by Cassia Leo
“I’m sorry. I must be bothering you. You’re probably trying to get some work done or write the next great American novel. I’ll let you get back to it.”
“Oh, you’re not bothering me. I’m sorry if I gave you that impression. I’m just new here. Haven’t really gotten used to the local customs yet.”
Her eyebrows shoot up with interest. “Oh, really? Where are you from?”
“Portland. I moved here a few weeks ago with a friend.”
“That’s wonderful. I moved here from Salem about thirteen years ago. My ex-husband was a software engineer. We divorced three years ago, but I decided to stay here. I just love the California weather. How are you liking it so far?”
I smile as my mind digs through the past three weeks of experiences to find the positive things, like the fact that Skippy has a new playmate who has quickly become his new best friend. Or how I love being able to ride my bike in the winter knowing that nine times out of ten I won’t need a raincoat. Or how grateful I am to Liam for giving me the opportunity to move on from my painful past.
“I love it,” I reply. “I do have some friends I miss, but I’m certain that will fade a bit with time.”
She flashes me a knowing smile. “Ah, I know that feeling. I was homesick for Salem for about four years. Looking back, I think I should have known then that—Excuse me. I’m sure you don’t want to hear my boring ex-husband stories.” She glances at my laptop then looks me in the eye. “Are you a writer?”
One of her eyebrows is cocked as she awaits my answer and suddenly I feel extremely nervous. It’s a simple question, which I have absolutely no idea how to answer. Can I call myself a writer if I’ve never actually published anything?
I shrug as I stare at the laptop. “Uh… I don’t know if I’d say that. I mean, yes, I’m writing something, but it’s still in the beginning stages. It’s very rough. I’ve never actually published anything.”
Her lips curl into a smile, but I can’t tell if she’s feeling smug or if she’s genuinely impressed. “Sweetheart, if you write, you’re a writer. Doesn’t matter if anyone but you ever lays eyes on it.”
I bite my lip, trying to hold back a cheesy grin. “I guess so. Are you a writer?”
She shrugs. “I guess you could say that, though my agent prefers to call me a word trafficker, whatever that means.”
Her words fill me with panic. This is a real writer. No, not just a writer, an author. She has an agent. And I almost dismissed her when she started talking to me. She probably thinks I’m such an amateur.
“That’s so cool. I’ve never met a real writer. Um… do you mind if I ask what you write?”
She takes a long sip from her mocha, then she rises from her chair and grabs the back of the empty seat at my table. “Do you mind?” She sits down as I’m still shaking my head. “I write thrillers.” She says this very seriously. “In my opinion, if it doesn’t send a chill running down the reader’s spine, it’s not worth writing. What are you working on?”
I glance at my laptop and wonder if anything I’ve written in my book would send a chill down Hannah’s spine. Maybe the lies Houston has told. Or the spine-tingling sex scenes.
“It’s a memoir, of sorts.”
“A memoir? How old are you? You look young enough to be my legitimate offspring.”
I chuckle. “I’m twenty-four. I guess it’s pretty presumptuous of me to assume anyone would want to read my story.”
She shakes her head in dismay and her black hair sparkles in the morning sunlight shining through the café storefront. “Sweetheart, lesson number one: Never let anyone question the legitimacy of your work. It’s art. It’s subjective. Whether or not it’s salable has no bearing on whether or not it’s necessary.”
“Well, I suppose it’s more of a romance, though I’m not sure I can call it that if the events are true and it doesn’t have a happy ending.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop myself. “I didn’t mean that. I mean, it’s not like I’m unhappy. It’s just that—”
She holds up her hand to stop my jabbering. “You don’t have to explain to me.” She flashes me a warm smile and I exhale slowly. “So I take it you majored in creative writing or something similar?”
I nod. “Yeah, though college feels like a lifetime ago.”
She chuckles at this. “Well, how would you like to brush up on the boring stuff you learned in all those godawful writing workshops?”
“How?” I ask, resting an elbow on my laptop as I lean forward.
