people that hope and escape was fucking amazing.
Imagine what your stories could do for someone else going through a hard time. ”
She fidgets, running her fingers through her hair. “The issue is, my day job is kind of…serious. I wouldn’t be able to tell anyone. The books can get a little…uh, steamy.”
“First, who cares what other people think? But if you really want to stay anonymous, you could use a different name. Don’t writers do that all the time? Then no one would know it’s you.”
“True. That’s a good idea, actually.” She keeps twisting the ends of her hair, seemingly mulling it over.
“Are you open to any suggestions?” I ask after a couple moments of easy silence.
“Sure.”
“Don’t name your main character Bryce.” I’m only half joking.
She clasps her chest in mock offense. “Why not? What’s wrong with Bryce?”
“Let me put it this way, I’ve never met a Bryce I liked,” I tell her, leaning against her headboard.
She cocks her head like a dog, and it’s so adorable, I force myself to look down at the floral pattern on her duvet cover. “How many Bryces have you met?”
I count on my fingers. “Two. And a half. One was a toddler mid-tantrum, so it’s hard to judge. But in my limited experience, they are one of two things: arrogant pricks or foot doctors. Unless that’s the characterization you’re going for.”
She clutches her stomach as though she’s holding in a laugh. “Bryce is actually in medical school, so you’re close. If I change it, will you buy a copy if it ever gets published?”
“I may not be your target audience, but I’ll be first in line,” I promise.
She narrows her gaze at me. “Why aren’t you my target audience? Because you’re a dude? Men can read romance, too, you know.”
“No, I just mean, I don’t really read. Haven’t read a book since high school,” I confess.
It’s not that I don’t like books writ large.
But after years in the military, my attention span is too shot to sit idle and stare at words for long periods of time.
“I’m also not really much of a romantic, either. ”
“No?”
“I think love probably exists…if you’re lucky enough to find someone to put up with your bullshit for fifty years.
But I don’t think it’s for me. Never wanted to settle down and do the whole white-picket-fence-and-two-kids thing.
” Unlike my sister, who was desperate to have a family of her own, the family we never had growing up, I’ve always maintained the opposite philosophy.
How could I ever be a good husband or parent when I’ve never seen a functional example of either up close?
Not to mention my work schedule and the fact that I’m never home.
“What was her name? The woman who hurt you?” she asks knowingly.
That’s a loaded question. So I start with the easy answer.
A cop-out. A fraction of the truth. “Angelica. She said she’d go to the prom with me, so I got her a corsage, borrowed a shitty suit from my friend’s dad.
Turns out, she had a whole other date,” I say, only realizing now how long it’s been since I thought about that.
“That’s seriously savage.”
“Right? Guess it was my fault, in the end, trusting someone named Angelica.”
She cackles, mirroring my position, turning to face me.
It’s an intimate position, especially for two people who’ve only known each other a couple hours, tried to hook up, and failed.
But I don’t feel the urge to turn away and face the ceiling after revealing something personal.
This feels comfortable, like I’ve known her for years.
“I went to university with a girl named Angelica,” she tells me. “She could reduce anyone to tears with just her words.”
“That tracks.”
“Can you pass stern judgment on the name Hunter?” I have no idea why she cares about my opinion so much, but it’s intriguing nonetheless.
“Who’s Hunter? Your ex?” I prod.
“You’re very perceptive. How’d you know?”
“Oh, just the complete and total angst in your voice when you said his name.” I bump her shoulder lightly.
“A lot of regret, actually,” she adds.
“I went to elementary school with a Hunter. He used to put his entire mouth on the nozzle at the water fountain, if that tells you anything.”
A laugh rockets out of her. “My Hunter—” She stops herself, grimacing. “Sorry. He’s not my Hunter. Anymore. He’s…Laine’s Hunter now. I guess.”
“Who’s Laine?”
“My best friend. The one who was with me at the bar tonight. Long story.” She waves her words away like the subject isn’t worth talking about. I don’t want to upset her, so I leave it alone.
We sit in a comfortable silence for a few moments before she bolts upright. “I almost forgot. We have cheesecake!” Before I can respond, she scurries off the bed and races into the kitchen, only to return with the cheesecake and two forks.
