Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Since I was the romance expert, it was on me to write the first chapter. Initially, I’d tried to bully Aiden into writing it, but an evil glint appeared in his eye, and I could practically see the morbidity and angst rolling around in his brain. I couldn’t trust him to write a meet cute that didn’t turn into a murder cute.
I wanted the perfect story with the perfect characters to wash over me. Then, I’d sit elegantly in front of my laptop, gracefully typing out the best first draft of a first chapter ever to be written.
That did not happen.
I was walking around the Village, trying to find any source of inspiration around me. I loved Bleeker Street; when I was a little girl, I’d always dreamed I would live in this area. I’d live in a brownstone and wake up to the sounds of sirens and cars, and I’d go to a bakery on the corner for breakfast each day. I hadn’t known what New York was really like, of course, and my apartment in the East Village was nothing like I had imagined. But walking down Bleeker now reminded me of how badly I wanted this life.
After walking nearly to Chelsea and back, I decided it was probably best if I sat down and tried to churn something out. Think Coffee was one of my favorite places to study and write. Hordes of students came after classes and settled in with their laptops and textbooks. I loved to sit in the back of the caf é when it was cold. The warm lighting and cozy music made it easy to fall into my own words.
I marched in and promised myself I wouldn’t leave until I had something to work with.
I knew I wanted to write an enemies-to-lovers story. A hallmark of romance novels were the different tropes employed. A lot of people called them overdone or predictable, but readers (including me) loved them.
The enemies-to-lovers trope would also piss Aiden off, which was an added bonus. Not only would he think it’s clich é , but we’d have to drag out the romantic part of the novel before we got to whatever horrific ending he wanted to write.
I was the last in line to order, right near the door. Every time someone opened it, the autumn wind hit me. I was used to the cold from back home, but in Tennessee it was momentary. You braced the cold for maybe ten seconds on the jog to your car, where you sighed in relief over the seat warmers. New York made you face the cold head on in order to survive.
I longed to visit home soon. I was picking up every single shift I could at the Hideout in hopes of being able to not only swing the flight home but also the full week off without pay. Not easy, when the tuition for NYU went up every year and so did rent. Still, I was determined. I knew if I worked hard enough, it’d pay off.
The bell above the door chimed as another customer entered, but this time I heard a small “Oh” as the door opened. I turned around and Aiden was standing behind me, wearing a white cable knit sweater. He gave me one of those smiles that was more of a grimace. Like it pained him to be semipleasant toward me.
I narrowed my eyes, before turning around quickly.
“Come to get some work done?” he asked. I ignored him, pretending to scan the menu a couple of feet in front of us, even though I knew exactly what I was going to get. He repeated his question, but I turned my chin up, continuing to give him the silent treatment. Although I had agreed to Ida’s stipulations, I wasn’t eager to become Aiden’s friend. “Ah, what else could I expect other than the utmost maturity from Rosalinda Maxwell,” he muttered.
“Just so you know,” I said over my shoulder. “I’m more mature than you. I am maturely not responding to you.”
“Just so you know, you just did.”
“What’re you even doing here? This is my coffee shop. You can have Starbucks.” I turned around to face him and had to look up to even make eye contact with him since I was wearing my sneakers. Aiden was as tall as he was broad. He took up nearly all the space in front of the door of the coffee shop; every time the door opened, he was big enough to block me from the wind. His cheeks were still slightly flushed, the tips of his ears pink, and he looked a little adorable as much as I hated to admit it.
He raised his eyebrows. “You own Think Coffee? Congratulations on its success, Rosalinda,” he said, sarcasm dripping from this voice.
“Shouldn’t you be, I don’t know, killing puppies? Or other writers’ dreams?”
His green eyes flashed, his eyebrows raising in disbelief. Up close, it was impossible to deny how attractive he was. “Shouldn’t you be dreaming about shirtless men alone in your room?” he asked mockingly.
“You’re just jealous because you’ve never been one of those shirtless men.”
“Really?” he asked, incredulous. I knew he was just making fun of me, but with his eyes trained on me like this, it was as if he was looking right through me.
“Really.” I prayed he would blame my blush on the cold. It was hard to ignore how attractive he was when he was this close. I usually had the barrier of the workshop table between us, but with him leaning down and looking me dead in the eye, I had to force away the thoughts of how infuriatingly soft his hair probably was.
“It’s you.”
My head jerked back, my heart hammering against my chest. “What?”
“It’s your turn.” Aiden nodded behind me to where the cashier was waiting for my order. I rushed to the counter, apologizing profusely. Once she took my order, I reached into my bag for my wallet.
“I know it’s in here,” I muttered. I set my messy tote on the counter, digging through it. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” I looked at her, smiling sweetly. I’ve learned one thing since moving here: New Yorkers either love the country accent or they don’t. I’ve gotten eyerolls, but hey, I’ve also gotten discounts. I exaggerated my accent now—a twang on the “a”s and a drawl on the “o”s, hoping it’d save me from another embarrassing moment in front of Aiden. “Do y’all happen to take Venmo? Or can I start a tab here, like a bar?”
