3. Three
Iknow that woman. Rephrase—I don’t know her. I’ve seen her.
I cut across the yard through the rain as the memory replays.
Two years ago. I sat in the corner booth at George’s Bistro, taking advantage of the restaurant’s busy Saturday night vibe to stoke my writing. Sometimes hearing conversations, music, and clinking dishes makes my fingers fly, not that I needed the help then. Back then, I had no problem filling pages. I was three-quarters done with The Other Us, coming out this summer, and two deadlines ahead with my agent. The damn book had practically written itself—I just needed one more pivotal scene to finish it.
So, three hours and three beers in, my laptop on the table, I’d written all around the scene, even finished the epilogue. My readers love epilogues. But the scene proved elusive—I couldn’t get the feeling right. I needed heartache and agony, the novel’s lowest point, but it came out as mildly upsetting. Not good enough.
I closed my laptop and asked for the bill.
That’s when I saw her.
She sat alone at a two-seater table in the middle of the crowded dining room, back to me. She had dark Cleopatra hair and legs I’d love to wrap myself in, long and athletic. They were crossed under the table and leaning sideways, her heels resting together. Her silky green dress dangled off the sides of her chair, revealing more thigh than she probably realized, and her toned arms begged for fingers to run up and down them. She had a sexy air of confidence, even from behind. A jealous pang ripped through me toward the guy she was meeting—and she was definitely waiting for her date. The cliched rose on the table was a dead giveaway for a first meeting.
Is this what love’s been reduced to, I remember thinking. Padded online profiles and awkward meetings with trite red roses? Real romance is dead. Before long, it’ll come down to an algorithm—love will be a science, not a head-spinning, heart-racing adventure. Even the best romance novels like mine will become archaic fantasies, crowding clearance bins.
The waitress brought my bill, but I ordered another drink, much to her disappointment. A lone guy hogging the best booth—I understood her frustration.
But I tip well.
Cleopatra adjusted the rose for the fifth time, sipped her wine, and then realigned her silverware. Mostly, she fiddled with an emerald scarf around her neck—the only thing about her look that didn’t fit. Scarves are for winter and old ladies. On sexy women, it’s just another annoying thing to take off. Unless that’s all she’s wearing… No, still annoying.
A man approached, his gray eyes fixed on the rose before landing on her. He looked like a former frat guy with a trust fund, daddy’s lawyer on retainer, and a dead body buried in his backyard. I imagined his rich mother drunkenly waving a martini around and saying, “Boys will be boys,” when confronted about her son’s behavior again. I laughed, opening my laptop. He’d make a fun villain—a piece of shit I could drag through fictitious mud and have readers cheering for his demise by the end.
An ass-beating in an alley?
A flesh-eating virus? That starts on his dick?
Or should he suffer a long, mental manipulation?
So many choices…
It’s my universal truth in writing—see things, ask what if, write it down. From the tiniest, inconsequential detail to the most meaningful and profound moments, my experiences are reflected in my stories like warped funhouse mirrors of what-ifs. I couldn’t separate the two if I tried—that’s how creativity works. Or at least, that’s how it used to work.
Another universal truth of writers—fucking writer’s block. But that came later…
At her table, an awkward beat passed. I knew the date would fail—he wasn’t good enough for her. I’ve always been an expert at people-watching and making predictions. I expected him to sit, thankful his hot date wasn’t a lying ogre, and spend the next hour talking about himself between chewing an expensive steak, mouth open, before she politely told him her version of this-isn’t-going-to-work-out.
But he never sat down.
He gawked, wide-eyed, nearly laughing as he took her in. What the hell? Words were exchanged before he shook his head, gave her a dismissive wave, and left.
Cleopatra’s shoulders sunk a fraction but rose again with a deep breath. She stopped the waitress delivering my drink, dropped the flower on her tray, and pointed to the menu, determined to enjoy a good meal despite the dickhead. Atta girl.
The waitress delivered my beer, and I motioned toward the woman’s table. “What happened there?”
“He didn’t like her face.”
Her face? A quick trip to the bathroom solved that mystery, but initially, I didn’t see her scars—just a poised, well-dressed woman with electric blue eyes that stood out next to her dark hair like stars at night. When I passed her table, she glanced up and even smiled. Not a desperate please-save-me-from-these-assholes smile but one of polite resignation. This-is-my-life-and-I’m-getting-a-good-meal-out-of-it.
Her scars caught my attention like an afterthought. I looked twice—I can’t believe I did a double-take like an asshole. Her eyes rolled slightly as she turned away, and I crept by her table, mapping out her scars. They started on her left cheek and disappeared into the scarf around her neck—ah, camouflage.