“Well, I know you mentioned college feels like a lifetime ago, but I’m actually looking for a college-aged beta reader right now. It’s a thriller and the stalking victim is a college student. It’d be nice to get a younger beta reader on board for this one. All my current betas are pretty crotchety, like me. Our memories of college life are probably a bit different than yours.”
My eyes widen. “I’m sorry. Was that a question?”
She chuckles. “I suppose I should know how to phrase a question at this stage in the game.” She clears her throat. “Would you like to beta read for me? It may help you with that memoir.”
My phone rings and I jump slightly. “Sorry,” I mutter as I slip the phone out of my pocket and glance at the screen.
It’s Liam calling me from his cell phone, which means he’s not at work. He always calls me from his desk phone when he’s in his office.
“Excuse me. I’ll just be a minute.” I press the green button to answer. “Liam?”
“Hey, babe. I’m on my way home for lunch. Do you want me to pick you up a sandwich or something?”
A chill passes through me as I’m filled with an emotion I don’t recognize. I can’t decide if it’s guilt or fear for not being home.
“I’m not home,” I reply. “I’m at the café. I won’t be home for a while. Go ahead and get whatever you want for yourself.”
He’s silent for a moment. “You’re at the café again?”
My first instinct is to explain to him how I’m so close to finishing the book, but I don’t want to bring up the subject of the book knowing that I won’t be able to show him the finished product. And I’m not sure what he meant by adding the inflection on again. I don’t want to read into it, but I almost feel as if he’s trying to make me feel guilty for not being home and at his beck and call.
“Yeah, I’m just having a coffee then I’m going for a bike ride.” It’s not a lie if I go for a ride after I leave the café.
Every second of silence makes the nervous feeling in my belly intensify. I glance at Hannah to see if she can sense the tension, but she’s not even looking at me. She’s waving and smiling at an older gentleman outside the café window as he walks by with his Yorkie on a leash. The man waves back at her and continues on his way.
“So you’ll be home when I get there after work?” Liam asks.
I nod, though he can’t see me. “Yes, definitely. I’ll be home in an hour or two, tops.”
“If you can get home in an hour, I’ll still be there.”
My stomach drops as I realize he’s not going to let it go. “I actually just started chatting with a very cool author here at the café. I might be a bit longer.”
“An author? What’s his name?”
“Her name is Hannah.”
“Ah, I see,” he replies, and I hear the smile in his voice. “All right, pretty lady. You have your writers’ meeting and I’ll see you later.”
“See you later.” I tuck my phone back into my pocket and Hannah flashes me a tight-lipped smile. “Sorry, you were going to ask me something.”
“Actually, I already asked you. Would you like to beta read for me? Assuming your boyfriend would be okay with it.”
The sour contents of my stomach bubble up into my throat as I realize she definitely sensed the tension in my phone call with Liam. She probably thinks I’m a weak girl who followed a boy to California because she has no aspirations of her own. She doesn’t know that Liam basically rescued m
e from a life spent fending off Houston’s lies.
“I’d love to beta read for you, but I’ve never actually done that before.”
“If you’ve done a peer review in any of your creative writing classes then you’re all set. And if you do a good job, maybe I can give you some feedback on your memoir. Have you ever edited a piece of fiction?”
“Yes! I was a junior fiction editor for the university’s literary magazine. Does that count?”
She smiles broadly. “That’s more qualifications than I could have hoped for.” She extends her hand to me again. “You’re hired.”
* * *
I wake to find Liam’s side of the bed empty. Stretching my limbs, I reach across and the sheets are still warm. He hasn’t been up very long. I consider getting up and going to greet him right away, but my limbs don’t seem to agree with this plan. I feel listless and weighed down, as if I could sink into the mattress and all the way through the floor, disappearing somewhere deep inside the earth.
