6. Cassie
Cassie
Working with Tyler at the literary magazine becomes a whole new kind of torture.
Not because he’s bad at it, he’s actually excellent at editing, thoughtful with feedback, respectful of writers’ voices. But because working closely with him means seeing him every week, and having extended conversations about craft and storytelling.
“You’re staring,” he says while we’re reviewing submissions.
“I’m not.” I look away quickly, not wanting to make it obvious because I was.
“You are. At my mouth, specifically.” Tyler smiles, and I shake my head.
I feel heat flood my face. “I was thinking about something.”
“About my mouth?”
“No. About… something else.” I reply quickly, but I'm not convinced with my tone.
He grins, and I want to be angry about it, but instead I just feel flustered.
“We could go get coffee after this,” he offers. “If you want. For work purposes. Magazine purposes.”
“Is that what we’re calling it?” I have to stop myself from smiling.
“What would you call it?”
I don’t answer because the answer is too honest. I’d call it a date. I’d call it Tyler Morrison asking me out, and me being stupid enough to want to say yes.
“Coffee,” I say finally. “For magazine purposes.”
The coffee shop is quiet when we get there, just a few scattered students and the humming of the espresso machines.
“So,” Tyler says once we’re sitting across from each other with drinks, “tell me about your writing. Not the opinion pieces for the paper. The real stuff. The things you’re writing in your journal that no one sees.”
“How do you know I keep a journal?” Shocked because I’ve never told anyone I have one.
“Because you’re a writer. All writers keep journals.”
“That’s a massive generalization.” I take a sip of my coffee, if only he knew what was written in there. Maybe I should tell him.
“Maybe. But it’s accurate for you.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “What are you writing about?”
“Why should I tell you?”
“Because I asked. Because I want to know you. Because…” He leans forward slightly. “Because I think you’re the most interesting person I’ve ever met, and I want to understand how your mind works.”
I should deflect. Should make a joke. Should maintain the protective wall I’ve spent two years building around myself.
Instead, I tell him the truth.
“I’m writing about trust,” I say quietly. “About what it means to trust someone who’s hurt you. About whether it’s possible to let someone in after they’ve shown you they’re capable of causing harm. I wrote about…” I stop not sure if I can tell him the other thing.
“Through silence.”
“Through silence,” I confirm. “I keep going back to sophomore year in my writing. Not directly, but it’s always there. The way it shaped how I interact with people. The way it made me suspicious of everyone, and it-” i shake my head to stop, and drink my coffee.
“You keep stopping.” I leans in closer. “What else are you writing about?” I stay quiet, I’m not sure if I’m ready. “Maybe talking out loud might help you.”
I look at him, and wonder if it would, or would it make him think more about what he did.
“I’ve never said this out loud, I’ve never told anyone because I was being strong, showing everyone what you did wasn’t affecting me, but it was.
I wrote about how I wish I wasn’t alive, and maybe taking my…
I thought it would be better.” I break eye contact with him, embarrassed for two reasons.
One I thought like that and two I told him. Something I’ve never said ever.
“Cassie-”
“No, you don't get to apologise. You don’t get to make this about you.” I cut him off, because maybe now he will feel something about how it was for me.
Tyler gives me a small nod, bites his lower lip, shaking his head, and now he's not looking at me, it’s almost as if he lost himself into a world of his own.
“Cassie, I don’t know what to say to you, but sorry. I was wrong, so fucking wrong.” Tyler can’t even look at me, and for the first time I can really see it, hurt for what he did to me.