Chapter 15
My phone vibrated, and I looked down at it. I had a text message.
Gabe: Please say we’re still on for tomorrow?
My fingers moved over the keyboard as I composed several different messages before I deleted each and started over again.
I was as nervous as these teenagers.
Finally, I chastised myself. Girl, he’s just a man. One who’d been watching my text message bubble stop and start again.
Me: Still on. Unless your fame has made you too important for salmon and small talk.
I cringed. That was so corny. Bubbles jumped and a message came through. Instantly. He didn’t play the type-and-delete game
with his messages. He always knew what to say.
Gabe: ??
Gabe arrived the next night a few minutes before seven. He carried a supermarket shopping bag in one hand and his laptop in the other. “I bring vegetables. Lots of them.” He stepped in, pushing the door closed behind him. “I had a good nap, so I’m rested.”
“Did you just get in today?”
“Early this morning. I was on the red-eye from LA.”
He followed me into the kitchen, putting his laptop down first.
We washed our hands, and I reached into the drawer for two aprons I’d found and handed one to him.
“We’re wearing these?”
“Absolutely. They still look new. Someone’s got to break them in.”
He accepted one and pulled it over his head. It read: Real Men Write. I chuckled and put on mine, which said: Writers Stir
the Pot.
“Cute,” he said. “Very cute.”
“Did you even know these were here?”
“I apparently did not dig into the drawers as thoroughly as you did.”
I picked up my phone and took a picture of him.
He was a good sport, smiling for it. Then he took the phone and took mine. “Fair is fair.”
I opened his shopping bag and pulled out the vegetables: zucchini, Brussels sprouts, corn, carrots, and asparagus. He also
had some butter and seasoning in the bag. I inspected the bottle.
“My uncle makes that.”
I took off the lid and sniffed. “Aromatic.”
“It’s good stuff.”
“Well, these will go great with my salmon and rice.”
“I see you’re a fan of the air fryer.”
I said, “I have an obsession with small appliances.”
“It’s good. My vegetables can hog the oven.” He pushed the Preheat button.
I got started cleaning the scales off the back of the fish while he pulled the husks off the corn.
“I want to know all about the festival, but I know you have pics, so let’s save that for dinner.”
“You’re controlling,” he said.
I laughed. “I’m not controlling. I just don’t want to hear about it without seeing it.” I rolled my eyes. “Anyway, you’re
the one who works better while moving, so let’s talk about your story.”
“No warm-up,” he teased. “Just go into your brain and get it, Gabe.”
I put my hand on my hip and chuckled. “You are being very unserious right now.”
“I’m just saying, this is such a red flag in a writing buddy.”
Our eyes and smiles met and held for a long moment. It wasn’t just me who was noticing how easily we’d become comfortable
with each other, but I was the first to break the stare by turning my back to reach into the refrigerator for nothing. I needed
nothing.
Gabe cleared his throat. “It opens with a man who’s visiting his favorite uncle in the hospital, so first I have to figure
out when it’s happening.”
“Spring is an easy choice. It’s rainy. You can use the rain as a symbol for his grief. Like every time he visits his uncle
in the hospital, it’s raining, so the rain is pouring, his emotions are pouring out of him.”
He nodded. “I like that.”
“I mean, it could be a rainy fall or summer, but . . .”
“Not likely. Quit while you’re ahead. Spring it is.”
A beat of silence fell between us.
I looked over at him, noticing how fast he’d gotten most of the vegetables chopped. “Why are you working that knife like a chef?”
“Because I went to culinary school for a year.”
I pulled my head back. “No way.”
“I did, but then I dropped out and decided to study what I wanted, which was English and creative writing.”
“That’s brave.” I meant it.
“Are you hinting that teaching wasn’t your first love?”
I shook my head. “I wanted to study writing, but . . .” I shrugged.
Gabe squinted. “But what?”
“When you grow up with a struggling parent, you kind of think you need a stable income.”
He nodded through the words “I understand.”
Gabe tossed the vegetables in olive oil and seasoning like a sous chef before arranging them on a cookie sheet and putting
the pan in the oven.
He tugged on his apron string and said, “Can I be done with this? It’s tight under my arms.”
I laughed and untied mine. “It was fun to watch you wear it, but you’re free.”
We settled into the living room, him on the love seat and me on the sofa. We were back to talking about his story.
