Chapter 8
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The cursor blinks at me, teasing me about my blank page.
I’ve been sitting at the desk in Fletch’s small home office for over an hour, and I have nothing to show for it. Not one word.
My romance heroine, Lorna, is supposed to be meeting her mail-order husband for the first time, but every scenario I write feels too close to my current reality.
Wasn’t that the point? So why isn’t it working?
Fletch’s voice keeps echoing in my head. “It’s the one time of year when everything seems possible. Even fake marriages turning into—”
He didn’t finish the sentence, but I can guess what he was going to say.
The way he looked at me kindled something inside that I’m not ready to acknowledge.
I tell myself that what could be perceived as interest is still just a joke to him.
A continuation of that ridiculous comment he made back in college.
“I’m going to marry you someday, Bree Darling.”
The worst part of it was that every time we’d cross paths, he’d repeat it until the entire campus thought we were an item. Some of the girls in Fletch’s crowd would call me the little librarian in training and tease me about how it was unlikely that someone like me would land the hunky hockey star.
Once, we were at a hockey game victory party.
Well, I was there interviewing players for the college paper.
He spotted me across the room, pointed, and before I could hide, he repeated that absurd declaration to the amusement of his teammates—not to mention it was already printed in the school paper.
Which was kind of my fault, but I’m not in the business of editing or abridging. I tell it like it is.
I’d rolled my eyes and started to walk away, but then someone was playing the bridal march and throwing rolls of toilet paper at me like a veil, a gown—I don’t know. And as much as I’ve tried to erase the memory, it has remained lodged in my brain all these years.
And now, by some cosmic joke, we’re actually married.
Fletch, with his sporty, all-American Clark Kent superhero looks and build, has the same swagger that the girls in my dorm tripped over themselves for.
Not me. I wasn’t an enterprising Lois Lane who once saw him in class wearing reading glasses and thought to myself, Wow, he’s attractive.
Okay, I did briefly. Boy, was that a mistake.
I quickly learned that his personality is the P.I.T.S: Pompous, Idiotic, Thoughtless, Stupid.
Fine, it was immature of me to make that up, but what he did was worse.
Even though he’s well-groomed and grown up now, he’s probably just a 2.0 version, but the updates aren’t the kind that matter.
I close my manuscript document with a sigh.
There’s no use forcing the words today. Instead, I open my external hard drive and browse through old files.
Past manuscripts, abandoned story ideas, notes from writing conferences—artifacts of a career built on crafting the kinds of love stories I don’t believe will ever happen for this girl.
The irony isn’t lost on me. Nina and numerous other friends have analyzed my love life—or lack thereof—without me even having to pay an hourly fee for therapy.
I write romance for a living, creating perfect love stories with guaranteed happy endings. Nina says this makes me either a cynic or a hypocrite. I prefer “professional skeptic with an excellent imagination.”
They said it’s become my way of influencing potential intimacy narratives as a result of not being able to control real relationships—or open up and let someone special get close to me. My characters get the happiness I don’t believe is possible for myself.
Not only did I get that psychoanalysis without spending a dime, but my editor, Meredith, once told me I write, and I quote, “With the edge of someone who’s never been burned by love.
” She meant it as a compliment—praise for my technical skill and emotional clarity.
But the comment buried itself deep, exposing a truth I try to hide.
I’ve spent years studying romance from the outside, observing patterns and dynamics in other people’s relationships because my own, albeit limited, experiences have left me wary.
The truth is, I have been burned by love. Just not the romantic kind. Since my parents had me later in life, an unexpected surprise that disrupted their well-ordered existence, I was more of an afterthought—or in the writing world, an afterward.
They weren’t cruel at all, just distant. As if they never quite figured out how to incorporate a child into their established routines. Love existed in our house, but it was conditional, measured, practical—like every other aspect of their lives.
“Ready to go?” Fletch’s voice startles me from the doorway, reminding me we’re going to the very house I grew up in to grab a few of my things. I nod.
“How’s it coming so far?”
“Meh.” But no sooner does the sound come out of my mouth, I realize that not a single guy in my life has ever inquired about my work.
