Delete, Rewrite
Lucy opened the paperback a little wider and tilted it towards the light, but she read only one paragraph before dropping the book into her lap. Sighing, she rubbed her eyes.
“I shouldn’t be reading,” she muttered. “I need to work.”
Placing the book on her desk, she eyed the laptop, its lid open, with screensaver patterns zigzagging across its face.
She jiggled her finger on the tracker pad and watched the screen come to life, revealing neat rows of text.
Then, positioning her hands over the keyboard, she willed herself to type.
Nothing happened. Her hands continued to hover, fingers never touching the keys.
Annoyed, Lucy groaned. She’d picked up the book because she was restless—but if she couldn’t muster enough concentration to read, what chance did she have with writing?
None. It wouldn’t happen. Folding her arms, she slumped back, gaze flitting to the phone sitting atop her Oxford Dictionary.
She stared at it, sucked air through her teeth, then suddenly lunged, seizing the phone like a cat snatching a mouse.
She peered anxiously at the screen: no missed calls, no messages.
“Damn you,” she uttered.
Turning her wrist, she checked her watch. It was now fifty-two minutes since Lara had walked out, fifty-one minutes since she’d sent Lara the first apologetic text. She’d sent two more since, and all three were listed as read.
“Come on, babe, reply.”
Lucy closed her hand around the phone, debating her next move.
Send another message? Call? She puffed out her cheeks and absently flicked the pages of the abandoned paperback, making a soft fluttering sound.
Leave it. Lara would get in contact when she was ready.
Replacing the phone on its dictionary perch, she grasped the novel, pushed back her chair, and padded towards the sagging bookcase dominating the study’s far wall.
She slid her hand into a narrow gap on the third shelf and, widening it, slotted in the book.
“There.”
Pushing back an errant curl of hair and securing it behind her ear, Lucy admired the bookcase. Books were her friends, her comfort. She’d read and re-read every book she owned, absorbing every word. Thrillers, mysteries, romances…
Stretching out her arms, she stroked the spines of the neatly ordered paperbacks, smiling as she felt the creases.
She lingered over the worn spine of her favourite romance, with seductively sexy characters, titillating encounters, and a heart-warming ending.
She traced the curled red lettering title and contemplated plucking the book from the shelf, but when thoughts of Lara intruded, she glared at her phone instead.
“Come on, please,” she said. “Call me. I’ve said I’m sorry.”
The laptop flickered, catching her eye, and reverted to screensaver mode.
The brightly coloured patterns danced with mesmerising brilliance.
Lucy watched, sighed, and turned away. Returning her attention to the bookcase, she gazed lovingly at two books at the far end of the second shelf.
They were different from the others. In pristine condition, wrapped in protective jackets, these were her books—two juicy romances written by Lucy Parker-Edwards.
Always a bookworm, making the transition from paperback reader to paperback writer had long been Lucy’s ambition and achieving it was a dream come true.
The reality of writing for a living, however, was not what she’d envisaged.
She hated the pressure of deadlines and, already behind with novel number three, writing seemed to occupy every waking moment.
She sometimes wished she’d kept it as a hobby and not left her office job.
She missed relaxed nights curled on the sofa with Lara, reading books, making love…
“But I did quit my job,” she said aloud, “and books don’t write themselves.”
Sloping back to her desk, she plopped into her chair and pulled the laptop closer. Maybe if I write something, anything…She touched the tracker pad and, saving the file on screen, opened a new one.
“Okay. Forget Lara, forget what happened. Just write.”
Lucy straightened her back and positioned her hands. Tapping the keys, words appeared on the screen, but when Lucy read them back, she found the sentences nonsensical. Frustrated, she placed a finger on delete and held it there.
“Delete, rewrite…” she muttered, reaching sideways for the mug of coffee sitting on the windowsill. She took a slurp. “Ugh! That’s cold.” Grimacing, she set the mug down and returned to the task at hand. “This time…”
She typed again. An abundance of words poured forth, and the ghost of a smile chased the glumness from her expression.
Words became sentences, sentences paragraphs.
After pausing briefly to correct a typo, she ploughed on, the fast tapping of fingernails on plastic keys music to her ears.
When she finished the third paragraph, she sat back.
“There. See?” she said, addressing the uncooperative phone skulking on her dictionary. “I don’t need you.” She stared unblinking, as if waiting for the phone to respond, then, lower lip quivering, she burst into tears. “Come on,” she sobbed, burying her face in her hands, “enough.”
She rummaged in her pocket for a tissue and wiped her eyes.
The trouble had started when Lara had brought her a mug of coffee—the one she’d just tried drinking—which, on that occasion, was an unwelcome interruption.
Lucy had been engrossed in her writing, and the intrusion had thrown her completely off track.
It was an innocent faux pas on Lara’s part, and one Lucy would have overlooked had Lara not loitered behind her chair, slurping coffee while reading over Lucy’s shoulder. Pointing out a typo was the last straw.
A fat tear ran down Lucy’s cheek as she remembered how she’d yelled.
It was a massive overreaction, one spawned by the stress of a publishing deadline she had no chance of meeting.
It wasn’t Lara’s fault, and she felt nothing but shame as she recalled the look on Lara’s face when she’d shouted obscenities at her.
Poor Lara. She’d blanched and, mouth agape, left without uttering a word.
Sorry had formed on Lucy’s lips too late, the apology drowned out by the slam of the front door.
With the deepest regret, she acknowledged that she’d lashed out needlessly at the person who loved and supported her most. After all, Lara had encouraged Lucy to quit her well-paying job to try writing full-time and insisted she carry on when her first novel failed.
