It wasn’t difficult to notice that Erato hadn’t actually addressed the most important part of her proposal. “And when I produce at least three thousand words today, you’ll let me use my cell phone to message Olive?” She hesitated, unsure whether to push her luck. Oh, hell. She’d promised Olive a dinner date, and she couldn’t start an honest, healthy relationship by breaking her word. “All I want is one hour alone with her, one meal together. You could even wait for me in the car.”
Erato arched an eyebrow and folded her arms over her generous breasts. “Oh, could I?”
Kate cringed. “I just meant…you know, to make sure I come straight home afterward.”
Shaking her head, Erato regarded her without speaking for what felt like a long time. Kate bit her lip in an effort to stop the endless stream of bargaining and pleading that threatened to pour forth, anything to fill the silence and convince Erato not to jeopardize the trust and faith she had in their partnership. Finally, Erato sighed. “Let’s revisit this discussion tonight, after you’ve written those thirty-five hundred words.”
It wasn’t perfect, but that was the best she was likely to get. Although she’d have preferred to text Olive before noon, she didn’t think it would be a deal-breaker to wait until bedtime. Kate nodded vigorously. “All right. That’s fair enough, as long as you promise you’ll actually revisit and not just reiterate.”
“I’ll agree to that.” Erato stuck out her hand and grinned when they shook on it. “Do you want to start writing now, or would you prefer to begin the day with a bubble bath and a cannabis cigarette?”
Trying not to smirk at Erato’s formal word choice, Kate forced away the instinct to immediately dive into work and considered her options. She had a long day of writing ahead of her, but it was still early. Washing up was her next step no matter what, because frankly, she reeked of sex. A bath would take longer than a shower, but the joint would help calm her frustration and hopefully ease her into a creative space where she might actually be able to meet her word count. She would never admit it to Erato, but few things interfered with her ability to work like emotional upset. Today she simply had to produce good work despite the uncertainty of her romantic life and the inner turmoil that triggered. If she didn’t, it would be all the proof Erato needed that Olive wasn’t good for her creativity.
“Will you run my bath?” Kate managed a pleasant smile she didn’t really feel. Staying calm about their disagreement while having a prolific writing session wouldn’t be easy. Hopefully the decision to indulge in a little relaxation first would help.
“Of course.” Erato winked as she passed her on the way to the bathroom. “I’ll even roll your joint.”
Chapter Seventeen
By the time Kate sat down at her desk an hour later, dressed in a tank top and panties, hair still wet from the bath, she was sufficiently calm enough to turn her thoughts away from Olive—who was no doubt living her life and not yet worried about a lack of communication, anyway—and back toward Rose, Molly, and their increasingly complicated romance. When she’d left them the day before, Molly had tried and failed to end their sexual relationship due to her misgivings about keeping secrets from Rose’s mother. After their office-desk sex, Rose tells Molly they could just be open about being together. If her mother has a problem with it, as she always has in the past when Rose has dated women, then that’s her loss. But Molly is insistent: she has been Rose’s mother’s caretaker for far too long and has come to mean far too much to a sick old lady to take careless risks with her emotional state. Rose’s mother is on the decline. Molly has no idea how much longer she’ll even be lucid, since for the past month she’s been having bad days rather than simply bad moments. The thought of ruining whatever time she and Rose have left for reconciliation is unacceptable. Even if Rose didn’t resent her in the future, Molly is certain she would never forgive herself. She suggests to Rose that perhaps they can be together later, one day, but Rose points out that they have no idea how long her mother has left, and life is short and unpredictable.
After reading through her chapter-in-progress, Kate put her fingers on her keyboard and booted up her mental movie projector. The scene she’d left off on was a sweet one between Rose and her still-unsuspecting mother, who is thanking her for the more frequent visits to the assisted-living facility. After Molly’s speech in her office, Rose has decided that the best way to convince Molly to be open about their relationship is to try to patch things up with her mother. Though she’s a little ashamed about the ulterior motive for her visits, she also recognizes that Molly has opened a real opportunity to reconnect with a woman whose approval she still craves, albeit grudgingly.