Three-quarters of the fluffy, cloudlike cake is devoured within fifteen minutes. “God, this is good. Better than sex, I think,” she says through an indecent moan that makes my stomach free-fall.
“You think so?” I ask, shifting my leg to hide her effect on me.
“Definitely.”
“You’re not having very good sex, clearly,” I point out, leaning back against the headboard, my stomach fully satisfied.
“You’re right about that,” she says with a shrug. “That’s why I brought you back. I kind of figured you’d be good at it.”
“Ah. And you don’t think so anymore?” I tease.
“Oh, no. I think you’d be amazing at it. Me, on the other hand—”
She furrows her brow, stressed all over again. So I place my hand on her forearm and give her a reassuring squeeze. “It’s okay, Andi. Let’s just enjoy the moment.”
“Thanks for being so…nice tonight,” she says, laying her head back, eyes to the ceiling, hands folded over her stomach.
“Well, I did walk in on you in the bathroom. I had some making up to do,” I remind her. “Like I said, probably a top-ten worst thing I’ve ever done.”
“Now I need to know what other nine things are on this list,” she demands, a wry smile creeping over her face.
“What I’m about to admit might shock you.”
She leans closer. “I’m ready to be shocked.”
I pause for dramatic emphasis. “When I was seven, I cut a girl’s braid off in class because she kept whipping me with it.”
She barks out a laugh. “That’s…terrible.”
“Told you. Okay, your turn. Worst thing you’ve ever done.”
She doesn’t hesitate. “When I was eighteen, I scraped the side of my stepdad’s fancy car in a drive-thru and lied, saying it was my sister, Amanda, who did it. She’d just gotten her learner’s permit, so it was believable. It was, like, a thousand dollars’ worth of repairs.”
“Shit. Do they know it was you now?”
She laughs guiltily. “No, actually. I never told them.”
We go back and forth, trading confessions into the darkness.
They get progressively more serious and also hilarious.
She tells me about how she accidentally dated a guy in high school when she was in university.
“When I was in fourth-year university, I met this guy at Bulk Barn. We went for the same sour gummies. He looked my age, or at least I assumed. We exchanged numbers and he asked to pick me up for a date that night. And he did. On his bicycle. He asked me to get on the handlebars. I don’t know why, but I did.
It was just too awkward to say no and I thought maybe he was just environmentally conscious.
That should have been my first clue. I finally figured out he was a senior in high school when he used his high school student card to get us a discount at the restaurant.
Needless to say, there was no second date. ”
We both laugh until we’re doubled over in bed, clutching our stomachs. After I get the chance to recover from that one, I decide to confess something serious.
“All right, last one. I just found out my mom, who I barely have a relationship with, was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s disease—a disease that affects her brain, causing memory loss, personality changes, and overall cognitive decline.
And I’m about to leave on tour. Tomorrow. For at least six months.”
I hold my breath, but I’m met with silence. Nothingness. Shit. I’ve taken this too far. Andi thinks I’m a complete and total asshole. And she would be 100 percent correct. Who the hell leaves their sick mother for six months, even if she wasn’t exactly mother of the year?
I sit up and brave a glance, only to realize Andi is not harshly judging me. At least, it doesn’t look like it. She’s on her back, head tilted slightly to the side, clutching her cheesecake fork to her chest. Her breathing is slow, heavy, and consistent. She’s…asleep.
Thank fuck.
It might have felt comfortable confessing that in the moment, but in hindsight, it’s probably for the best she didn’t hear it.
I stay for a couple more moments, waiting to see if she’ll wake up.
But she doesn’t. I consider my options. I could stay, but it feels wrong to sleep here without explicit permission.
Besides, after seeing how uncomfortable she was about hooking up, I don’t want to embarrass her even more, or make things awkward tomorrow morning once the alcohol wears off.
Maybe it’s best I just go on my merry way. Before leaving, I make sure to refrigerate the rest of her cheesecake and give Lars another piece of cheese. I also finish assembling her desk, which takes all of five minutes.
The last thing I do is write a quick message on a sticky note and leave it on the desk.
I put your cheesecake in the fridge!
—N
PS. You should ask your landlord about fixing the lock on your sliding door.