It’s difficult not to think of Hallie on a day like today. She spent her last Christmas Eve with me, Houston, and her mom, doing what she did best, making us laugh. I’ve gone over and over the events of that day in my head, racking my brain for signs that Houston was developing feelings for me or that Hallie was suffering the woes of unrequited love. But that Christmas Eve came almost a year before Hallie’s death. She hadn’t even begun her relationship with my father yet. And I think I would have been too flustered around Houston to notice if he were interested in me.
Resisting the urge to pull the covers over my head, I slide out of bed, enter the bathroom, and lock the door behind me. Then I turn the water on in the shower and lower the lid on the toilet so I can sit down and think. As I stare at the phone in my hand, my mind drifts to Houston and our first Christmas as a couple, six years ago.
Houston’s aunt had bought his mother, Ava, a plane ticket to visit their family in Pittsburgh. She didn’t want Ava spending the holiday alone so soon after Hallie’s death. When I asked him why he didn’t go to Pittsburgh with his mom, Houston replied simply, “Because she said I didn’t have to.”
At first, I thought this was him being a typical insensitive male. But when I woke up on Christmas Eve to the smell of Kung Pao chicken, I began to suspect he had other motives.
“What’s this?” I asked, rubbing away the cobwebs of sleep from my eyes.
Houston slid the breakfast tray laden with Chinese food containers to the side so he could sit on the bed. “Christmas dinner.”
“Dinner? What time is it?” I glanced at the bedside table, but my phone was gone.
“Almost noon. I let you sleep in. You looked pretty zombie-esque last night.” He sat on the bed and slid the tray between us. “Sit up so we can eat. I slaved away all morning on this meal.”
I rolled my eyes as I sat up and crossed my legs. “It was that hard to drive to the restaurant?”
“It was raining. I had to turn on my wipers.”
“Oh, you poor thing.”
He smiled as he used his chopsticks to pick up a piece of chicken and pop it in my mouth. “I did it for you.”
His words gave me pause. I chewed my food slowly and swallowed.
“You stayed here for me.”
The charming smile he wore while feeding me disappeared in an instant. I’d never seen him look more uncomfortable.
“It’s no big deal. I didn’t really feel like traveling,” he explained. “Have you seen the weather they’re having over there in the Northeast? All kinds of flights getting delayed. People getting stranded. It’s…” He seemed anxious, his chest heaving as his lungs attempted to keep up with his racing heart. “It’s stupid, I know… But I wanted to be with you.”
I bit my lip to stanch the tears. “It’s not stupid. I’ve never heard anything more not-stupid in my life.”
He chuckled. “Me try to be not-stupid.”
“You are much not-stupid.”
He shook his head as he dropped his chopsticks onto the tray and looked me in the eye. “I really like living with you, Rory. A lot.”
I swallowed hard as I held his gaze. “I like living with you, too.”
“I’m serious. I’ve… never felt like this about anyone. You’re not just a fuck buddy or a roommate or my sister’s friend. You’re my friend.” He pushed the tray to the foot of the bed so there was nothing between us, then he reached forward, gently brushing the backs of his fingers over my jawline. “You’re all mine. Say it.”
His fingertips drifted lightly over my neckline as his lips inched closer to mine.
“I’m all yours,” I murmured.
He brushed his lips over my mouth. “Then I guess I got everything I wanted for Christmas.” He laid a soft kiss on the corner of my lips. “Now we have to give you what you want.”
The memory dissolves when Liam knocks on the bathroom door. “You okay in there?” he calls to me.
My phone screen is completely fogged up. How long have I been sitting in here?
“I’m fine!” I shout back at Liam. “Just taking a shower. I’ll be right out.”
I take a five-minute shower and hastily brush the tangles out of my hair before I head out into the kitchen to see what Liam’s doing. I find him standing by the stove with his hand clutched around a wooden spoon as he stirs something in a large pot.
“What are you doing?” I say as I approach.
He holds up his hand to stop me. “Don’t come any closer. This is a surprise.”
I chuckle. “What are you cooking? Surprise Cream of Wheat?”
“Oh, I’m cooking up a creamy surprise, all right.”