Before we knew it, the oven dinged, breaking up the thick cloud of anticipation that had gathered in the room.
“Those can’t be done already.”
I stood. “I’ll see what’s doin’. I need to, um, check something anyway.
” I rushed into the kitchen and let out a cleansing breath.
Gabe was a lot. A lot of male energy and a lot of male sex appeal.
The idea that he was a writer was straight out of my dreams about the kind of man I wanted to date.
A writer because he’d understand me and my work.
Or a chef because he’d understand me and my appetite.
Either one was highly desirable. I chuckled and checked the vegetables.
They definitely needed more time, so I set the timer for fifteen more minutes.
“Tea or lemonade?” I called from the kitchen, realizing I hadn’t offered him anything but longing looks.
“Tea if it’s sweet.”
I smiled. “What other kind is there?”
“The kind you might have grown up on?” I realized his voice was getting closer with each word, and then there he was, standing
in the kitchen. Dang, couldn’t I have a moment to melt in peace?
He grabbed two glasses from the cupboard and put them on the island. I poured tea into both.
Gabe took a long sip that nearly emptied the glass. The man made emptying a glass look like art.
“Let’s get to this story of yours.” I led the way back to our work because the heat we were giving off might burn the food.
We plotted until the oven dinged again. I air fried the salmon, and then we ate, talking mostly about books and more food.
He asked about my childhood in New Jersey. Without mentioning the poverty, I gave him the highlights, which included shore
towns, great food, four seasons, and proximity to New York City and the Giants—win or lose.
We transitioned the conversation back to work again. He reached across the table to my pile of papers, asking, “May I?”
“Sure. It’s my stack of character sketches. I worked on them last night. Mostly on my hero.”
He read with interest and then said, “Can I suggest something?”
I nodded, because who can’t take a suggestion from someone they like?
“Be more open to meeting the people in the story. Like you might use these character sketches, or you might not if they jam
you up.”
I nodded again and fought the she-gotistical writer in me who wanted to say, Sir, I’ve written twenty-nine books.
Gabe continued, “I know you feel pressure to meet a deadline. But putting pressure on yourself isn’t going to make the story
come together faster.”
He was parroting his aunt, which meant he was right.
“I know, but I’m still fighting like it’s my life on the line.”
“You wouldn’t be a writer if you weren’t fighting some part of the process.”
“Thanks for reminding me.”
“What are writer buddies for?” He closed his laptop and said, “Let’s do this again.” He opened his phone and tapped out a
text message. My phone pinged. It was an address.
I cocked my head.
“That’s my spot. Next it’s my time to host.”
I nodded. His address. “I get to see the roof stump.”
We chuckled together and then exchanged a moment of silence where we were just looking at each other. Again. Gabe was the
first to move, and I was glad, because I was frozen in place. I hadn’t enjoyed a man’s company like this in a long time.
He grabbed his laptop and phone, and we walked to the door. Slowly. Like we were ending a date instead of a plotting session.
Once he was on the other side of the door, he said, “This was good. Everything about it.”
I nodded. Heart pounding like a puppy. “I can hardly wait to”—I threw my fingers up in quotes—“‘meet my new people in the
story.’”
He raised his hand and swept a loose curl off my forehead. His eyes stayed on mine for longer than they needed to. He drew
back his hand. “Don’t listen to me. Your process has worked for twenty-nine books.”
Was he reading my insecure mind? “I can learn new things.”
“I’m sure you can.” He smiled again for what had to be the fiftieth time tonight. “You’ll let me know how that works out.”
“On Wednesday,” I replied.
He backed away from me until he reached the steps. He hesitated like he was going to say something but then turned and went
down. I resisted a goofy smile as I watched him drive away, but I still waved like he was my man before stepping back into
the cabin.
I walked to the bookshelf and pulled out Seasons. I ran my hand across the cover, flipped it over to examine the back, and then opened it to the dedication page.
This book is a love letter about healing that I have dedicated to my father, Lincoln Bernard Scott.
I fought turning the page and reading the first line. First lines enthralled me, but if I read it, I might keep going. The
last thing I needed in my head right now was a book that made me feel like I needed to be a better writer. I stuck it back
on the shelf, but the curiosity hovered in my spirit. I wanted to know more about him. More about his history. Why the book
was a love letter to his father. But all that would have to wait. I had my own words to write.