The astonishing success of Lucy’s second novel was as much down to Lara as herself. If that wasn’t love, what was?
“Oh, Lara, I’m sorry. I’m an ungrate—”
Lucy froze as a noise startled her. Sitting bolt upright, she listened. There. A smile crinkled the corners of her mouth as she recognised the click of a Yale lock followed by footsteps on wood.
“Lara?” Pulse racing, she sprinted towards the staircase, calling, “Babe, is that you?”
Lara was standing at the foot of the stairs, coat on, anxious expression on her face. Seeing Lucy, she held out a beautifully wrapped bouquet, a shiny red bow binding the stems.
“Peace offering,” she said. “And this.” She held up a bulging plastic bag. “Not chocolates, sorry. Food. Proper food. I thought I’d cook so you can work. I know you’re behind.”
Lucy caught her breath. Lost for words, she placed a hand on her heart.
“I wanted to surprise you.” Lara dropped the plastic bag neatly at her feet. “And help, if I can.”
“Help?” Lucy croaked. “You do; you always do.” Her heart skipped. “Are they roses?” she asked, nodding to the flowers.
“Of course. A dozen. Red. Your favourite.”
“Oh, Lara…” Fresh energy surged through Lucy’s body, and, bounding down the stairs, she flung herself at her girlfriend. “I’m sorry, so sorry,” she cried, hugging her and covering her face with kisses.
“My fault,” whispered Lara. “I shouldn’t have disturbed you.”
“No, it was me, I was a cow. I didn’t even thank you for the coffee.” Lucy felt a tickle on her cheek and batted away a tear. “Can you forgive me?”
Lara’s steady gaze met hers. “Always.”
“Oh, babe…I don’t deserve you.” Thoroughly ashamed, Lucy took the roses and held them to her nose to hide her blushes.
She sniffed them, and played with the bow, while regaining her composure, then placed the bouquet on the hallway table, taking care not to crumple the wrapping.
She smiled at Lara. “They’re beautiful, and I’m awful, aren’t I? ”
“No, just passionate about your work.” Lara cupped Lucy’s face between her palms. “I wouldn’t have you any other way.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
Filled with gratitude, Lucy kissed Lara again. She tasted sweet, familiar. She pressed her body against Lara’s, her fingers curling in Lara’s hair.
Lara sighed. “Well,” she said, “if I get a kiss like that after every minor disagreement, I’m going to criticise your writing every day.”
“Don’t you dare!”
“I’m teasing. I wouldn’t.”
“I know.” Lucy bit her lower lip, pondering. “Lara,” she said after a momentary pause, “do you want to help me write?”
“Help you write?”
“Yes.” Lucy tilted her head. “That typo you spotted—”
“Ugh…yeah. Sorry about that.”
“No,” Lucy smiled, “I want you to do it again. Proofread for me.”
“Really?” Lara narrowed her eyes. “Is that a good idea? You might get upset again.”
“I won’t,” Lucy promised. “I love you too much.”
Leaning in, she kissed Lara on the lips. The kiss lingered, and as it did, all the angst and heartache of the day dissolved. No lasting harm, everything was fine. And now that Lara was going to proofread for her, she might even make that deadline and—
“No, no. That’s all wrong,” I slap the heel of a hand against my forehead.
“That’s far too stylised, not realistic at all.
And I can’t possibly end it like that.” Huffing, I delete the last sentence and read what remains.
“Blah, blah, no lasting harm, everything was fine. Full stop. That’s more like it.
Focus on the relationship, not the book’s deadline! ”
I scratch my head. I should take my own advice.
Feeling meditative, I save the file and log off. I’ve written more than I thought I would, under the circumstances, but I can’t write anymore. Not with our disagreement still unresolved. Besides, this story’s not what I’m supposed to be writing. It isn’t part of my novel.
Not that it matters. How can I write without you? I look at my watch and quickly calculate that it’s one hour and, let’s see…thirty-eight minutes since you left. You’re really letting me stew, aren’t you?
My phone, sitting on the dictionary, hasn’t made a sound. I try not to panic, but I’m painfully aware that the longer the silence lasts, the greater the possibility that our relationship will be permanently damaged. I couldn’t bear that, not over something so silly and entirely my fault.
I can’t let it happen.
Grabbing the phone, I click the green call icon and scroll to my recent calls list. I know what I have to do, but the prospect scares me. What if you shout or worse, don’t answer at all? I place a finger over your number, letting it hover, poised. I draw a deep breath…
I want Lucy and Lara’s ending. I want you to walk through the door, flowers in hand, words of love pouring from your lips.
I want to throw myself into your arms, knowing everything’s all right.
Better still, I want to go back, delete my stupid, thoughtless words and rewrite them—edit, revise, replace my outburst with words of gratitude and love.
But I can’t have either. I can’t change what’s happened, the past is the past, and Lucy and Lara are only characters, romanticised projections of what I want, not what I’ll get.
I look at the phone in my hand, a finger twitching over your name. I can shape what happens now. Pressing dial, my hands tremble, and when the call goes straight to voicemail, I fight to keep control. My throat’s tight, but I have to speak; it’s too important.
“Hey, it’s me. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything. When you get this, call me. Or come home, we need to talk. I love you.”
I disconnect, and my hand, holding the phone, flops to my side. All I can do now is wait and hope you interpret my message as one of heartfelt love. I’ve done you wrong, I know that. I’ve neglected you and taken you for granted, and not just today.
“I won’t do it again,” I whisper. “I promise. Please forgive me.”
I nearly drop the phone when it vibrates and rings, and my heart skips wildly when I see your name emblazoned on the screen.
Please…
Hopes soaring, I offer a prayer of thanks and answer your call.