“Ew.”
He laughs and shoos me out of the kitchen. “Go wait out there. Actually, wait. I need some bananas. Can you take my truck and go to the store and get bananas? They close early today so you’ll need to go right now.”
“Do we really need bananas?”
“Yes! Everyone knows you can’t have a creamy surprise without bananas.”
I grab his keys and my purse off the hooks on the wall next to the door that leads into the garage. “Okay, I’ll be back soon. I’ll grab some moist towelettes while I’m there.”
“Good idea.”
The grocery store is packed with people picking up rolls of tape and wrapping paper and last-minute items for their Christmas dinners. I grab a bunch of bananas and a box of condoms, just to mess with the woman working the cash register. But she pretends not to notice, or she’s just too cranky about working on a holiday to care about my joke.
By the time I pull Liam’s truck into the garage, I’m a little annoyed. I managed not to run anyone over, but only just barely. My idea of a relaxing holiday does not entail battling hordes of Northern California drivers who seem to panic at the first sign of a light drizzle. I can’t even imagine how bad this phenomenon must get in Southern California.
The sound of my phone ringing as I reach for the door handle startles me. Retrieving the phone from my purse, I’m not surprised to see it’s my mom calling.
I sigh heavily, then I answer. “Hey, Mom. Merry Christmas.”
“It’s not Christmas yet,” she replies, never missing an opportunity to correct me. “Rory, how are you doing?”
This question catches me off guard. She’s been so busy trying to explain away her misdeeds for the past few months, I can’t remember the last time she asked me how I was feeling. And suddenly, I’m not feeling so well.
I swallow the lump in my throat and reply, “I’m fine. How are you?”
“You don’t sound fine. You sound upset.”
“Mom, if you called to berate me, then you picked the wrong time. I’m not in the mood.”
“Rory, I called for no such thing. I just wanted to know how you’re doing over there.” Her voice softens and I think I hear a stitch of sadness woven through it. “You’re so far away. I just wish I was there so I could see you and give you a big hug. Make sure you’re truly okay.”
; I think of yesterday’s conversation with Hannah and how Liam kind of embarrassed me by questioning why I was at the café instead of home. Hannah’s comment about my boyfriend possibly not being okay with my beta reading her novel was a clear indication that she could sense the power struggle going on between Liam and me.
I’ve always thought of myself as a strong person. Without siblings to guide me, I learned to be independent at a young age. By all accounts, following Liam to California so I could focus on finishing my book was very out of character for me. But I guess the romantic in me hoped that the start of my relationship with Liam would be just as abrupt and passionate as the way it was when Houston and I moved in together. Now I see I’ve been just as stupid as my mother told me I was to cling to the idea that every love has to be as passionate and volatile as the love I shared with Houston.
“Mom, I’m more than okay. I’m happy. I promise. I… I have to go. I have to help Liam in the kitchen. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Oh, okay. Say hi to Liam for me. I love you, sweetheart. Merry Christmas.”
“Love you too,” I say with a smile as I realize she’s ending our conversation with the same faux pas she just corrected earlier. Her way of sending me the hug she can’t give me from six hundred miles away.
I enter the kitchen through the door adjoining the garage and Liam is nowhere in sight. Hanging up his keys and my purse, I head into the living room and drop the grocery bag I’m holding.
Liam is dressed up as Santa Claus and Sparky and Skippy are dressed up as reindeer. And he’s holding a selfie stick, taking pictures of the three of them while they stand in front of a tiny Christmas tree that’s been propped up on the coffee table. The dogs sit obediently at his feet while Liam snaps the shot, until I begin to cackle. Skippy whines as he gallops toward me and I practically fall over with laughter as I crouch down to greet him.
“What’s going on here?” The words barely make it out of my mouth.
Sparky comes over to assist Skippy in smothering me with kisses. Liam joins them with his selfie stick, offering his free hand to help me up.
“Ho, ho, ho. Are you ready for Santa’s surprise?”