She furrowed her brow, confused. “Um …”
“I got it.” Aiden stepped forward and inserted his card into the machine.
“No, it’s okay.” I tried to pull his card out, but he grabbed my wrist to stop me. His hand warmed my skin, and I still felt his touch even when he pulled away. “I can pay for it,” I said through gritted teeth. The last thing I needed was to owe him a favor.
“Just let me do something nice for you,” he hissed.
“You probably paid them to put laxatives in my coffee.”
He spluttered out what would’ve been a laugh if Aiden were capable, his eyes opening in shock. The cashier handed me my receipt, and I walked to the end of the bar, Aiden following suit after placing his own order.
“Thank you,” I said begrudgingly to Aiden from the corner of my mouth. “You can be nice. Sometimes.”
He nodded. “I’m actually nice most of the time.”
“Oh, well, I wouldn’t go that far.”
“I’m just not nice to you.”
The barista called my name, and I turned to Aiden.
“Well, I’ll see you on Monday. Thanks again for the coffee.” I lifted my drink as a goodbye and walked toward the back of the shop where the tables were full of customers. The semester had just started, and it felt like every student had crowded into Think Coffee to study. I was able to snag an empty one in the corner and pulled my laptop out.
I opened an empty doc and willed words to come. The cursor blinked back at me tauntingly, as if it knew I had nothing. Last semester, it had been near impossible for me to write anything romantic. I’d had to force myself to listen to Taylor Swift and reread my favorite books to find inspiration because I realized I didn’t have anything to draw from in real life. I’d come to terms with the fact that the man who I’d thought was my first love didn’t love me, and I didn’t love him. Since then, I’d quickly learned how careless the men of New York were, most of them looking for a casual hookup to forget in the morning.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard, rubbing against one another.
Anything, I told myself. Just write anything.
My gaze flicked away from my screen momentarily only to find Aiden standing near the front of the seating area. His neck was strained, surveying the cafe for an empty table, but there were none. I’d been lucky to find a place to sit myself. Guilt started to pool in my stomach as he began to turn around to leave.
My southern nature had a hard time leaving me, even after a year in the city. Before I could think better of it, I stood from my chair.
“Aiden,” I called out. He turned around and looked at me with a questioning glance. I beckoned him to the small table and hesitantly he made his way over.
“The least I can do is offer to share my table,” I said, sitting back down. “You know, as a thank you for the coffee.”
“Are you sure?” His brows were pulled down as he hesitated in front of the table.
“Positive.” I moved my bag from the seat across and made room for him.
“Well, thank you. That’s very nice,” he said appreciatively, clearing his throat.
“I can be nice sometimes.” I repeated his words and smiled at him, but he only gave a terse nod.
“I won’t disturb you. I’m just trying to get work done.” He pulled his laptop from his bag.
Almost immediately, he started typing. No thinking, just writing. I was envious. How come the words came so easily to him ? What did he do to deserve the relief from writer’s block?
I’ll admit, his melodic typing soothed me more than the cafe music, as much as it pissed me off. There was a calming rhythm to the ebb and flow of the words pouring out of his fingers. It was so soft and gentle, like he cared for each and every word he wrote. The act of writing itself was so vulnerable. It was strange to witness someone in those moments of privacy.
Back when I decided that Aiden was my mortal nemesis, I did some research. I liked to know the people I hated because what if Aiden was donating his time to underprivileged children? Could I really hate that?
Jess and I asked around in the program about him last year, and, as it turned out, Aiden was a full-time first-year grad student—a second-year now. This semester he was teaching an Intro to Creative Writing Class at the undergraduate school. Aiden as a workshopper was bad, but as the facilitator? I wouldn’t be surprised if the students left that class sobbing .
I tried to focus on the blinking cursor on my own screen as it stared back at me, daring me to write even a single word. I looked at Aiden over my laptop. He had pulled his lips between his teeth as he typed, his eyes narrowed in focus. His white sweater complemented his tanned skin so well that I had to force my eyes away.
Despite myself, I couldn’t help but wonder what it was like to be with Aiden. Would it be like this? Sitting across from each other at caf é s, writing? Did he always dress without wrinkles or would he be the kind of boyfriend to wear hoodies and sweatshirts for snuggling on the couch?
Realistically, he was probably as cold in a relationship as he was in class. He’d probably pick every dinner and every movie. And maybe he was like that in bed, too. He’d take exactly what he wanted and—
I closed my eyes . Aiden was not a romantic hero, and he never would be. I was just lonely. I missed home, I was frustrated over school, and Aiden was wearing a sweater . These factors combined were quite dangerous.
After a few minutes, Aiden was still typing, like he never ran out of words to say. I couldn’t stand the clacking of his keyboard any longer.
“What’re you writing?” I asked.
He looked up at me briefly, the relentless typing pausing. “I’m working on a short story for my other fiction workshop.”
