Chapter Five #3
“It’s not like you have no experience with romance,” Louisa says.
“What about that guy you were sleeping with in Chicago?” Haley asks.
“Or your college boyfriend?” Eleanor asks.
Another noise that should sound like a laugh but doesn’t slips out of me.
“You all are seriously suggesting I write a romance novel based on my experience with two relationships, one with a serial cheater who unceremoniously dumped me as soon as I left for grad school, and the other with a guy I occasionally had sex with but never actually dated?”
My siblings exchange looks again. This time they’re laced with pity. I despise the pity, even if it’s well meant. No one pities the happy and successful. The subtext is clear.
“Start by seeing if you can find the outlines,” Eleanor suggests, always the voice of reason. “In the meantime, read the series. Get to know the characters. See how you feel after.”
“And don’t forget, you have fantastic inspiration right there in the house with you.” Louisa bounces her brows, her eyes alight and her tone suggestive.
“Oh my god, yes!” Haley grabs Louisa’s wrist. “I still want photos with a sword.”
“Think he’d wear a wig?” Louisa asks. “And not much else?”
“He could be shipwrecked,” Haley says, her excitement growing.
“Lost his clothes at sea,” Louisa adds, warming to the theme.
“So tragic.” Haley presses her hands to her heart. “And so naked.”
I can’t restrain an eye roll. “You guys are the worst. I doubt he models anymore. And even if he did, I can’t imagine he’d want to do a nude shot for your personal enjoyment.”
“He could have a strategically placed scrap of sailcloth,” Louisa suggests.
“He could also despise being objectified by virtual strangers,” I say.
Louisa and Haley burst into giggles, thoroughly entertained by my indignation, as usual. Eleanor manages a lightly sympathetic shrug, as if to say she understands my point, but she’s on their side. I look to Riley, hoping he’ll support my argument, but he shrugs, too.
“He modeled for clinch covers,” he says. “Pretty sure he expects some objectification.”
I concede the point with a sigh before polishing off my lemonade.
I’d die for one of the mojitos Riley’s drinking, but after being ribbed for my “sloppiness,” I don’t dare partake, not today, when I’m emotionally frayed from hours of defending my singledom and delicately skirting questions about what I do for a living. Better to keep a level head.
Our conversation comes to an abrupt halt when our mother finds us on the porch and scolds us for leaving her to manage the party on her own, even though we all know she didn’t have to manage anything she didn’t want to.
She shepherds us inside so Louisa and her fiancé, Reuben, can open their gifts.
I went with the dish towel. It was cute and simple, even if it’s mildly embarrassing amid personalized crystal flutes, shiny new kitchen gadgets, and designer linens.
I make it through another hour of engagement-party social overload.
Then I hide in an upstairs bedroom, where I google info on my grandmother’s series plans.
While several sites spoil book thirty-four’s cliff-hanger—Zane Scarlett leaping off a high bluff to save Euphoria Belladonna after the villainous, cackling Balbo Blackheart tied her up and pushed her into the ocean as a means of coercing Scarlett to reveal the whereabouts of the Island of Diamonds and Desire—everything beyond that is pure speculation. And hope. Lots and lots of hope.
I’ve never considered writing fiction, let alone melodramatic romances about a surly immortal pirate and a haughty heiress gone rogue.
I’ve mostly ranted about the lack of realism and relatability.
I’m also aware that I have no experience or education in crafting stories purely from my imagination, and that doing so would be far more challenging than my siblings implied.
Doing so well enough to get paid for my efforts seems nearly impossible, but after immersing myself in my grandmother’s fandom, and in the hope that someone somewhere would resurrect her series and give her heroes the further adventures and ending they deserve, I can’t honestly say I’m not interested.
Maybe even excited. She loved these characters.
Their fictional lives hang in the balance.
Only by writing them out of their current predicament can they truly be saved.
At least for now, it’s only a dream, and a complicated one, even if all the pieces fall into place.
The outlines. The permission from the estate.
The will, the skill, the follow-through.
But didn’t I tell myself last month that I wanted something to make me feel alive?
Something with more agency and inspiration than my academic position provided?
Something unrelated to a work environment in which I was constantly told to stop complaining and be grateful for what I had while watching my male colleagues demand more and get it? Every. Single. Time.
What if . . . I think. What if This is that something?