Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Last week, I received a new manuscript from Jessica Shore, an author I work with regularly.
She writes mystery novels with a romantic flare.
Editing her work fills me with such an incredible range of emotions—fear, hope, lust, longing.
She weaves fantastical stories with imagery so powerful, you can feel, see, and touch every piece of them.
Today, I've been lost in the busy streets of mid-century London, following an ambitious young woman on a mission to solve a series of ritualistic murders. My heart pounded as she uncovered tantalizing secrets buried deep in the fabric of society. The clues she’d collected seem to suggest that the killer is closer than she realizes.
Normally, I'd let her words consume my day, right into the late evening hours, but not today. Emily texted early this morning asking me to meet her for dinner. It's been a few months since we last got together, so I agreed to make the almost hour drive into the city.
I let myself be enveloped in the suspense of the tale for a few more minutes before jotting down some notes about minor grammatical issues and a spelling mistake. The cushion of my chair sighs softly as I push myself away from my work and trudge up the stairs.
My bedroom is one of three rooms that branch off from the short hallway on the second floor.
It's the larger of the two bedrooms, but it’s nothing grand.
The doors of my reach-in closet open to a full, but organized collection of clothes and shoes.
Running my hands along the wall of fabric, I think about the image I want to present to the world.
What costume will I wear today? Outgoing and available?
No, that’s not me. Available, sure, but not outgoing.
Cute and bookish? Yeah, that’s more realistic.
With that in mind, I settle on dark blue, skinny jeans and a burnt orange, cable knit sweater that falls just below my shoulders.
To finish the outfit, a pair of brown, leather ankle boots, a delicate, gold chain necklace and small gold hoop earrings.
Releasing the clip from the back of my head, my thick, brown hair falls to my collar bones.
A swipe of brown eyeliner makes my eyes pop and apricot lipstick makes my lips look soft and full.
My car weaves through desolate backroads, autumn trees looming overhead with gold and crimson leaves flickering in the wind like holiday lights.
The warmth of the heater and the soft narration of an audiobook hypnotize me until the road begins to change into a bustling freeway.
By the time my car pulls off onto the busy downtown streets, I’m fully aware, if not a little anxious.
Having never been particularly comfortable with street parking, I pull my car into the garage on Hart Street. The restaurant where I’m meeting Emily is only a couple of blocks away. The short walk gives me time to prepare myself for her typical bombardment of stories and questions.
Emily and I met when we were in college, in a way that created an instant friendship—regardless of how different we are as people.
It was my first and only frat party. I was shocked when Billy Hensley, the captain of the football team, offered me a drink and asked me to dance.
I sipped the sickly sweet mixture of fruit punch and tequila while he twirled me around a crowded living room.
I felt like the prettiest girl in the room with his eyes on me—until my head started swimming.
My vision narrowed and the room began to fade to blackness.
He ushered me upstairs, cooing sweet words in my ear.
Laying on his bed, the whooshing sound of my blood pumping in my ears was deafening.
I watched Billy peel off his t-shirt and unbuckle his belt.
Just before my vision went dark, a thin slip of a girl with flowing, blonde locks popped up behind him.
She pulled her arm back through the air, cracking him over the head with a lamp.
After I woke up in her dorm room the next morning, we became inseparable opposites.
Emily has always claimed it was purely coincidental that we ended up living within an hour of each other after we graduated, but I suspect that she was afraid to let me out of her sight.
I can’t change what I am—the mousy girl who shrinks away from conflict, too afraid to speak up, too afraid to run. She knows it, too.
The street-facing wall of The Cedar Grill is a row of crystal clear picture windows. The amber glow of the spun glass pendant lights hanging over each table flows through them, falling over the sidewalk. Looking through, I catch a glimpse of Emily sipping a martini.
Dodging patrons awaiting their reservations, I make my way to the table. When our eyes meet, her face cracks into a toothy smile.
"Babe! I missed you," she squeaks. Her dusky, blonde hair bounces against her shoulders, surrounding her heart-shaped face with bright blue eyes shimmering like moonstone.
I reply in kind, "I missed you, too." Our server arrives just in time for us to order drinks before Emily launches into a lengthy history of the last few months of her dates and sexual escapades. She's an uninhibited extrovert, and I love that about her.
"Well?" She looks at me eagerly.
"Well, what?"
"Come on, Ava. Seeing anyone? Dating?” She wiggles her perfectly plucked eyebrows. “Fucking?"
This is the part of the conversation I dread.
The part where I tell her that there's no man in my life, that no man compares to the strong, dreamy lovers in the manuscripts I pour over each day. The only crumb of news to pass on is that one boring date I went on last month. I met Mr. Tall, Blonde, and Average during my Tuesday night yoga class. We had dinner, during which he talked. He talked about work, about his mother, about his exes—everything I didn’t care to hear about.
I narrowly avoided his sloppy kiss at the end of the night. His slimy tongue popped out of his mouth before his lips were even near mine. Bobbing my head to the side, I dodged mouth-to-mouth contact and instead had his drool on my cheek. I’ve since started going to Thursday night yoga.
"Did you at least get something out of it?" she asks, her eyes pleading.
I scoff. "He didn't exactly sweep me off my feet, Em." Her forehead wrinkles in frustration as she rolls her eyes. “I’m doing just fine on my own, you know.” A line that always seems to gratify her inner feminist.
Her face softens into a small smile. Immediately, her eyes light up like nightlights and her mouth opens, ready to speak, surely preparing to persuade me to let her set me up on a date with “this guy she knows”.
With impeccable timing, our server is back to take our dinner order.
I use the interruption to segue into more palatable topics for the remainder of our meal.
Around 8:45 p.m., we say our goodbyes and I begin the walk back to the garage.
Meandering slowly down the block, I take in the sights and sounds of the city at night.
Street lights sparkle in rows down seemingly endless stretches of pavement.
The sounds of music and chatter seem to bounce between towering buildings, only interrupted by the whoosh of passing cars.
People like Emily love it here; they crave the chaos, the frenzy of this place.
I feel small, like an ant trapped in a tunnel of noise and lights.
It makes me long for the quiet of my home.
But I can’t deny the benefits of the city as the smokey scent of fresh ground coffee fills my nose.
Across the street, the coffee shop aptly named City Coffee is still open and buzzing with late-night coffee goers.
I can practically taste the pumpkin pie spices as I dash across the street, ready to fill myself with the warmth of autumn special blends.