“Oh.” I wrapped my hands around my coffee cup, trying to keep warm. I looked down at my own empty doc, deflated. When I glanced back at him, his gaze flickered up from my collarbone to my eyes, his cheeks flushing.
“What are you not writing?” he asked, not unkindly, nodding at my laptop.
“Our chapter,” I admitted. “I know we said we’d go off the cuff, but I have no idea where to even start.”
“Shouldn’t it start with a meet-cute or something?” He squinted, waving a hand. “I thought this would be easy for you. You’re the romance expert.”
I laughed softly. “It’s not that easy. I just—” I broke off, taking a deep breath. “I just can’t find the words some days. I know they’re somewhere within me, but then I look at an empty page and nothing comes up. It’s worse than just a word on the tip of my tongue—it’s painful. It’s like when you know you should cry, but the tears won’t come.”
“Have you ever heard of the shitty first draft?”
I titled my head. “That’s what you turn in for workshop, right?”
“Funny,” he deadpanned. “The shitty first draft is when you get everything out. You don’t care what you’re writing or if every word is perfect, you just write.”
“So?”
“So.” He shrugged. “Writing’s in the revisions. Nothing’s set in stone, you know. Your backspace works as well as the other keys.”
“Har har.” I rolled my eyes. But I considered what he said. I’d never admit it to him, but it was good advice. “I just wish I knew where I was going. If I knew what we were aiming for, I feel like the words would come easier. I mean, it’s all up to me as of now. What if you don’t like one of the names? What if I name the girl after your mother, and you can’t distance yourself from real life enough and you end up writing a love story about your mother? What if—”
“No more ‘what ifs.’ ” He shut his laptop and took his black notebook from his bag. “Okay. Let’s plan it out.”
“Really?”
“Really. Come on, tell me what you’ve got.”
With our laptops closed, I noticed how many empty tables there were now. The cafe’s rush had ended, and we didn’t really need to sit with each other anymore. But neither of us got up to move.
“Well, I decided on enemies-to-lovers because it’s the best trope to write.” He opened his mouth, but I barreled on so he couldn’t object. “But there are still plenty of things I need to figure out. Why do they hate each other? What makes them stop hating each other? Also, I’m really hung up on what their names are. What’s their backstory? What do they look like—”
“Jesus, Rosalinda, how do you ever get any work done? You’re stressing me out.” He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms.
I ignored him. “To me, the most important thing would be their names.”
Aiden’s nose crinkled. I hadn’t noticed the freckles on it before.
“What? You don’t think names are important?” I asked.
“No, I do. But I feel like the characters decide those when the time comes. After we decide what to do with them.”
“Fine. What’s our plot then?”
“Well, we have to know the character’s name to even start putting them in situations.”
I threw my hands up, exasperated, but the corner of Aiden’s mouth twitched. I squinted at him in disbelief. “Did you just make a joke? I didn’t know you were capable. Will your hardware start malfunctioning soon?”
The hint of a smile left, only to be replaced with a frown. “I was thinking maybe they work together?”
“Ooh, a workplace romance.” I sat up, intrigued. “Tell me more.”
“Maybe they’re always competing. They’re in sales, and there’s a big client or something so they have to team up for a presentation. They’re always bickering, but they go away at a company retreat and things get romantic from there.”
“I hate to say it,” I said, closing my eyes, “but this, surprisingly, sounds like a good romance. How will we ever make it literary fiction?”
His eyes twinkled. “This is where it gets good.”
He went through a couple of different scenarios, all of which made me want to cry. He gave the characters tortured pasts, he killed them off. He kept going until I couldn’t take it anymore and cut him off.
“No way.” I shook my head vigorously. “We can’t make either of them evil. Then, the reader won’t even care if they end up together.”
“I didn’t say evil.” He might not have said it, but I heard it.
I couldn’t understand why someone wouldn’t want a happy ending. Before I could stop myself, I asked, “Why don’t you like happy endings?”
He lifted his shoulder. “It’s unrealistic.”
“Plenty of people get their Happily Ever After.”
“Even more don’t.”
“Maybe not you , but people who deserve it usually get it,” I said jokingly.
I must’ve hit a nerve because he tensed, his eyes turning cold. “Are we talking about me, or are we talking about the characters? Let’s just make this painless and spend as little time together as possible.” Before I could respond, he stood from his chair, nearly knocking it over. “I have to go. I trust you’re capable of writing a single chapter.”
With that, he slung his bag over his shoulder and stormed out of the coffee shop.
Maybe I’d taken it too far, but it wasn’t fair for Aiden to just flip on a dime like that. I fumed to myself as I packed my own bag. He was self-righteous and arrogant. He thought he was so much better than me just because he made people sad instead of happy.
I hadn’t known how to start my chapter before, but I sure as hell did now.
My mom used to say if I didn’t have anything nice to say, then it was best to say nothing at all.
So, I won’t say out loud that I wish Hunter would fall off the edge of a cliff.
— Excerpt from Untitled by Rosie Maxwell and Aiden Huntington