He grips the top of the doorframe, muscles flexing. I will myself not to blush as his shirt lifts slightly, revealing a tease of his trim waist.
I close my files—and my eyes—quickly, not having realized how much time had passed while I was leafing through past fictions like photographs that I only remember because of the image captured at a specific moment in time.
Voice raspy, I say, “Just let me grab my coat.”
The drive to my childhood home is anything but quiet with Fletch cranking the local holiday music radio station and singing along—yes, a grown man of hockey stature—to “Joy to the World” at the top of his voice during the chorus.
I direct him along familiar streets that look smaller than I remember, even though I’ve been back here countless times since moving away—first to college in Iowa, then to New York City because that’s where I thought writers go.
Or where the paved streets try to eat them up.
After that, I’ve kind of become a nomad, primarily staying in rentals in the West for inspiration and research.
When we pull up to the old Victorian with its peeling paint and overgrown yard, I feel a twinge of embarrassment.
“It needs work,” I say apologetically.
Fletch just nods. “Has character, though. Good bones, as they say in the trades.”
“Are you familiar with renovations?”
“My dad regularly watches the HLTV network.”
I almost chuckle.
I use my key to unlock the front door, pushing against it when it sticks. Inside, dust motes dance in the weak sunlight streaming through grimy windows. It should be poetic, but it’s just plain sad. In fact, even when this house was in its prime, it was relatively drab.
The furniture is mostly gone—sold when Mom moved to Golden Years Village—but the house still holds echoes of my childhood.
The stepstool I used when I wasn’t yet tall enough to wash my dishes.
The scuff on the hallway wall from the time I tried to bring my bike inside because it was raining—the garage was locked and I was home alone.
Seemed like a reasonable solution. My parents were not pleased.
However, so many of my memories are from outside these walls.
I practically lived in the town library, escaping into adventures on the page.
“What are we looking for?” Fletch asks, standing in the entryway as if waiting for a formal invitation to come inside.
“I have some books in my old room. And some stuff from the desk.”
I lead him upstairs, uncomfortably aware of his presence behind me, so close, the kindling inside flames.
My bedroom is small and bare, the walls still the same gray they’ve been since I was born. I gather what I need quickly, eager to leave this time capsule of adolescent loneliness.
“What’s down there?” Fletch points to a door at the end of the hall.
“Attic access. Nothing interesting.”
“And the basement?”
I hesitate. “Just storage. Dad’s old workshop.”
“You did mention the Christmas decorations.”
“Actually, you mentioned those, but sure.” I shrug, trying to appear nonchalant but hoping he’d forgotten about that.
We descend the creaky stairs to the basement, where my father spent most of his free time. His workbench still stands against the far wall, tools organized on a pegboard.
Fletch runs his fingers over the scarred wood surface with interest. “Your dad was a carpenter?”
“An engineer, but woodworking was his hobby.” Paying attention to me, not so much.
“You can tell he took pride in his work.”
“He did everything methodically—that was his life philosophy.”
Fletch runs his hand along the edge of the bench and unbidden curiosity about his hobbies flashes through my mind. Why would I care what Fletch does in his spare time?
“When I wrote my first story in third grade, bound with tape and the back of a cereal box that I colored in for the cover, he didn’t read it, but he did build me a bookshelf.”
I’m not sure why I’m sharing this, but Fletch listens intently. “Your first bestseller?”
I give a half roll of my eyes, but chuckle this time.
“What’s in those boxes?” he asks, pointing to a stack in the corner.
I move closer to inspect them. “These would be the Christmas decorations. Mom didn’t celebrate much, but occasionally decorated for her gatherings. Believe it or not, I think these were my grandmother’s.”
“So I take it your grandma was more into the festive season?”
I shrug. “I never got to know my grandparents. I was too young to remember them before they were gone.”
I open the top box and find neatly wrapped ornaments in tissue paper. Beneath them is a wooden nativity set, each figure carefully carved and painted. I lift a shepherd from the box, surprised.
“Looks like the handiwork of a craftsman,” Fletch says, hinting that my dad may have made them.