With her brain loosened by the morning wake-and-bake session, Kate had no trouble seeing the direction the story needed to take. First, she would build the bond between Rose and her mother. They would stay away from talk of her dating life and sexuality, as their initial scene together in the book had nearly veered into conflict when Rose’s mother asked who she was dating. Now was the time to show the positive aspects of their parent-child relationship: Rose’s mother would share a memory from her childhood, then Rose would, until eventually they ended up laughing together until they were in tears. The visit would end on a positive note, with a promise from Rose to return in a few days so they could spend more time together. The next visit, of course, wouldn’t go as well. The dementia would be acting up. Her mother’s mood would be unstable, to the point where she would make a derogatory comment about Rose’s sexuality in front of Molly.
Kate grinned, already excited to tackle that scene. Ah, conflict. Honestly, she often found it easier to write angst than sex. That was a good thing, too. As she thought ahead, she realized she’d just entered the high-conflict portion of her story. Save for an interrupted romantic interlude a few chapters down the line, which promised to be a drama-filled treat to write, she wouldn’t write another fully realized, intimate love scene between her main characters until the climax of the book.
She snorted. Climax. Cracked her up every time.
Once she’d established a tentative mother-daughter bond, then upset Rose by demonstrating anew just how sick her mother is—and how badly her mother’s words still cut, dementia-fueled or not—she would have ample opportunity to bring Rose and Molly even closer together. Molly would have a reason to comfort Rose, and Rose would fully appreciate how tenuous her remaining time with her mother really was. That would perfectly position her to set off the bomb that would usher in the final act of the story: after a pleasant visit that includes an apology from her now-lucid mother, who mentions that her trusted caretaker Molly doesn’t share her discomfort with bisexuality and has urged her to work toward acceptance, Rose goes to look for Molly and finds her cleaning the room of a resident who has passed away. Molly is emotional, and even more so once Rose thanks her for being the first person to talk some sense into her mother regarding her sexuality. Judgment clouded by grief, Molly embraces Rose and kisses her. Despite the risk of being caught, things quickly become heated. And then, Kate grinned evilly, she would cue the homophobic mother, stage left.
Opening her outline, Kate quickly jotted down notes to help her remember how the rest of the story would unfold. The horrified reaction of Rose’s mother would be fairly delicious to portray. She would accuse her daughter of taking advantage of poor Molly, insinuating that Rose had essentially assaulted her. There would be name-calling. And then—yes, Molly coming to Rose’s defense, which would only heighten the tension.
Clapping in anticipation, Kate quickly navigated back to her chapter-in-progress. Outlining was great, but Erato wouldn’t count those words toward her daily goal. Luckily, she was pleased with where her story was going and excited to write one or two upcoming scenes in particular. Given the natural urgency she felt about earning the right to text Olive, she saw no reason she shouldn’t have a banner day.
Two hours later, her optimism had faded. She’d managed only four hundred words. At that rate
, she’d have to write for over fifteen more hours just to meet her goal, and she’d honestly hoped to exceed it. Things had started off well enough. Diving back into the scene between Rose and her mother, she’d lightly edited the previous two hundred words before forging ahead into new territory. At first the dialogue had practically written itself, as though she were merely transcribing a conversation overheard across the room. But as soon as she attempted to describe the complex emotions Rose was experiencing, specifically her gratitude for the opportunity to rediscover her mother and her regrets about their complicated history, Kate’s mind had started to wander. Writing about the rebirth of a parent-child relationship and the fragility of life naturally made her think about Olive. She’d indulged the thoughts for a while, even convincing herself that wondering about Olive’s childhood and whether her father would approve of their relationship—and her writing—would help her flesh out the interplay between Rose and her mother. But after the second time she caught herself staring sightlessly at her laptop, hands in her lap and her characters forgotten, she had to admit the obvious. She was distracted.
