Chapter Seven
I just told Mari about the kiss.
I didn’t mean to. But she showed up here unannounced wearing floral overalls. And she’s been drinking a mimosa from a YETI cup, so she seems harmless and bored.
She came for a visit just as I was needing a breather from the most recent all-nighter I pulled, so we came out here to the front porch to sit on the patio furniture, and the conversation just ended up here. Right here, with me saying “It was just a kiss,” and her just staring at me in amusement.
“Oh, my,” she says.
“I know,” I say.
I can’t believe I caved that easily. To her, not to the kiss.
But she was being nosy, asking me about seeing a mysterious black car in my driveway two days ago.
I explained to her that it was the detective, and he had stopped by to take a statement.
But when I was telling her, I don’t know what happened.
I just couldn’t hide it. I was blushing, I couldn’t stop smiling.
I became a flailing idiot.
Then, out of nowhere, she accused me of sleeping with him. “You’re porking the porker!” she said.
I became defensive, but instead of making a full denial, I said something like “No, I’m not! I swear, it didn’t go that far! It was just a kiss.”
That’s when she said, “Oh, my.”
And I responded with “I know.”
And now here we are. Staring at each other.
She sips from her YETI cup, a long, constant sip.
“Well. Good for you. I’ve been married to Louie since I was seventeen.
It wasn’t until I was in my fifties that I realized my lips had never touched another man’s and likely never would at that point because I was in my fifties and Louie was healthy as an ox.
And to be honest, it made me kind of sad.
Because what if Louie is a terrible kisser?
What if we aren’t even doing it right? How would we know when we’ve only experienced each other? ”
She’s staring off into the distance, focused on nothing in particular.
“Now my youth is gone, and the thought of Louie putting his tongue in my mouth makes me want to walk right out there to the spot where that young man ended his life the other night and do the same exact thing.”
“Jesus, Mari.”
“Have zero regrets, Petra. Kiss all the men. And the women, too, while you’re at it. Because there are some of us in the world who never got to do any of those fun things.”
Her YETI is empty now. She’s trying desperately to get the last drop to empty onto her tongue.
“At least you and Louie have had a long marriage. Not a lot of people get that.”
She waves me off with a flippant hand. “Yeah, yeah. I know. Wouldn’t change a thing, blah blah blah.”
I laugh. “Have you ever kissed a costar? For a role?” I ask her.
“A couple of times, but those don’t count.
Makeout scenes are actually terrible. You have some sweaty director in a chair five feet away yelling action at the two of you, and the heat from the lights is making you both sweat, while the guy you’re being forced to pretend to want to kiss has been a whiny little bitch for the last two solid weeks and you’d rather be strangling him with your hands than your tongue. ”
“Sounds awful.”
“It is very, very hard being an actress. Okay, going home. Out of alcohol.” She stands up, but I remain in my chair as she walks down the porch steps.
“And don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone you smooched the cop.
Hell, this is my third mimosa today—I probably won’t even remember it happened by the time I make it home. ”
“Thank you.”
As Mari is walking away, she says, “And yes, I am possibly an alcoholic, but I’m too old for interventions, so don’t even try.”
“I won’t. I promise. Enjoy your next mimosa.”
“I will. Enjoy your next makeout.”
All I can do is laugh at that. It feels good to laugh, because the last twenty-four hours have been getting stressful again.
I walk back into the house and take a seat in front of my laptop. The writing was going well for like an entire day after Saint kissed me. But then day two came, and I still hadn’t heard a word from him. The silence started to get the best of me, even though he owes me nothing. Not even a text.
But it’s almost as if I need another boost of him to get back into my groove.
I’ve been trying to live off the memory of the kiss alone.
The way his lips moved against mine, the feel of his hands on me, the unexpected thrill of it all.
It’s a kiss that has taken root in my thoughts, refusing to let go, lingering in the quiet moments.
Which has literally been every moment since he slammed the door.
At least I was productive after. I wrote several chapters, words pouring out of me like they hadn’t in weeks.