“I’ve never seen these, but I’d say you’re probably right.”
He peers over my shoulder. “They’re remarkable. Your dad was talented.”
“He must have been working on them before he got sick.” A swell of emotion rolls through me. Would things have been different if he’d lived longer? I turn away, not wanting Fletch to see the tears stinging my eyes.
Sometimes I feel like a piece of lost luggage, wondering what could’ve been had my parents been different. After a beat, Fletch’s hand touches my shoulder lightly, warming me through in this drafty and musty basement. “We should take these and use them this year.”
I nod, eager to leave the questions that I’ll never be able to answer down here. A sudden noise from upstairs breaks the moment—a thump, followed by scratching.
“What was that?” Fletch asks, instantly alert.
“I don’t know. Maybe a squirrel got in through the attic.”
“Sounds too heavy for a squirrel.”
We climb the stairs cautiously. The scratching sound seems to be coming from the kitchen.
Fletch moves ahead of me, protective in a way that makes me feel more at ease than I would if I were here alone—or maybe even with anyone else.
The scratching comes again, echoing through the mostly empty house.
In the kitchen, we find a medium-sized dog with light brown matted fur, nosing frantically through a cabinet it’s managed to open.
The dog freezes when it sees us, then backs away, tail between its legs.
Fletch crouches down and softly says, “Hey, buddy. It’s okay. We’re not going to hurt you.”
The dog looks half-starved, ribs visible beneath its dirty coat. There’s no collar.
“Someone must have abandoned it. Left it here knowing the property is unoccupied,” I suggest.
He moves slowly toward the terrified animal, hand outstretched. “Do you have any food here?”
I shake my head. “The place has been empty for years.”
The dog must feel lonely, rejected. Like I did for most of my life. I imagine the dog healthy and thriving, getting belly scratches and treats from Fletch … and me.
“He’s so thin.” Fletch manages to get close enough for the dog to sniff his hand. After a tense moment, the dog’s tail gives a hesitant and tiny wag.
“We can’t just leave him here,” I say.
“You’re right.” Fletch looks up at me, a question in his eyes.
“We’ll have to take him.” The words come out before I can think them through. “Just until we find his owners.”
“Or until he finds his new ones,” Fletch adds with a meaningful look.
As he coaxes the dog closer, I think about the financial realities of my situation. “My mother is talking about selling this place. It’s a real fixer-upper, and neither of us can afford the maintenance.” Or a dog or much more than buy-one-get-one-free freezer meals.
Fletch looks around the kitchen, assessing. “It’s got potential. Someone with the right skills could make it beautiful again.”
“Someone not on a writer’s budget with loads of deferred college debt that’s now due,” I murmur.
My mother was willing to fund me getting a “real” degree, but refused to pay for me to study literature.
“Right. This is all a business deal.”
I bristle at first, then deflate, feeling the need to explain. “My last book didn’t sell as well as expected. The advance on the new one helped with my student loans. My agent and editor say this new book holds a lot of promise, but I have to get it written.”
The dog has finally allowed Fletch to pet him, pressing against his leg like he’s found a safe harbor.
Desperate to change the subject away from my current woes, I say, “We should call the vet. They can check for a microchip. If that’s a dead end, we can put up lost dog signs.”
I wag my finger at him. “I bet you were the kind of kid who always begged his parents to keep the stray animals he found.”
“You betcha.”
Despite myself, a glimmer of warmth sneaks in because Fletch isn’t the type of guy to neglect anyone—not even a dog—which is why part of me wants to keep him.
(The man … and the dog.) But this is just research.
The marriage, the temporarily shared life, even this moment of connection is merely material for my book. Nothing more.
But as we load the Christmas decorations and the dog into Fletch’s truck, I wonder what my father would think of this strange situation. Of Fletch. Of the unexpected path my life has taken.
I write books about women who take brave leaps of faith, but I am frozen solid when it comes to taking my own.
For the briefest moment, I allow myself to imagine the impossible—that some stories might have happy endings after all.
But then my phone rings. It’s my mother. I lock the thought away, where it belongs.