Worrying about whether Olive would accept a forty-five-minute phone conversation in lieu of dinner wouldn’t increase her word count. She knew that. Yet her brain stubbornly refused to release its obsession with her sweet, brave new lover, which made it nearly impossible to inhabit the head of Rose, who was supposed to be in love with pale, Irish Molly. Every word she typed took deliberate effort, and more than once, she got stuck on a single sentence for so long she deleted the entire paragraph in frustration and had to start over. As the minutes ticked by and her word count failed to keep pace, Kate’s frustration rose.
Had Erato permitted her to send one simple text message, this wouldn’t be happening. Period. But even as she told herself that, she knew it was a lie. Even if she’d been able to confirm their dinner plans, she would still be thinking of Olive, wouldn’t she? How could she not? Right now Olive was everywhere she looked. She was in everything Kate wrote. When she reached for Rose’s feelings toward Molly, what she came up with was the elation she felt when she was with Olive. Though she’d rather die than admit it out loud, Erato was right. Olive had infected her, and the idea that one more hit of her new drug—or a text message, or dinner—would somehow hold her over or even sate her desire for the next month was downright ludicrous. The suggestion that Olive wasn’t a distraction was so stupid that she had to give Erato credit for not laughing in her face.
The realization didn’t change anything. She had promised Olive dinner, and she intended to keep her promise. As Erato had noted, the damage to her focus was already done. Even if Erato had been right about so many other things, Kate refused to believe it was better for her art to snub Olive and cause them both pain in the process. Dishonorable behavior was anathema to who she was, and she couldn’t imagine anything more rotten than simply vanishing from Olive’s life after sharing so much passion and connection. No creativity would flow from the wreckage of her heart if she hurt a woman who’d suffered far too much pain already.
Ultimately, it was her concern for Olive’s happiness that enabled her to settle into a steady rhythm that, while hardly awe-inspiring, improved on the morning’s word count. By noon, she’d surpassed one thousand words. Erato brought her a sandwich, which she nibbled on between bursts of typing. At a quarter past three o’clock, after she’d reached the two-thousand-word mark, she got up and walked around the apartment to stretch her legs. The idea of searching for her cell phone flitted across her mind, but she abandoned the notion as soon as it became clear that Erato wouldn’t let her out of her sight. Aware that her muse was trailing her from room to room, Kate went out the back door and stepped into the sunshine, basking in its heat.
The screen door opened and closed behind her. “Would you like to take a walk?”
Kate turned to squint at Erato, then brought her hand up to shade her eyes. “No, that’s all right. I need to get back to work in a minute.”
“How’s it going?”
Bristling slightly, Kate said, “Fine.”
“Making progress?”
She was, albeit more slowly than in recent days. While she really didn’t want to discuss her focus and motivation—or lack thereof—attempting to avoid this conversation would no doubt prove more detrimental to her end goal of seeing Olive than simply engaging in it. “I am. I’ve entered a fairly complicated part of the story, as far as the emotions and events I have to portray, so it’s a bit of a slog, but I’m working my way through it.”
Erato graced her with a warm smile. “Great.” Her blue eyes sparkled as she gazed up at the similarly hued sky and inhaled with gusto, a move that naturally drew Kate’s attention to her breasts. “Can I do anything to help? More food? Another joint? A little sexual relief?”
Kate felt bad about shaking her head. She couldn’t imagine having sex with Erato right now. Even though Olive had given her permission, it didn’t feel right—and not just because the woman was withholding her cell phone and threatening to sabotage her love life. Honestly, she was more than a little afraid of the power Erato had over her thoughts and emotions. What if she somehow persuaded her to abandon the idea of seeing Olive again? And then simply disappeared once the book was done, leaving her alone? The thought emboldened her to refuse. “I’m okay.”