While I’d never pull a dick move like her asshole date, I understood his vanishing act. That guy wanted a quick lay or a potential trophy wife. Maybe both. But she’s neither—whatever happened to her can’t be ignored. For some, scars are off-putting, as are the stories that come with them. Guys don’t want drama or imperfections. They want an unrealistic ideal propagandized by TV, magazines, music videos, and movies. Everyone wants Taylor Swift, but the truth is only the top one percent of men could or should be contenders. And never a guy like that.
At least he didn’t waste anyone’s time.
Still, I felt bad for her. The guy was no loss, but that twenty-second encounter must’ve added another jagged tear to her inner agony. I tried to imagine that rejection—conjuring feelings I’d never understand but wanted to capture anyway.
I wrangled the psychological jabs inflicted—her hope dashed in a glance, and then her dignity trampled by his cold amusement. How could she sit there? And eat dinner in defeated solitude? No anger. No tears. No desperate race to the door. Nothing.
Her fake indifference intrigued me. Tormented by an injury she can’t hide and the trauma of whatever happened to her, life’s slings and arrows had built her an impressive shield. But her cold demeanor was bullshit, too.
“She screams on the inside,” I said, typing ideas as they flooded me. Under the right conditions, with the right person, her iron defenses would crumble.
That’s what I needed for The Other Us—screaming on the inside. And the right conditions for my characters to break down. It played out in my head in all its heart-wrecking glory. My fingers twitched across the keyboard.
My waitress returned, eyeing my half-gone beer with annoyance. “Get you anything else? Food?”
“What wine is she having?” I motioned toward the woman’s table.
“The house merlot. Want me to ask if you can join her? I don’t mind.” Her eyes lit up at the prospect of freeing the booth. “She’d probably like the company.”
“She’s been screwed over enough already. I’ll take my bill and hers—add a bottle of your expensive merlot and your best dessert. Don’t tell her it’s been paid until I leave, and don’t tell her who paid it. Just that it wasn’t the prick.”
At home that night, I wrote my best scene yet, finishing The Other Us.
But nothing since. Days later, my neighbor, Ben, keeled over in my driveway, grabbing me and his chest at the same time and soon becoming the second guy to die in my arms, and only yards away from the first. I’d known Ben all my life. He’d been a second father to me and my brother Devin. Now, they’re both gone, taken out in a sentence when there should’ve been many more chapters ahead. Fucking unfair.
I duck inside my house, shedding my raincoat at the door. I promised Tom that I wouldn’t interfere with selling the little house. An empty house isn’t good for anyone’s property value, and buying it myself would’ve turned it into a shrine. Still, I ignore Tom’s hippie-dippy nonsense most days, but he has a strange point—as long as that house has been empty, I haven’t written a damn thing.
Not a chapter.
Not a paragraph.
Hell, I couldn’t even pen an anonymous Yelp review for the dudes I hired to power-wash the deck. And they did a fantastic job!
I am ridiculously blocked. Rephrase—I am utterly fucked.
So, Tom might be right—a new neighbor might spark ideas. But I don’t care—I hate it anyway. That’s Ben and Margot’s place… and Corey’s. He’s the reason my brother Devin spent as much time there as he did in our house.
He’d say I’m being a prick right now, that change is good. But not when it’s a change you didn’t want.
Hell, Devin would probably even argue for her specifically—he understood damaged goods. He’d compare her to the moon—cratered and marked but still beautiful.
There is something about her.
Not that it matters. If she moves in, she’ll be off-limits. I can’t have a casual fling with the girl next door—it’s too close to home. She’s probably too Hallmark-channel to hook up or be cool about joining the rotation.
“You’re not cool about your hookup rotation.” I hear Devin’s voice as if he’s standing next to me.
“I’ve curated a list of beautiful, attachment-free hookups—that’s every guy’s dream,” I argue, but it’s half-hearted. If Devin existed, he’d see right through me.
Especially as I retreat inside my dark, quiet house—the same house we grew up in.
And grab my half-empty glass of whiskey…
And stare at the blank notebook left open on the counter.
I imagine him flashing his dopey grin while shaking his head. “Sadness has made you numb. That’s why you can’t write about love anymore. Love is the best part about living, and you keep yourself from both.”
I toast the air. Devin is still annoying, even in my subconscious. He’s wrong—I don’t keep myself from anything. I’ve spent time with amazing, accomplished, gorgeous women, but I’ve never found that sweet spot of connection I write about in my books. Not even close. Maybe I am numb. But love isn’t for everyone.
Besides, I appreciate the beautiful, agonizing irony of it. I can write love but can’t have it.
At least, I used to write love. Now, I can’t do anything.
A new neighbor will only heighten my frustrations. No matter what she says, she’ll make changes and slowly erase all the home”s beautiful history, like heavy paint rolled over smudged handprints on walls. Margot, Ben, Corey, and… Devin will be blotted out by a few trips to Lowe’s and Ikea.
The idea of her—of anyone moving in next door—makes me bristle. I pour another drink. With any luck, her latest asshole will get that ring on her finger and keep her away from me and our close-knit corner.