Chapter 23 #2
I replied that it was nice to meet him too, and I thanked him for the ride.
“Gabe has made writing sound like such a lonely endeavor. Seems he needed to find the right writing partner to make it fun
again.”
“It was never fun,” Gabe said. “Seasons wasn’t a fun book.”
“Healing, though,” Noah added.
Gabe agreed, and they pounded again.
Instead of returning his hand to his armrest, Gabe took my hand and squeezed it. I saw vulnerability in his eyes. My own heart
fluttered. He’d talked about me to his friend. He was claiming me in front of his friend.
Noah’s voice interrupted our moment. “You write love stories. Important work in today’s culture.” Before I could respond,
he added, “I read an article that said romance is the biggest-selling genre in the world. Nothing says important like $1.5
billion in sales.”
I nodded. “I’ve enjoyed having loyal readers.”
“People need hope,” Gabe added. “No doubt about that.”
“And love,” Noah said.
The pilot interrupted our conversation with a few announcements. Shortly after, we were back on the ground.
We exited the plane, leaving Noah behind to run his empire.
Thirty minutes later, our taxi dropped us off at the Hilton, and twenty minutes after that, we were allowed to check into
our adjoining rooms early.
My room was a mix of old-world charm and modern luxury. Exposed brick walls, tall windows framed by velvet drapes, and a king-sized
bed dressed in crisp white linens were exactly as I expected from every book I’d read and movie I’d watched about the city.
I stripped out of my airplane clothes and took a nap. I woke up a few hours later to text messages from Beck and Trish.
I texted Beck: I’m in my room. I took a picture, one of our rules about traveling, and sent it to her. She sent back a heart emoji. Then I texted Trish.
Me: Private jets are everything I’ve written about.
Trish: I know. I’ve been on one.
Me: Show-off.
My phone rang with a call from Trish.
“I’m tired of texting. My thumb is hurting.”
Writer problems. Sore wrist, thumbs, carpal tunnel. So many physical issues. “You need to get the cortisone shot.”
“I’m waiting until I’m closer to my deadline. Just in case it wears off fast. So what are you and Gabe doing today?”
“He’s teaching a pre-conference class. We’ll have dinner.”
“Is it your job to decide where?” Trish asked.
“Maybe. Drago’s Seafood is in the lobby of the hotel.”
Trish had been to New Orleans several times. “I’ve never eaten there, but its reputation is top tier. Try it.”
I agreed. Although I wasn’t sure when I’d be hungry again. I’d had my fill on the plane. “I’m going to shower and get dressed.”
“Yes, because he’ll probably want to go out as soon as he’s done.”
“He’s here to work, not entertain me.”
“Girl, please. You’re as close to a girlfriend as he’s probably had in years.” The kiss entered my mind, and then the way
he took my hand in front of Noah on the plane.
“Let’s stop talking about the man. We must have something else we can talk about.”
“Not as interesting,” Trish cooed. “Revising this novel is the bane of my existence, my cucumber plants have pickleworms,
and I think Powder has a UTI,” she said, referring to her poodle. “He has to go out every two hours.”
“You should be writing drama.”
“Tragedies, really.” She laughed. “Go shower. Text me later. I want a pic or something. I’m living through you, friend.”
I was rewarded with the most delicious showerhead I’d been under in my life. I took a picture of it. I had no idea what it cost, but Beck and I had to get one at the house. I unpacked and decided on jeans and a T-shirt that read: “I am a writer. Anything you say or do may be used in a story.”
My phone pinged, and I read the text from Gabe: I’m going to knock on the door.
The idea that we had adjoining doors was cool and not so cool at the same time, because he wanted to talk and I was in a towel
with a plain face.
Me: Just out of the shower.
Gabe: Wanted to discuss our plans for tonight.
Me: Give me a few.
Gabe: ??
I dressed, put on makeup, and knocked on our adjoining door.
“Enter, madam!” Gabe called from the other side.
He inspected me, even tilting his head. “I’m rubbing off on you.”
I looked down at my jeans and tee. “More than you know.”
He laughed. “I’m hungry.”
I put one hand on my hip and the other on my belly. “I thought I’d never be again, but I can eat.”
“I have a networking mixer at eight. You’re welcome to come with.”
I nodded. “Dragos then. It’s downstairs.”
“I’m going to shower. Someone who loves the heat thought it was a good idea for us to meet on a balcony. I’ve sweated off
my deodorant.”
“You do have a glow,” I said, smiling.
He smiled back and pulled his shirt over his head like that was no little thing. I looked away, noting I was standing in his room, looking at his very nice chest that he had no business showing me like that.
“I’m going to go downstairs. I’ll get us a table.”
He nodded, and I closed the door between our rooms. Amused, I whispered, “I should have taken a picture of that for Trish.”
We ate and then joined the other writers on the program in one of the conference meeting rooms. There was an open bar and
more food. Gabe introduced me around. I listened in on some of his conversations and then joined a few interesting ones on
my own, mostly with other authors of women’s fiction. There was a lot of talk about the changes in romance and who was getting
what deals and what readers were looking for. I felt like I was hearing Sally talking to Dana. The changes in the business
were real, and that was disconcerting. So disconcerting, I wanted to leave.
I reached Gabe, yawned before I could stop myself, and said, “I’m turning in early. I want to be fresh tomorrow.”
“I’ll see you for breakfast,” he said, looking disappointed. Apparently he’d wanted us to hang out, but I couldn’t. My mood
had shifted, and I didn’t want him to see this side of me.
“Get a good rest,” he said.
I left, but I did not go to bed. I opened my laptop, read the revisions I’d made to the chapters, and clicked Delete. I sighed.
This would never do. I needed this conference. I had to find something here that would help invigorate me. I walked to the
window and looked out at the city.
The view was a spill of honey-gold light over the river.
The city glittered like it didn’t know how exhausted people like me could be inside its hotels.
The paddlewheel boats were docked for the night, their red wheels stilled, and traffic moved in slow ribbons across the bridge.
New Orleans pulsed, even in stillness—music floated up from the street, and so did laughter from somewhere.
And I stood behind glass with a blinking cursor and a story I couldn’t love anymore.
Maybe the problem wasn’t the book. Maybe it was me trying to write the same thing when something inside me had already changed.
I let the laptop go dark, turned off the lamp, and slid into bed with the city lights flickering against the ceiling. Tomorrow
had to bring something new. I wasn’t sure what, but I knew I couldn’t keep pretending the old way was working.