Erato raised an eyebrow. “Are we really done having sex?”
Kate exhaled in an explosive burst of frustration. “I don’t know, Erato. For the moment, yes.”
“Because of Olive?”
She wasn’t sure what to say. The answer was yes, of course. If not for Olive, she would almost certainly be deep inside Erato right now. But the question felt like a trap she didn’t want to willingly step into. So she deflected. “You know, for someone who didn’t want me distracted by the drama of romantic entanglement, this line of questioning is starting to feel like exactly that. You’ve insisted that I stay focused, and that’s what I’m trying to do.”
Erato frowned. “You can’t write to the exclusion of everything else. It doesn’t work that way. If you don’t take breaks occasionally and recharge, you’ll quickly become useless. Think of your creativity as—”
“Erato?” Kate tried very hard not to sound annoyed. “I was taking a break. I was recharging—using the sun as my power source. If I need a little sexual energy at some point, I will most certainly let you know. But for now, the biggest threat to my creativity is having to deal with what feels like jealousy. From you.”
Huffing, Erato planted her hands on her hips. “I told you, I don’t do jealousy. I’m just aware of the inextricable link between your sexual satisfaction and your writing, so the fact that you’ve apparently decided to embrace celibacy alarms me.”
Giggles erupted from deep within Kate, impossible to contain. “Oh, Erato. I had sex this morning. After a night of marathon fucking. Are you really concerned that I’m on the verge of drying up?”
“Fine.” Erato stepped to the side and held open the screen door, head tilted in question. “Are you coming back inside?”
She was tempted to refuse, only to prove she could. But what was the point? She had fifteen hundred words left to write, minimum, and the afternoon was waning. It had taken her roughly eight hours to accomplish a little more than half her goal; unless she picked up speed, she wouldn’t finish until after nine o’clock that night. Nodding, Kate approached Erato with caution. “Yeah, I should.”
Before she could step through the door, Erato caught her by the arm. “Hey.”
Kate stilled, then slowly made eye contact. “Hey.”
“Are you happy with what you’ve written so far today?”
The expression of cautious hope on Erato’s face frankly broke Kate’s heart. In a moment of startling clarity, she understood that Erato was feeling both threatened and insecure about her role in Kate’s life—and no doubt about her usefulness—now that Kate was not only upset with her but also refusing her sexually. Erato had promis
ed not to leave until this book was done, and Kate didn’t doubt that she would honor her word even if it meant being treated with hostility every step of the way. Despite her lingering anger over the missing cell phone, Kate softened. Erato was only trying to help her finish the book on time. Even if she hated her methods, hadn’t she willingly signed up for this because the results were so damn good?
This morning was no different. Even though it had been difficult to get started and her pace remained frustratingly choppy, she was almost positive she was producing some of the best writing of her career. Careful to keep it as platonic as possible—not an easy task with such a beautiful pair of tits pressed against her own—Kate drew Erato into a brief hug. “Yes. I think this book will be good. Thank you.”
Erato tightened her arms around Kate but didn’t hesitate to release her when she backed away. “I can’t wait to read it.”
For the first time that day with Erato, she managed a genuine smile. “Me, too.”
*
She reached thirty-five hundred words slightly ahead of schedule, around a quarter of nine o’clock that night. Her fingers ached, but that was nothing compared to her brain, which had dissolved into absolute mush. She wasn’t entirely positive that her last five hundred words were coherent—she might have to revise them tomorrow, but she’d told herself that was all right, that this was exactly what every one of her former writing mentors had meant when they’d suggested that she silence her inner editor during the first-draft stage. It didn’t exactly leave her feeling comfortable, but with both her deadline and permission to contact Olive on the line, she was willing to let go of her silly expectations of rough-draft perfection and let the words fall where they might. She could either clean things up before she turned the manuscript in or address the issues during editing. Either way, what she wrote today wasn’t set in stone.
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