I even rewrote some of the notes I’ve taken over the past year and a half to make Cam more like Saint.
Every time I sat down to type, I saw Saint in my mind—his face, his voice, his presence.
Cam took on new dimensions, becoming a character that felt more real, more tangible, because I had someone to model him after.
It felt exhilarating, watching the pages fill with a story that was suddenly alive in a way it hadn’t been before.
But before Mari came over, I had been staring at this blinking cursor taunting me again as I struggled to find the words.
I know what needs to happen in the story, but the energy from the kiss has faded, leaving me with the familiar frustration of writer’s block. It’s as if the high from that moment has worn off, and now I’m left wondering if I can even recapture it again without him.
I talked to Nora last night, but I didn’t tell her about the kiss.
Other than Mari, who knows next to nothing about me or my life, I’m never telling anyone.
That is definitely something I want to keep private.
I’ve always been a private person, and this .
. . well, this feels too personal, too complicated to share, even with my best friend.
I write under my real name, but just my first and middle name.
My last name is Andrews, but readers don’t know that.
I’ve never worried too much about my personal life being revealed to them.
They know very little about me. I have the version of myself I portray to the readers, but none of them know if I’m dating or married or single or a mother or a lonely cat lady.
I don’t put anything out there beyond my writing, and I want to keep it that way.
It’s always been a kind of shield, keeping my real life separate from the persona I present to the world.
My readers get the stories, but they don’t get me, and that’s how I like it.
Which is why—as much as I trust Nora—I would never tell her about my kiss with Saint. I feel too guilty, and she’s one of the only true friends in all areas of my life. I’d hate to taint her version of me, whatever that may be.
I’m more worried about how other people would feel about my actions than how I feel. Is this really any different from two actors kissing for the camera? It’s art.
Obviously, a spouse would never be forgiven for kissing someone else based on the excuse that it’s research for a book, but it sure as hell makes it easier to forgive myself that way.
I feel very little guilt compared to the moment it happened, thanks to all the clever ways I’ve excused it.
And I don’t know what that says about me.
Whether it means I’m cold and detached—or is it simply that I’ve compartmentalized what happened as part of my process, something separate from real life?
In fact, I feel so little guilt, I’m starting to wonder how far I can take this thing with Saint. I’ve picked up my phone several times to text him again, but each time I chicken out.
Cam and Reya have kissed in the book, but I’m having trouble writing about the relationship they develop because I’ve never had feelings for a married man.
I’ve never felt like the other woman. There are so many ways a relationship with a married man would differ from a more traditional relationship.
Not only would you not be able to go public with it, even to your closest friends, but you would also have to go to great lengths to keep it private.
What would that feel like? To love a man who can only love you part-time?
To be the one left behind, always waiting for stolen moments, knowing that someone else gets the best of him while you only get the leftovers?
It’s a feeling I can’t quite grasp, but I know it’s something Reya would be wrestling with in the story. It’s a layer of complexity I haven’t fully explored yet, and I know it’s the key to making the relationship between Cam and Reya feel real.
I’ve been at war with myself over whether or not to call him. On one hand, it feels reckless, like I’m stepping into dangerous territory. On the other hand, it’s work.
I settle on a compromise with myself.
I’ll text him.
I keep in mind that his wife might see this message, so I stay professional. I don’t want to raise any red flags. Just a simple, innocent request.
This is Petra Rose. I have a research question if you have time for it.
I stare at my phone after I send the text, half expecting him to respond immediately like he did the last time I texted him. But this time, the dots don’t appear. He doesn’t text me back right away, and the silence stretches out longer than I expect.
I watch the phone for a moment, waiting, but when nothing happens, disappointment creeps in.
He’s had time to think over what he did, and he’s starting to regret it.
I stare at my computer for several minutes, wondering if I shouldn’t have sent the text.
I know I shouldn’t have sent the text. But I feel more disappointment that he didn’t answer right away than I do guilt from sending it.
I know I’m walking a fine line here, but the pull of curiosity is stronger than my sense of caution.